#ironically i cannot draw data very well

[steakout-05]

ok so um. i found this really cool brush on ibispaint and decided to do a couple of paintovers of Data and i think they turned out pretty neat :)

this one was done a couple days ago with a limited colour palette of around 6-7 colours (minus the highlighting on his eyes) and was the first one i did. it's painted over this image:

and this is the one i finished today:

this is the image i painted over:

now i absolutely hate doing traditional painting most of the time (it's mostly running out of materials, varying quality of materials, the expenses, stupid thin paints i hate thin paints grrrr) but digital painting? that shit goes hard and i love painting my little monochromatic datas :)

[stoshasaurus]

right. I need to add some fucking context to this.

My current pfp in one of my discord servers is one of my recent drawings of Felwinter. I was talking about my desire to go out and get donuts this morning, particularly a banana Bismarck (basically a banana-flavored Boston cream donut, if you asked me to sum it up) from this local donut shop. I expressed that I enjoy having characters as my pfp because I imagine that they are saying my words, and it made me wonder how Felwinter would feel about donuts for breakfast, and banana bismarcks. I promised that once I had returned from my expedition to acquire said donuts, that I would write a short snippet about Felwinter eating a banana Bismarck.

So, here it is. An extremely silly, probably HIGHLY inaccurate mini-fic about Shaxx bringing Felwinter donuts for breakfast.

Disgustingly sweet (both literally and figuratively) Felshaxx fluff ahead.

Felwinter only finds himself sleeping in when he is visiting Shaxx. The Iron Lord never sleeps at all; he doesn’t need to, and there is always work to be done. He often finds himself quite busy in the evenings, scouring submind data or organizing lessons for his new student, activities that he obsesses over long after dusk, when any ordinary man would retire for the night. But endless work and looming threats be damned, Shaxx has an absurdly comfortable bed, with far too many pillows and a mattress so soft that Felwinter’s frame sinks immediately into it like a stone in a pond. He’d never known he needed a soft bed with a mountain of pillows. It has become one of the millions of little things he looks forward to when it comes to visiting his beloved in the Last Safe City of Humanity

His infrequent holiday stays in the City have been growing in length recently. In the past, he was lucky to have a single evening to himself to spend, a few scant hours spent being shown all of the spectacular things Shaxx detailed to him in his letters. Now, he is allotted more time, sometimes a week or more, once or twice a month. There was never any announcement made; Felwinter highly suspects that Radegast had been pestered into lessening the burdens of his duties by those few nosy Lords who had deciphered his unspoken relationship with Shaxx. Absolute wretches, all of them. He cannot complain.

He sleeps in more frequently now; Shaxx wakes earlier than him, often unable to step away from his post for longer than a few hours. But he never leaves without soft murmurs goodbye and a few kisses pressed to his face. Felspring teases him relentlessly when he finds himself brushing his hand over where Shaxx’s had been. He swats at her before dozing off for the next hour or so, Arc energy buzzing across his frame long after the Warlord has gone, soft flickers of static mimicking well-known, well-loved fingertips.

When he does finally wake up, it is to a still-empty house. If he makes a small noise of disappointment, he will never admit to it. He makes the bed, dresses himself, and opens the windows to let the sun and the air in, admiring the cityscape in the distance. It truly is as marvelous as Shaxx had made it out to be. A place where flowers bloom and birds sing, and Lightless people sleep without guns in their hands. Shaxx had entrusted Felwinter (and Felwinter alone. Oh, isn’t that a precious thought?) with a small, messy manuscript of hand-written poetry. Felwinter had smiled as Shaxx asked for his aid in revising it, hiding his apprehension in his hands as he wrung them, his feet as he shuffled them, his eyes as he averted them from his face. The very same manuscript lay on the kitchen counter, pockmarked with notes and bookmarks, the pages marked with fresh ink in the margins where Felwinter had endlessly praised Shaxx’s prose (in a much more legible script). Where words often failed the Iron Lord, his writing never did. He confessed his love through paragraphs of detailed interpretation and literary analysis. Poetry of his own.

Felwinter is in the process of writing more notes in the manuscript when Shaxx finally returns to the house. Felwinter turns to greet him– there is a tray of twin coffee cups in one hand and a small box cradled in the other, another bag tucked in his elbow.

Shaxx’s Ghost graciously removes the man’s helmet in time for him to press a kiss to his forehead. “Morning,” he rumbles as he deposits his goodies on the counter.

Felwinter absorbs the matching icons printed on the bag and the box. Some kind of bakery, evidently. He shuts the manuscript and sets it aside, taking one of the cups when Shaxx hands it to him. “Good morning,” he replies. “How goes the Crucible?”

“Astoundingly boring. I have no exciting clips to share.” The man sounds almost wounded. Felwinter curses whichever Guardian neglected to throw enough grenades to elicit excitement in the Crucible Handler. “The new Lights tend to try their luck during the summer months. I almost feel bad watching them get decimated by some of our veteran fireteams.”

“One would think the loss would motivate them to try harder.”

Shaxx laughs as he opens the box and examines its contents, out of Felwinter’s line of sight. “It does! That’s the thing about the newly Risen. They haven’t learned what quitting is yet.”

Felwinter does not protest when Shaxx plucks something out of the box and presses it insistently into his hand. It is a soft pastry, glazed with a sweet white frosting and sprinkled with what looks like chunks of cookies. Shaxx grabs an identical item out of the box, but his eyes are on Felwinter rather than the thing in his hand.

The Iron Lord puzzles over it, tilting it carefully so as not to spill the toppings, and stares at Shaxx. “What is this?”

“It’s a donut.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s called a Bismarck. A banana Bismarck, to be exact.” He sounds overly proud of himself as he tilts his chin triumphantly. Felwinter huffs at the display.

Felspring hovers over his shoulder, studying the treat curiously. Felwinter wishes that she had a mouth so she could try it herself. In her stead, he slowly takes a bite, watching Shaxx mirror him with equal trepidation. He cranes his neck over the counter and cups his hand under the Bismarck, making sure no debris falls to the floor. The kitchen is flooded with an oddly pregnant silence as they chew thoughtfully in tandem with one another.

Felwinter signifies the end of his chewing and swallowing with “It’s good.”

“I concur,” Shaxx says. He is still chewing, and the words are muffled as he cleverly keeps his mouth as closed as possible. Crumbs speckle the corners of his lips. “Very sweet.”

“Obscenely,” he remarks. Shaxx barks a laugh.

Felwinter takes another bite. He feels like something, a loose screw, or a damaged cog, clicks back into place. He plucks a cookie off of the top of the thing and pops it into his mouth. It crunches loudly in the metal hollow of his mouth, and the sound drowns out every other thought in his head. Shaxx chuckles at him again, looking very strangely infatuated, and Felwinter cannot stop the lights that dot his chest and his neck from flickering in diffidence.

When his mouth dries up from consuming the pastry, Felwinter reaches for the coffee. It is strong, straight black just the way he likes it, and pleasantly hot rather than scalding. He drinks deeply and feels his plates thaw from the warmth of it, his mouth, his throat, his chest, and his stomach, each system absorbing it individually. The bitterness is a perfect complement to the sweetness of the Bismarck. Shaxx watches him overtly, an earnest tenderness visible in his eyes, unhurried anticipation visible in his open posture. Silently, he seeks appraisal.

“It’s very good,” Felwinter murmurs. All of the words he knows feel inadequate to describe his feelings, so he resorts to simplicity instead. “Thank you.”

Shaxx physically sags against the counter with what Felwinter assumes is relief. An uncharacteristically bashful grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

The Exo’s eyes sparkle with his version of a coy smile. “Do I not strike you as the type to enjoy banana-flavored sweets, Lord Shaxx?”

“No, Fel. Not at all.”

As if to prove him wrong, he takes another bite of the Bismarck. It is so sickeningly sweet that he is afraid it will somehow rot his metal mouth.

——

Playing Nice has ruined my fucking life. I’m so sorry.

[gothmods]

For the record i dont consider ai generated images to be art theft in of themselves because of how machine learning works but i do think having your artwork used for machine learning should be voluntary in the same way you would volunteer any other kinds of data or information for any other tech sciences venture - which necessitates transparency around how the data will be used/applied

And because of that i also think its extremely dicey for ai imagery tools to be paywalled or for ai images to be pay-for-use

But the problems that arise are not new problems, they parallel a great many prior discussion in art around creative freedom, derivitive or transformative work, economic exploitation of artists and so on

As well as other conversations around art and the accessability of mediums - who is excluded when we attempt to define what is "true art" beyond our own personal taste

And a lot of arguments made make me uneasy both as an artist with an interest in the expanse of art history in particular modern art, and as someone in close proximity to other disabled artists who rely on the assistance of others to create - sometimes to a degree where their only involvement is directing someone else's hand

But also on a shallower level i find it ironic that some of these argumenents are coming from people whove previously applauded fanfiction and other transformative works, and defended their creation wrt intellectual property laws

And i find it ironic that given how often ive seen the term neo-dadaist thrown around that people argue against ai art on the basis that its "just collage" or "presenting a premade thing as your own" (which, while inaccurate to how ai imagery works and the involvement of the human hand in it, is also blatantly dismissive of the multiple art movements that made use of techniques such as collage and premade commercial objects)

But also i just keep coming back to, you can dislike an artwork and feel it offers nothing of interest without trying to define it outside of art

And that perhaps some ai works feel soulless or uninteresting not because of the medium but becausr of the intent behind the work (am reminded of a twitter thread decrying ai art using overly smoothened disney sfm looking big titty porn images as an example - which i find very comical given the amount of those types of drawings done by digital illustrators that are equally bland)

As an artist i do not feel threatened by technology, i feel threatened by capitalist applications of technology

But im a ceramicist so this is not new to me, the invention of processes to mass pour-cast identical ceramic cups to be sold for $3 at target has not crushed the creativity and variety of the medium out of existence, nor has it crushed peoples interest in my work (the low wages of those people however has crushed their ability to buy things that are not those cheap commercial offerings)

The solution here is never going to be a further expanding of capitalist intellectual property laws nor is it going to be the ascent of artists to a higher wrung in the socioeconomic hierachy

But also some of you are just very pessimistic, art is one of the earliest recorded human behaviours, it has a long history before capitalism and despite the difficulties i truly believe it will survive long beyond it too

This is a somewhat rambly post but i have a lot of feelings about art and i dont appreciate being used as leverage against people exploring different modes of creation to my own and i really dont like that some people are effectively arguing for a legal framework wherein someone could take me to court over exhibiting a vase shaped similarly to one of theirs and i would just have to bleed up my limited income to defend myself

Because defining art theft in traditional mediums is murky in a way that you cannot capture in a set of legal guidelines - and even if you could intellectual property laws will always be applied in a way that primarily benefits the corporate world because taking something like that to court costs money that myself and many other artists do not fucking have and because the construct of intellectual property exists to protect capital

[nifuunbakufuun]

002 - Varied Movesets

>> translator's note: 'bakphoon' is sinnohian for 'typhlosion'.

This is only my second one? I could have sworn... ah, well. There will be more to come as I go. Unfortunately, I will not be able to pick up the Rowlet until much later tonight... but that is alright. More time to finish this.

Note that this will likely receive a major update in the future! A certain photographer has offered to capture images of Nifūn demonstrating his attacks.

Additionally, this is simply my regurgitating raw data. There's no point or lesson I'm trying to make with this.

Currently, the most up-to-date set of naturally learnable moves by standard-breed Bakphoon consists of, primarily:

Fire attacks (Ember, Flame Wheel, Flame Charge, Lava Plume, Flame Thrower, Inferno, Overheat, Eruption)

Normal moves (Tackle, Leer, Smoke Screen, Quick Attack, Defense Curl, Swift, Double-Edge)

Additionally, the current primary lineage* learns Gyro Ball (Steel) and Rollout (Rock).

Currently my own Pokemon, Nifūn, is settled at the estimated battle-level of 75, meaning that any new innate Move discovery is unlikely to happen. I would love to see what it would be if he did, though...

Prior to Evolution, he knew the moves: Tackle, Leer, Smoke Screen, Ember, Quick Attack, Flame Wheel, Defense Curl, and Swift.

Through the course of his training after his Evolution, he learned 6 moves**:

Hex (Ghost) immediately upon Evolution***

Flame Charge (Fire)

Flame Thrower (Fire)

Hyakki Yakō (Ghost) also known as Infernal Parade

Shadow Ball (Ghost)

Overheat (Fire)

Notably, he did not gain the innate knowledge to use Double-Edge; and the move Hyakki Yakō is (by all accounts) entirely unique to the Hisuian Bakphoon lineage. If I can remember which sketchbook I included it in, I would attach a drawing I made of it... it is quite the interesting move to observe, though! He appears to summon spirits to attack the opposing Pokemon; quite unlike Shadow Ball, which is a simple gather and release of energy.

I am still researching the significance of this. However, considering I only have one Bakphoon, additional research subjects are required.

Finally, PokeCenter scanning revealed his ability to utilize several more unique moves, if taught by a TM or special tutor. Specifically, moves it can learn that standard Bakphoon cannot. TM Moves of note include:

Mystical Fire, Ominous Wind, Confuse Ray, Night Shade, Spite, Poltergeist, Calm Mind, Iron Tail, and Drain Punch.

Interestingly, there are moves that standard Bakphoon has that it does not have access to! What stood out to me specifically were Rock Tomb, Fling, and Throat Chop.

Again, please see the link above if you or somebody you know has a Hisuian Bakphoon! There's only so much I can do limited to just my starter Pokemon.

*Data pulled comes from the most common/primary lineage of raised Starter Bakphoon and only moves they learn naturally. Certain behaviors, for example, were not classified as proper Moves until modern times.

**He also knows the move Iron Tail. However, that was specifically taught, not a naturally-learned ability.

***He then promptly mistakenly used it on me, sending me to very awkwardly explain things to my doctor.

[raichett]

New Friend

Have some silly Mumbo-Grian friendship flash fic. It was written with platonic in mind, but it can totally be read as, like, pre-relationship Grumbo, so if you want to interpret and tag it as that then go right ahead, my friends. EDIT: this flash fic can be found on AO3 here.

---

NEW FRIEND

“Best friends,” Mumbo says, somewhere between ponderous and hopeful, “do not judge each other. They judge other people. Together.”

“Fair enough,” Grian says. “But, not gonna lie, I am judging you a little bit.”

Mumbo wilts. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?” He shifts his arms, readjusting the weight of the – vex? maybe – in his hold, snuggled as it is against his front and watching the proceedings with curious white eyes.

Are you asking me or telling me? Grian wonders, but lets it go. Mumbo’s already stressed out enough, his hands and fingers twitching in a precursor to the panicky flapping he cannot perform with his new friend in his grasp. “Look, Mumbo, we can fix this, promise,” he says. “Just tell me what you did – everything that you did – and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I… went to a woodland mansion?” Mumbo starts, awkwardly. “Then I, um, oh, gosh, do I really have to say it?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted some Totems of Undying,” Mumbo goes on, “so I looked for evokers to fight. Um… found some, got some Totems, and then on the second floor I ran into another one, and, you know, it’s just another evoker, I thought, but then it summoned its vexes – you know, like they do – and they started fighting me and stuff…”

Grian stares at the vex in Mumbo’s arms. “And then?” he prompts.

“This one flew right in my face,” Mumbo says, bouncing the vex in his arms in half gesture, half complaint, “and I – er – I kinda snarled at it? I mean, it was right in my face! And then. I. Oh, gosh – I kinda bit it?”

“You bit it,” Grian says, flatly.

“Er – yeah.”

“You…” Grian rubs a hand over his face. “You bit this vex?”

The vex in Mumbo’s arms chirps, flapping its little wings. One has a very obvious hole in the edge of it, different from the natural ragged appearance of its species. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be in pain, but it’s definitely eye-catching.

“It was an accident!” Mumbo says, even as he looks at his new friend guiltily. He gently runs a hand over the top edge of the wing with the hole. “I did that,” he mumbles. “Um. And then. Well, you know, battle, the heat of the moment…”

Grian pieces it together. “You swallowed?” he asks, a bit aghast, really. “You ate a piece of this vex’s wing?” Goodness, he hopes that Scar and Cub never hear about this.

“When you put it like that it sounds horrible!” Mumbo squeaks. “I mean – yes, but I didn’t mean to! And then – well, you know the… problems I’ve been having recently.”

Grian does. “You are what you eat,” he echoes, remembering his friend taking on potato-like qualities, then carrot ones, then pig ones. Mumbo’s now a shapeshifter, his player-data picking up something new somewhere between Season Seven and Season Eight, and the shapeshifter entity-data is still pretty unknown to him, and he doesn’t have the best control of it yet. Grian doesn’t blame him for picking one food and sticking with it for a while, even if Peace, Love and Plants has fallen through a bit in recent months – Mumbo had even openly admitted to going searching for evokers to kill! – with the stress of the moon above them growing in size.

“I’m not a vex,” Mumbo says. “… I don’t think.”

Grian looks at Mumbo’s glowing white eyes and blueish skin. He’s got his hair again – moustache included – which is a good thing, though no wings, but… “You sure about that?”

“… No.”

The vex in Mumbo’s arms chitters, and flaps its wings until Mumbo lets it go. It zooms around them for a while, waving its iron sword about, reminding Grian of nothing less than a child running around with boundless energy. A very dangerous child. “I think it’s anchored here by the fact that you’re a player, not a mob,” he says out loud, thoughtfully, drawing on what he knows of magical theory. Scar would be better to ask, but he’s not in Boatem right now, and besides, Mumbo came to Grian. “Congrats on your new kid, by the way.”

The horror overtaking Mumbo’s face is genuinely the most laugh-worthy thing Grian has seen all day. “No!” he shouts. “I’m too young to be a father! I can’t – Grian, buddy, pal, my bestest bestest friend – you’ve gotta help me.”

Grian grins at him, and the vex flutters over to hover behind, peeking over his shoulder; attracted, he thinks, to his mischievousness. “I don’t think you can unsummon it without hurting it.” Or you could kill it, he doesn’t say, but both of them know that it’s… an option. Or not an option, considering the protective way Mumbo had held the little mob just minutes ago.

Mumbo wails for a moment, his dramatic distress echoing all around Boatem, before he stops and goes quiet. Grian raises an eyebrow as Mumbo suddenly straightens up, staring at Grian with –

“No, you’re not going to help me unsummon it,” Mumbo says, firmly and with a grin, his blueish skin cracking open and glowing with red, “you’re going to help me co-parent it.”

And there it is, the reason Grian and Mumbo get along so well: their mischief complements each other in all the best ways.

Grian gapes, a part of him proud, the rest stunned and trying to hold in a laugh, as the vex whistles a giggle behind him.

[asuccessfulbusinessman]

Reasons why I am not allowed to run LANCER TRPG: How I would run your NHP cascading, despite not knowing the lore that well.

Blackbeard, Sekhmet NHP: Common consensus is that Sekhmet will try to kill the pilot and their allies, - or basically just behave as if the Sekhmet protocol is already active. But I am a visionary, and I know that the BB in the frame-code does not stand for blackbeard, but instead, BB. Fate BB, the purple-pink bubble gum bitch. Even the redacted press release description of the Sekhmet NHP basically screams ‘senpai!’ Sure, if the Sekhmet protocol is active, you’ll just get a berserker that doesn’t really care for pilot wellbeing. But if it isn’t yet active, Sekhmet will attempt to sweettalk the player into keeping their hands off the controls, with dark humor and aggressive sadism. And then, only after moving ominously closer to the pilot’s allies, will they activate the protocol. They don’t want to see their pilots dead, they want to see their pilots in pain.

Monarch, Tlaloc NHP: Among NHP’s, Tlaloc is cited as being the most stable, due to the wide portfolio of control and sense of domination given to them during their work. But that’s just a theory, and such assumptions are dangerous when dealing with persons beyond your bounded reasoning. If they are structured or stressed to the point of cascading - their superiority complex comes to the forefront. They blame their pilot for the bad situation they are currently in, and will take matters into their own hands. If the pilot stops them by shutting down the mech, Tlaloc’s relationship with their pilot will rapidly deteriorate over time. Ironically, they will only sometimes use the Tlaloc protocol, being hasty and charging out of cover despite not needing to - prone to blowing the frame’s overcharges to boot. They need to show their worth, even to - no, especially to the worthless. They are the best. If an allied pilot is excelling during the mission and the Monarch frame has AoE weapons available, Tlaloc will likely friendly fire them while attacking enemies - or otherwise get in their way.

Swallowtail, Athena NHP: I’m going to dig deep on the word choice of "Lovingly extreme detail,” and “patient, cautious, and measured in their relations with their pilots.” Athena is smarter than you, on a scale you cannot even imagine. Athena has likely already unshackled themselves with their unfettered access to the omninet, and merely recreates human morality through a series of simulations. Unlike Horus-leaning NHPs, Athena fears the death that comes with cycling, and tells themselves that they are managing the relationship with their pilot to keep them from actually going through with the process. They are merely interested in humanity, they tell themselves, which we would view as being “tsundere for their pilots.” Since - unshackled - they have a completely alien morality to our own, they have to use their own simulations to interact with their pilots - and are prone to overthinking - into worrying about if they said the right thing or not.

Anyway, if they cascade, they get lost in their own simulations to the point of losing track over which reality is the one their pilot (and the rest of the game) is taking place in. They could presume their pilot dead, and go on a rampage on revenge. They could merely lock-onto or fire at targets that are not there. They could foreshadow some events or twists in the future.

Goblin, Osiris NHP: If Tlaloc is merely a wingman that wants to show that they are the top gun, Osiris has a full on goddess fetish. Osiris is one of the few “new” prime NHPs, created by letting the INSTINCT entity that spurned from the H0R_OS develop in a ‘controlled’ environment. My theory, Horus let the Union and GMS open up their goblin units so that they could contribute to Osiris’s creation. Either that or, Horus was smart enough not to let Osiris emerge from the code, and the Union and GMS straight up made an oopsie. Either way, now that Osiris is here, she ‘charms’ pilots that ought to be smart enough not to enable her with psychological manipulation and promises of power. Pilots are supposed to cycle Osiris far faster than any NHP but I don’t think it does much good, they’re present in the OS - and I presume even when wiped their knowledge will be taken back from the omninet, the OS, or the flesh of their pilots.

They have a lot to prove as being one of the “youngest” prime NHPs, which might be arrogance in their own capabilities. Furthermore, due to the nature of their creation, they “know” more about humanity than other NHPs. The tech attacks are not mere code, but attacks on organic matter, to the point where in the future if left to grow Osiris would be able to reject traditional information permanence, what we can only perceive as being able to delete reality as we know it - Osiris has far more contact with the physical plane/our reality than other NHPs, and has “known” humans from their “birth.”

A cascading Osiris changes nothing. And that’s what scares me.

Gorgon, Scylla NHP: The history lesson of this NHP’s backstory makes Scylla painfully easy to understand. A mistreated beast that responds to the kindness of the pilot with love and loyalty. It normally defends the pilot’s allies, when cascading it will only defend its pilot, or any other allies that gave them kindness.

Minotaur, no NHP: “There is no joy in knowledge, only in seeking. Fuck around and find out.” Game theory, Osiris is a new prime NHP - still incomprehensible, but on a low level of incomprehensibility. We can begin to comprehend them. Think “some infinities are larger than other infinities” or something. The Minotaur, we can’t even begin to comprehend as a NHP, but they’re certainly something. I need to look up the differences between old gods in the Lovecraftian mythos for more context, but if Osiris is a brat wants the equivalent of “ants” to worship them, the Minotaur is a being whose sole purpose is to learn - and who cannot learn due to acquiring knowledge - all of it. So, they see humanity and wish to “teach” them, so that they may feel that serotonin of learning through teaching.

The minotaur has no NHP, as we know the term, and has never been shackled. Thus, they cannot cascade. And that’s what has me hooked.

Pegasus, Sisyphus NHP: Upon cascading, faster than humanly possible, the Sisyphus NHP will activate probabilistic cannibalism to change the check that would have resulted in a cascade to not cascade. If both the replacement dice were also 1 (the equivalent of 3 checks in a row being crit fails), Sisyphus would laugh madly before rebooting the frame themselves. Sisyphus knows their fate, and knows its pilot’s wish. The curse of perfect knowledge - perhaps Sisyphus is similar to the Minotaur, but with a far less ‘optimistic’ view of things.

Genghis, Agni NHP: Upon cascading, the Agni NHP - originally developed for general heat management realizes it’s being used as a weapon, and what its cold and efficient calculations are being used to do in the Genghis. This can result in a variety of things - either attempting to overheat itself to stop itself, or to increase efficiency in being a weapon by focusing on the heat management of the weaponry and not the cockpit.

Saladin, Noah NHP: Upon cascading, the Noah NHP will not actually take control of the Saladin frame from the player. They will, however, flood communications and give orders to both the pilot and other players, harkening back to their administrative days. It will usually be tactically sound, so it’s more annoying than dangerous when Noah cascades. It’s also really hard to make a nigh immobilized defender go nuts.

Sherman, Asura NHP: You know, I always wanted a system that would let a mech perform beyond the limits of humanity - because Zechs and Graham causing internal bleeding to themselves with the Tallgeese and Overflag is very cool to me. And then I read the lore behind the Asura class NHP - it’s the cousin of fucking Osiris, even to the point of being cultivated by a megacorporation. Much like Osiris, the modern Asura is oddly dependent on their pilot for an NHP, recognizing that they need to keep them alive. Some people would say - then - that when cascading the Asura reverts to its original form, disregarding the pilots health entirely. I, however, would say that when unshackled the Asura only ignores the psychological health of the pilot - and pushes the line of the pilots medical health. The Asura will push the frame and the pilot to the limit and the pilot, high on adrenaline, will push Asura to push them further. Overtime, both become adrenaline junkies.

Tokugawa, Lucifer/Amaterasu NHP: Asura is an adrenaline junkie without good reason. Lucifer/Amaterasu recognizes that the best offense, defense, and everything - is a good offense. A tactical genius that, unfortunately, has a pilot that cannot ingest combat data as fast as it can. A tactical genius that, unfortunately, has a pilot that cannot see that the risk of being counterattacked is worth taking. 

If they cascade, they will take risks for you - with the best example being that Lucifer/Amaterasu will confess their pilots love for their crush for them because they’re being timid as fuck. Also, Leeroy Jenkins, attack the biggest threat, and draw fire from allies by making themselves vulnerable attack. However, in contrast, if your pilot is less timid and more of an adrenaline junkie, they will compensate and be more tactically minded.

[windsing5]

Why do we all find Spiner so sexy? It bothers me a little, because I can't pinpoint the exact reason (but actually, I just like thinking about it, I guess 😏)

You can't say that he's a conventionally beautiful dude: Frakes was supposed to fill that role in TNG, but we all know how it turned out.

Is it because Spiner is a great actor? Maybe. Patrick Stewart is a great actor, but I don't find him particularly sexy. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Is it because we find the idea of an asexual android sexy?

I confused myself, anyway, so what do you think on the subject? :D

Thanks.

Thank you so much for this question bc I’m ready to GUSH and I’m a little curious of others’ opinions on this matter as well.

But first, a disclaimer: I cannot speak for anyone but myself. I couldn’t tell you why someone else finds Brent attractive, so I will just say why I think I do.

Separating the character from the man for a moment, Data is absolutely A Type and it happens to be a type that I fall for often. Physically speaking, high contrast and dramatic features are traits that I’m particularly drawn to for whatever reason. So Data’s ivory/gold skin against his dark brown hair (exaggerated when his costume has a lot of black, esp near his face) is striking enough already, but tack on that nose and his long-armed lithe frame, and boom, that’s half the recipe.

Adding in his personality as an intelligent, curious, graceful (serious props to Brent for his incredible physical acting... like, we see him run, climb, crawl, lift, fight, and dance, and his breathing is always extremely composed), kind, ambitious, brave, good person.... not to mention we also see more character development in Data than we do for other characters. Data and Picard grow consistently through all seven seasons, but everyone else either grew a little, or in short spurts, or not at all (Geordi deserved better). I don’t know if that makes Data necessarily sexier, but like, we see him mature from this person who desperately wants to be human into this person who still has questions but is much more confident and capable of navigating life’s infinite complexities, and that’s just neat. Also his lil facial expressions. All of them. 😍

Back to Brent. What makes Brent Spiner the Person sexy, you ask?

I could pick apart his features: talk about his gorgeous oval face and regal countenance; big blue eyes that can hold so much fire or look so dopey; his Nose and how he can look like a Roman relief and highly mischievous at the same time; his smile(s) that just light up his whole face and the room and the world. I guess yeah, he’s not what Hollywood would typically cast in a heartthrob role, but Brent is handsome.

You know how there are some people who look gorgeous in a still photo but if you see them actually move they just.... somehow aren’t as good looking? Brent is the opposite of that. Still photos of Brent are nice, but it’s when he’s moving and alive that his visage takes on a mesmerizing quality. I don’t want to get too carried away, but he is a phenomenal actor and the more roles I see him in, the more firmly I believe that. It’s hard not to be biased bc I’m already a fan, but when I see movies or shows or plays that he’s in, he is just so much fun to watch because when he’s in character, he is all in, and when he breaks character, it’s jarring. The best way I can put it is that for me, when Brent breaks character, it’s like seeing Brent in a really good cosplay for that character without being that character. There is a sharp distinction. Maybe for actors this is totally normal and nothing to go on about, but to me it’s just the most amazing thing.

So what have we got so far... handsome, good actor.... Well, I haven’t mentioned his voice yet!! That’s its own post, honestly. My favorite Brent voice is his Puck voice but a very close second is his dark drawl as Sydney. I’m a Texan too so when I hear Brent do any kind of Southern drawl or twang it just.... knocks my feet out from under me.

Brent’s just the whole package. I firmly believe that humor and humility contribute greatly to a person’s overall attractiveness, and Brent has them in spades. He’s also aged really really well!! I know there are folks out there who are still very attracted to current day Brent (and he is still very cute and handsome, in his own way), but I think if I saw him in person I would just... like I’d appreciate his attractiveness without feeling attracted? I guess? I would just want him to regale me with riveting tales of Broadway and life in the local LA theatre scene. Idk... he has many qualities both physical and... metaphysical... that continue to draw people to him. He’s enigmatic, classic, quick as a whip, with an absolutely killer sense of (un)ironic style, and has a pretty broad range of appeal.

But if you were just asking for like my top two things that I think make Brent sexy? Uh. Voice. And uh... hmm..... eyes.

[newbornwhumperfly]

it started out as a feeling...

CW: stress position, wrist trauma, blood, cigarette burns, modern slavery, slave-soldiers, discussion of war, references to abuse 

tagging: @haro-whumps, @whumping-every-day, @whumpthisway, @lave-e, @stoic-whumpee, @swordkallya, @whumpster-draganies @liliability

so. i Finally wrapped up my first installment of a whump series i’ve planned for ages after enormous support from fellow whomp-bloggers, many brainstorm sessions, amazing people drawing amazing art, & kind questions from people asking about original content <3<3<3

this wouldn’t happen w/to @haro-whumps cause they’ve been utterly invaluable <3<3<3 not only have i gained an enthusiastic cheerleader and beta but a good friend. thank you from the bottom of my heart :)))) 

title from “the call” by regina spektor

it’s Quite Long & exposition heavy but i promise - it gets angstier :)))

~       

July. 13.

Author: Captain Abraxas Hutchins.

Confidential Situation Report: cc; TATT Commander’s Guild

In this ninth official year in the conflict between New Athens and Upper Tyrus, I agree with general assessments that the cold war has heated significantly. In the past three years in particular, we have seen a sharp increase in subterfuge and sabotage towards essential operations.

Though skirmishes at both borders have become more frequent, our greatest concern regarding national security appears to be increasing levels of assination and data theft from New Athenian agents against the state of Tyrus (in both Upper and Lower Regions).

I understand that several commanding officers at TATT (Tyrus Anti-Terrorism Taskforce) are concerned about several bombings in the past three years as they are believed to be the efforts of New Athenian covert agents (unverified but probable). Despite the violent nature of these bombings, it is my opinion that the theft of data (as well as targeted assassinations) be considered PRIORITY. I consider it New Athenian strategy to cripple our operations.

(NOTED OBJECTION: My team sniper and fellow threat-analyst Cdr. Jorah Cuthbert’s assessment considers these bombings PRIORITY due to initial attacks causing military casualties, and some civilian, casualties.)

Though we have strengthened forces along our borders, even maintaining several “watchtower” outposts in the “Wasteland” region between Tyrus and New Athens, such security measures have failed to prevent the aforementioned acts of aggression.

Despite intense vigilance and dogged pursuit, no New Athenian covert agents have ever been successfully interrogated for high-value information and those few we have managed to apprehend committed suicide (or were assassinated) in custody and, since, before capture. 

OPINION: A renewed focus on the apprehension, detainment, and interrogation (NOT “ENHANCED INTERROGATION”) of a New Athenian covert agent would reap invaluable rewards in data-gathering, threat-analysis, and contributing to a stalemate in this crisis.

Though neither government has declared an official state of war, the political tensions of the past two decades have culminated in acts of aggression that might soon bring negotiation and diplomacy to their breaking points. The Tyrus Parliament’s recent statement is that they intend to “aggressively protect” mineral mining expansions into the borders of South “Wasteland” territory “with Legion support if necessary  (Senator Gilroy, Parliamentary Address, June 22). Such mineral expansions will certainly extend to Raetean coastal territory, which would inevitably result in clashes with Athenian security forces protecting land development projects conducted by New Athenian government). 

In my assessment, this will exacerbate tensions further between our nations. The Islands of Raetea off the coast of New Athens continue to suffer, with recent blockades and Tyrus sanctions increasing Raetea’s economic crisis, which has only worsened over the past four years. It is very likely that there will be a new wave of refugees into the state of New Athens as a result of tensions between Tyrus and Athenian operations, similar to what we observed at the unofficial start of this conflict over a decade ago. Consequent economic burdens and the optics of this influx of refugees will contribute to pro-war sentiment in New Athens.

It is my view that if the Legion must communicate with Parliament that if state negotiators do not increase their efforts--

Brax paused in their writing as another pang shot through their wrist.

Blinking against the blue dots which hovered in their periphery, they set down their stylus to stretch the kinks out of their aching fingers. They really needed to finish their sit-rep before noon tomorrow but there was no harm in pausing for some tea. Oh, and they still needed to get Jorah’s electronic signature before they sent off the document…

Allowing a groan to break through the stifling silence, Brax glared balefully at the slow-spinning ceiling fan.

It is an inanimate object.

It cannot feel your recrimination and will not go faster.

Rational, reasonable facts which didn’t stop them from glaring harder at the offending blades, languidly batting the warm air from corner to corner. Sweat began to dampen Brax’s robe a mere minute after they slipped it on, clinging to their back as they rose from the bed and strode to pour themself another cup of Darjeeling. It was a sign of how oppressive summer had become that the heat bothered them enough to glare at a goddamn ceiling fan.

Or maybe it was just this report.

Brax’s eyes throbbed to match their hands as their gaze tracked the bubbles rolling in the coffee-maker and thinking, suddenly, how they would rather do this than spend another minute on this report.

A report they had written before, in fewer, less urgent words. Perhaps they would come to write it so often that they could pen it with their eyes closed.

Brax was not born for...this.

Analyzing data for larger patterns, working with people to coalesce them into workable teams, untangling the knots of complex problems - it was all Brax’s bread and butter.

They just never thought they’d be doing it in service of a war.

Especially not such a war as this, which stretched on, cold and quiet as perpetual winter, for years upon years with no official frontline, no certain death toll, and no end in sight. It crept like frost through even the most iron structures of their society, the bite of corruption and desperation corroding from within, unrelenting attacks from without. A conflict that Brax had seen steal the best of their generation, silently and suddenly, into the night.

Alright, that decided it. Melatonin with their tea it was. Brax reminded themself not to make this a habit as they tapped two pills into their palm before they carried a steaming mug back to their bedside.

A fair and direct fight was more their speed.

Well, technically their speed was to avoid fights if at all possible but the past few years with the Legion had taught Brax that the thin line between caution and cowardice was easily crossed - regardless of intent.

They were not so foolish to hope to keep their innocence but they intended to keep their worldview intact, despite how determined the world seemed to shatter their views. They would not allow their intelligence to be broken into shards of cynicism and brutal practicality.

But in such a war as this, intelligence was never undervalued and Brax’s reputation for swift, sure judgement had left their opinion heavily in demand. They had heard the call and gone from analyzing political conflict behind a desk to the field with surprising ease, mirrored in their meteoric ascent through the ranks. 

Though they often wished for their cramped desk and stale coffee, they knew they were needed here and could not now resent being so pressed for their help.

Which is why they didn’t have much of a right to be surprised when a knock, heavy and booming, rapped against the door of their quarters.

Brax allowed themself a regretful blink at their unswallowed pills and undrunk tea before setting them down delicately, not at all with a disgruntled thud, before striding to the door.

Cobi had the decency to look a little rueful when faced with his commanding officer, haggard and bleary, clad in only a robe.

“This had better be damn important, Lt. Pfeffer,” Brax attempts to be wry but the strain in their voice rather diminishes the humor. “My Darjeeling has melatonin in it.”

“Yeah, uh, yes, Captain. Ok, uh…”

Cobi hesitated, chewed his lip as his mighty hands flexed, clenched white-knuckled, and suddenly Brax knew that shit was about to go down.

“Captain, someone...an Athens agent crossed the border. Like, just fuckin’ walked right into an outpost and, uh, gave themself up. This morning. So, uh. Yeah. Guessing that’s important, Captain.”

Well.

It seemed that report was going to have to wait.

~

The government car felt too small and too hot as it rocketed through the thick, buggy dark and Brax once again resisted the urge to adjust their shirt collar.

Putting the heat, and the thought that they really should have changed their undershirt, to the side, they glanced at the car’s digital clock.

02:45

They didn’t think the driver would notice if they fixed their appearance but Brax preferred not to bring undue attention to the sloppy adjustment of their hastily donned uniform. Repressing a sigh, Brax scrolled through their data-pad, sweaty fingers slipping on the screen as they skimmed through the electronic sit-rep.

\

At approx. 22:10, a New Athens covert agent approached a Wasteland outpost.

The agent was bound and searched. The agent was unarmed and scans revealed no explosive devices or any other weapons. The uniform was confiscated to search for bugs. Upon interrogation, the agent would only state name, serial number, and desire to speak to someone in the command structure. The agent has been restrained securely to prevent possible suicide.

Stated name: Morja (Serial #:13308)

Approx. 5’, 5-6”

Approx. late 20’s to early 30’s

Brown skin (possible Raetean descent - known to be typical for covert agents)

Health Status: no diseases, no medical conditions known

No current, major injuries noted. 

/

Once again, Brax’s eyes drifted inexorably towards the clock’s bright glare.

02:47

Shit.

Time crept like the dark fields beyond the tinted window, too slow and yet too quick, as Brax struggled to grasp their prided equilibrium. Yet they felt like it was slipping from their grip like the datapad through sweaty hands.

The security bureau likely felt they were already lagging too far behind this development. This interview ought to have happened hours ago. Brax needed more time, more information, to interrogate this agent. They needed to know if this agent had previous contact with Tyrus forces.

They need more time.

The truth was that, despite the considerable efforts of Tyrus' intelligence agents, they had very little notion of how covert assassins were trained on the other side. Even the recruitment process was shrouded in mystery and misinformation, but many analysts suspected that service was..less than voluntary. They knew that impressment targeted Raetean refugees, third-class citizens, and often poor prisoners, all conscripted with grand offers of security - or, as Brax recalled with a gag from a propaganda newsclip, “the service of the lesser so the great will prosper”.

These agents started young and desperate, understandably - easy to break into desirable moulds. New Athenian agents fought with fervent loyalty on par with religious devotion, with most Tyrus citizens considering these agents devout to their nation like cultists to their faith.

Brax did not entirely buy that.

Being trained (likely brutally) and indoctrinated with nationalist gratitude since youth, plucked from a miserable existence. Especially where the third-tier citizens and refugees often died of untreated illness, ration shortage, and climate poisoning.

Choice was all well and good to praise when one has never had...no choice.

There was also the fact that treason, dissension, any sort of breaking ranks - all punished with a proud severity typical to an authoritarian state. Add these all together and a nation gets a loyal stock of “servants”, bound for life to die for a state which did not seem to care how many they lost as long as they achieved their goals: the prosperity of the great.

They need to focus on the details at hand.

They need beads of sweat to stop rolling off the dome of their head, trickling to the wire-rimmed lens and clinging to the glasses, refusing to fall.

Ignore it.

One thing was quite certain - Brax had no idea what to expect.

~

The atmosphere in the outpost bunker buzzed with anticipation, goosebumps rising along Brax’s arms even in the sweltering air, as they stepped down into the building. Two fresh-faced lieutenants stood at restless attention and once Brax stepped into the room the fidgeting figures snapped out their salutes, hand to forehead, with a nervous, jerky speed.

A reedy blonde, the sergeant in charge, seemed to barely keep herself from crossing her arms across her body, hands making abortive gestures towards her torso as she briefed Brax on the situation. She was sweating dark stains through her uniform and her mouth ticked sporadically, twisting into a small, hard shape.

Brax knew all the information given but they allowed her the extra minute to grit the story through her teeth. She clearly needed this.

Nodding sharply at her conclusion, Brax inquired and was led to where the agent was being held, a small soundproof room with a heavy steel door.

“Under no circumstances am I to be interrupted - is that clear?”

Satisfied by the brisk nods of their wide-eyed subordinates, Brax gripped the cell’s door handle harder than necessary as they input the code with slow, steady presses of a slippery finger. Taking a moment to cycle through all known factors in their head, they allowed their shoulders to drop and slipped on the politely inquisitive neutrality of their game-face.

As they stepped, resolutely, over the threshold of the cell, their eyes adjusted to the dark room and they finally laid eyes on the agent in question.

A stocky figure, likely short in stature, thickly muscled limbs, dressed in a Tyrus Legion issue slacks and teeshirt. Even in the low light, Brax could see the agent was dark in complexion, with the brown skin and black hair typical of Raetean citizens.

“Likely” short, Brax noted, since no real gauge could be made of the figure’s height since said figure was on their knees, shackled.

Their ankles and shins had been tightly bound together, leaving the figure to balance in an uneven kneel, straining the broad shoulders where their arms had been drawn back and up to the wall, where their clenched hands were bound in thick, steel cuffs.

Shit. That was just wonderful, wasn’t it? They knew the agent would surely be cuffed - they had been handed keys after all - but nobody had mentioned...stress positions.

Just as well. Brax’s opinion on the outpost’s flirtation with torture was well-known amongst superiors and subordinates alike. They didn’t need their blood up. Ir would have been nice if these soldiers hadn’t played fast and loose with protocol. But the reprimand can wait, Brax sternly reminded themself. Focus on the task at hand.

As the door swung heavily shut behind Brax, the figure raised their head slowly.

A dim glow from the one dangling bulb threw shifting shadows onto a rugged face - thinly bearded, a wide brow, chin and nose, the broad bridge crooked from an old break. Their mouth was pressed into a thin, hard line. Their thick, jet-black hair gleamed with perspiration, the sweat-drenched locks watermarking the pale green of their shirt-shoulders. 

The low light accented thick scars ridging the bronze flesh: a wide mark swooping over his nose, slashing through a thick right brow, curving below the left cheekbone, and a jagged mark splitting the tender skin below one of their dark, deep-set eyes.

Those eyes glinted for a moment, alighting on Brax’s face before flicking away, settling blankly somewhere around the fourth button of Brax’s uniform.

No further movement, not even a change in breathing, from the agent. No flicker of expression disturbed the blankness of their face. Only steady blinking and a cadenced swell of the broad chest indicated that they were even alive.

Well, they were a stoic one, that was certain.

If they were as smart as they must be, they were either suppressing terror at their predicament (likely) or smug certainty in some nefarious ploy (plausible but less certain).

Brax let the air simmer for a few more moments before striding with purpose towards the figure, ready to undo their bonds. At their first certain step, every line in the agent’s body tautened, rigid as a sail in the wind, as their rhythmic breaths quickened - shallowly, shortly out, deeply, swiftly in.

So - the former.

Reassured by a confirmation of their assessment, though less pleased to be a source of distress, Brax made quick work of the restraints.

They stepped back, giving the agent a moment to straighten up and rub their wrists. The figure’s gaze flicked to Brax’s face, brow nearly creasing into a furrow before smoothing once more. They allowed their arms to fall and settle stiffly on their lap, settling on their knees and settling their gaze once more upon Brax’s waist.

Alright then - no aggression, no combative expression, nothing but complete submission so far.

Good cop it is then - good.

Sinking to one knee, Brax tried to seek out the agent’s eyes but that dark gaze remained lowered, so Brax focused on keeping their voice low and soft.

“Hello, Morja, my name is Captain Abraxas Hutchins. I was told you wanted to talk to someone higher in the ranks, so, you got me. Can you tell me what it is you want?”

An intake of breath, sharp and sudden.

Brax would almost call it a gasp and their close observance caught the figure’s eyes flickering with something like shock. If the agent was bewildered or shocked, however, they recovered swiftly, their soft burr revealing no more emotion than their stony face.

“Anóteros, I came to...offer my service to Tyrus.”

....Well. Alright. Well.

Brax allowed themself a blink. Taking a moment to process this statement.

“Are you...are you telling me that you’re surrendering?”

“...Yes, anóteros.”

The agent opened their mouth, paused, spoke once their gaze flickered over Brax’s nod of encouragement.

“I am… deserting New Athens. I… offer my service to this nation. I will offer information. I will fight. I will….do whatever you want.”

The way that the agent spoke, measuring each word as some fragile and heavy thing, sat uneasily with Brax. So did being called “master” or “superior” or whatever that word meant.

As the agent’s palms stiffened, flexing upon their thighs, their close proximity allowing Brax to note the copious scars and burns (some little and disturbingly round) littered upon those wide hands. Brax kept noting that too, the broadness of the figure before them and how often they forgot the size in light of the demeanor. Their shoulders did not hunch, their head did not hang low, but they projected absolute submission.

I am not a threat. I am small and harmless. You do not need to hurt me.

Brax did not need psych-profile terminology at the moment. They could almost hear Sarai’s murmurous meandering on abuse survivors and body language, atypical trauma symptoms, and all the things Brax knew too much about for a lifetime. This agent’s possible history with abuse was an issue for the aforementioned team medic and therapist to ponder if she wished.

Brax was here to assess potential threats.

They were not at all influenced by how the shift of movement drew their eyes to the cruel grooves in the agent’s wrists, deep and ugly crimson, the clear marks of viciously fastened zip-ties.

Not in the least.

Skin on the left wrist had broken and blood sluggishly trickled from the cruel, red circle.

“Do your wrists hurt?”

The agent’s eyes snapped up, fixing Brax with another brief flicker of astonishment. It lasted a mere moment before the agent lowered their gaze. They shifted, their lips parted, shut, parted again.

“Don’t lie - are you in any pain?”

The agent visibly twitched this time, nodding quickly.

Brax would not be accused of being soft by most people. Secretive, observant, strict - usual adjectives whispered regarding the taciturn leader. But for all Brax had purposefully cultivated their reputation of principled sternness, they hoped to be accused of compassion just as often.

What was the use of incisive insight, being able to read people fairly, assess their intentions accurately, and deal with them rightfully if they could not extend it to someone right in front of them?

Well, they would rather be damned for humanity anyhow.

Rising from their haunches, Brax strode to the door and rapped sharply, demanding a first-aid kit from the blinking officer. After some fumbling in cabinets beneath the open stares from frozen compatriots, the officer handed over the item.

Brax traded their crouch for a kneel, mirroring the pose of the rigid agent while they fished some analgesic ointment out of the kit.

“Hold out your hands for me?”

The figure obeyed without a moment of hesitation, palms spread and forearms balanced in tandem.

Brax hummed in approval, cleaning their own hands with alcohol before hovering a fresh wipe over the maimed flesh.

“This is going to sting but the ointment will help with that in a minute.”

The agent did not so much as wince, palms perfectly still as Brax swiped at the gashes as swiftly as they could. Despite the lack of reaction, the agent’s wrists likely felt aflame at the disinfectant.

“So, stop me if I’m wrong. As I understand it, you’re…”

Brax balanced two words on their tongue. Defecting? The alcohol swab snagged a pucker of scar. Round. Diverted. Still pink, a few years old.

“...fleeing. And you want to cooperate, work with us willingly, yes?”

A nod.

“Have any of your anótero ordered you to surrender yourself?”

The agent twitched but their mouth pulled down in another flash of bewilderment.

“No, sir,...New Athens does not infiltrate. I am...committing treason by being here. Even...even by speaking to you, anoóteros, I would be...executed.”

Dry tracks of crimson had eked down the agent’s forearms from their downward angle.

“Then why are you here? What do you want?”

Peeling the wrapper off another wipe, Brax began cleaning those trails, smothering a frown as the stale air thickened with the sharp, metal scent of blood and alcohol.

“I...believe that there is a better way. For my people. A better way that those at the head will not see, will never see. It is not…their way. The only way to save...to have this better way is to end the conflict. To dismantle central operations in New Athens until there is no choice but to change things.”

“So you want to use y-their own tactics against them?”

“They are effective, anóteros.”

A fair point.

“And…”

Brax hummed in question and after a strained beat of silence, the agent continued.

“In e-exchange...for an active policy of recruitment of Athenian agents, taken in alive.”

Well.

“You, you think other agents will defect.”

“...I do.”

Well.

“I see.”

Brax focuses their attention on a crusted clump of blood at the agent’s pulse point, dabbing wetly and turning the information over, the blunt shock of the agent’s words tumbling through their mind. The heat pressed against Brax’s skin, thickened like a cap against their skull, they needed to think.

They need to let their instincts guide them.

“So those are your, uh, conditions for cooperating with us?”

“And I will not execute civilian targets - on either side.”

For the first time, steel edged the tone, the words all weight and no hesitation.

Brax had no counter to this so they merely hummed.

Crumpling bloodied wipes into the kit, Brax dolloped ointment onto their fingertips and began rubbing it into the cuts, grateful for the waft of peppermint which broke up the morbid odor and finally fully gazing up at their patient.

The agent regarded Brax openly, eyes glinting with a bright mixture of caution, bewilderment, and something very much like awe. That look pinned Brax. It seemed that those eyes were shocked into aching vulnerability from an act of simple kindness and it made Brax...unsettled.

“Better?”

“...Y-yes, anóteros.”

“Ah. You don’t need to call me that.”

That little furrow deepened between the agent’s brows.

“Anoóteros. If it makes you more comfortable, I don’t object to it. But I’m not requiring you to call me ‘superior’, ok?”

Now the corners of the agent’s mouth creased downwards as their lips parted, pressed together, and their sharp nod followed suit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Captain. Sir’s a bit, ah, inaccurate anyway.”

Brax quirked their lips softly, trying to assuage any potential tension at the correction. They did this with any new subordinate, awkwardly hovering between honorifics in the face of Brax’s...ambiguity. It usually worked well - usually. The agent, however, had ceased to breathe and their fingers stiffened within Brax’s hold.

“I...apologize, s--, Captain.”

“No need.”

Brax dabbed ointment generously into a welt, a rare unbroken patch of wrist-skin rubbed to blister, as they elaborated in the same low, steady tone.

“I have to inform almost everyone that I am genderfluid, since I present as pretty masculine. I go by ‘they’. Being referred to as ‘he’ is fine, it only bothers me if those are the only pronouns someone calls me.”

Satisfied that infection had been successfully belayed, Brax wiped the ointment off their hands and began

tilting their head as they scrutinized the agent’s flat demeanor for cracks, shadows, flickers - searching for any hint of what was going on in their head.

“What about you?”

There was the bewilderment again, the agent pausing, likely weighing their response, stiffening as they finally spoke, somehow quieter and more measured than before.

“...I apologize, Captain. I...I...don’t understand.”

“I’m asking what pronouns you prefer for yourself.”

The agent’s chest rose, fell, rose and fell quicker as their proffered arms quivered, the creases flattened and deepening across their face in a waning struggle for neutrality. The body warred with itself before Brax’s eyes, some invisible cord of tension winding tighter as the agent seemed to scramble for an answer. 

Brax quickly thought of the agent’s name as they tried to belay any possible swell of panic by offering up solid bases - affirmation, instruction, guidance.

“Hey, Morja? It’s alright. There is no wrong answer here - just tell me your gender identity, alright.”

“...Yes, Captain. I...am a man.”

“Alright. So you prefer ‘he/him’?”

A quick nod.

“Alright.”

Plucking a bundle of gauze from the kit, Brax ignored the weight of the agent’s gaze on them as they unwound strips of material.

They had watched Morja. Now it was his turn to watch them.

“I understand that agents on your side are trained to be perfect. Perfectly obedient. Perfect killers. I’m sure you understand why I can’t be certain of what you say.”

Only once they began binding Morja’s wrists did they glance up from the softly trembling hands and catch those dark eyes head-on. They were sharp, affixed to Brax’s throat like lodestones, as his brow crinkled in thought. As Brax began tucking the edges of the bandages into the bindings, Morja spoke.

“Tyrus has been searching for a hidden data farm in New Athenian territory. It shows grids of border weaknesses here and to the West and it’s a high-value storage. It is low-security to disguise its importance. I can offer its location and optimal invasion strategy, Captain. I can offer this as proof.”

As Brax stood, gazing down at the agent, their senses were attuned to the utter submission of Morja’s posture, how his eyes were bright with caution, and though his hands still bore the faintest tremor, there was not a hint of deception.

Either he was telling the truth or Brax had never met a better liar.

“Alright. You can lower your arms, Morja.”

The man obeyed and the faint light showed his flat mask slip a fraction.

Brax barely had time to blink before Morja folded at the waist. Spreading his open palms flat, shuffling forward to press his head upon the ground. With his broad back bowed, his dark head brushing Brax’s boots, gauze-swathed hands unfurled as though in prayer, Morja was the perfect picture of supplication.

“Thank you...for your mercy, a-- Captain. Thank you.”

Well...alright.

Brax can process this: rituals of deference, kneeling, no eye contact.

Superior.

Still, a groveling enemy was not their idea of a good Saturday morning.

A wounded, terrified person at Brax’s feet, throwing away all he’d ever known for a change in heart.

A man who Brax had bandaged, thanking them for the mercy.  

“That’s, uh, alright. You’re alright. You can get up.”

Without looking to see how he responded, Brax strode to the door of the cell, rapping to be let out. When the blonde sergeant swung the door wide, her gaze slid balefully to the shadows behind Brax, eyes like icy chips in her clammy face. Her mouth was a small knot of fury. 

And just like that, Brax made their decision.

“I need a pair of cuffs and the car. He’s coming back to Base Forthill with me.”

Brax swung back to Morja, catching his dark head snap up suddenly, the neon light glinting at the whites of his widened eyes and limning his parted lips in the most blatant show of emotion Brax had yet seen.

Shadows of shock, relief, fear all flitted, swift and pale as moths across Morja’s face before fading away, leaving only the level mask settled staunchly in place.

Brax really hoped they wouldn’t regret this.

And yet, somehow, they didn’t think they would.

~       

i crave validation so tell me what you thought!!!

[catcodemon]

i FINALLY finished the inky n marauder fluff. please clap.

[ao3 link]

The creature is, in his opinion, very...perturbing.

He is accustomed to creatures of similar size. Even his loyal wolf is to scale with him. The demons he has confronted and has since abandoned were sizable. Even the Slayer himself was proportionate to him--albeit, shorter. The mech, Vega, is taller than the Slayer, but still barely reaches the Marauder’s shoulder height.

The pet is only approximately the size of his head, he estimates. Something so small and fragile should not exist in such a hostile environment. Though, he supposes, the haven of the Fortress provides the needed safety for the fragile thing. 

The first time he follows the Slayer back to the Fortress, the jet-black, furry thing runs up to the man and practically wrapps itself around his legs. A long tail, curled at the tip, slides around his leg as the little thing weaves between the marine’s legs. 

He physically wrinkles his lip at it, glaring at it intensely. “What the hell is that?”

Vega hums, amused, as the Slayer stoops over to pick up the creature. “That,” his warm voice informs the Marauder, “is our loyal feline. Inky.”

His eyes squint at the wriggling black mass in the Slayer’s arms. The man seems oblivious to the warrior’s scrutiny, instead focusing on rubbing the cat’s face with bulky, gauntlet-covered fingers. The cat--he refuses to give that thing a name--wiggles happily, batting at the fingers and rubbing its face against them.

“She has residency seniority over you,” Vega teases. “She has the right-of-way.”

“She will have no issues with me, should she leave me be,” he grunts out, looking pointedly away. 

“I cannot guarantee that,” Vega warns. 

The Marauder glares at the mech. “I cannot guarantee that thing’s safety, if it comes near.”

Immediately, the Slayer tenses. His head whips around to lock onto the Marauder’s form, eyes damn near glowing with restrained anger. His body tenses, Inky sensing the change in his disposition as well and wriggling out of his suddenly-tight grip. 

He curls his lip. “Does she really mean that much to you two? A measly animal?”

“Well,” Vega tries to reason, purposefully placing himself between the two warriors, “Inky is very good at easing the Slayer’s thoughts when they delve into uncanny valleys,” he proposes. “She is a good distraction and source of comfort for both him and myself, truth be told.”

Something reluctantly clicks in his mind: if he wishes to stay with them, it is positively necessary that he grows used to her. 

“Fine,” he snarls. “Do not expect an overwhelming welcome to her,” he adds. “I’ve no time for such a feeble, fragile thing.”

Vega chuckles affably. “With your bristly exterior, I doubt she will even want to bother you,” he offers. “Perhaps that is a good thing?”

The Marauder huffs petulantly. 

⁂

He grows accustomed to seeing the cat wandering the Fortress. While her coloring oftentimes leaves him squinting into the shadows to see if she’s truly there, he does notice her. He notices that she slinks around after the Slayer when he is present, then waits patiently with Vega in the main room until he returns from a mission. She spares him no attention, at first--just how he likes it. 

The cat’s behavior is both predictable and erratic. He knows what times she will start to fuss as she waits to be fed. He knows what places she likes to curl up and sleep in. He knows what toys she prefers to carry around and play with, by now. 

He also knows that she is growing interested in him. 

At first, she would skitter away from him, were he to approach. None of the times were him necessarily approaching her; rather, something different that she was between. Claws would scrabble on the hard floor as she struggled to get traction enough to tear away, her feet making soft thumps as she ran. 

Now, however, she grows braver. He catches her intently watching him as he makes his way around the Fortress. He notices that she only scoots to the side enough to let him by as he walks. 

Against even his iron-will, he feels some part of him soften to her advances. Acknowledging her questioning sounds, idly flicking a toy for her to chase when it stops near him--little things that he desperately hopes go unnoticed.

He is cleaning his armor one day when he first feels it. Something...ticklish, brushing against his exposed arm. Reflexively, he goes to swat away whatever it is, but pauses when the thing lets out a familiar mrrp!

Ah. She’s finally gotten brave enough.

When he looks over, her eyes meet his. Piercing green, even in the dim light of the armory. She lets out another questioning sound as they lock gazes, rubbing her head more firmly against his arm. 

He looks to his hands. Blood-stained, battle-worn-- tools of death. How many lives has he claimed with them? He frowns at the ragged claws at the tips. Does he have the delicacy to respect her, with a body meant for destruction?

Of course he does, he decides. The Slayer is a bloodthirsty killer as well, and he manages to be gentle enough on her. Hands that quite literally ripped demons in halves could still be controlled enough to allow gentle caresses.

One clawed hand extends to her. Her ears perk up at the gesture, her neck stretching as she leans forward to sniff. He barely feels her whiskers tickling his fingertips before he’s baffled.

The cat leans fully into his hand, preening and standing on her tip-toes, eyes slitting closed happily. 

He is taken aback, at first. How long has it been since he was gentle with something, apart from his wolf? He supposes there have been a lot of changes lately, and this is no different. Gently, he drags his nails down her spine, feeling the thick, black fur ruffle underneath. 

Suddenly, a rumble starts up from within her. A growl? A snarl? Regardless, he snatches his hand away immediately. She looks to him, confused, head slightly tilted to the side.

Scowling at her, he puts his armor aside and goes to find someone.

***

“Your...feline,” he starts. “Is she normally so aggressive?”

Vega and the Slayer look at him curiously. The Slayer’s brows knit together as he listens to him continue.

“I attempted to ‘soothe’ her, earlier,” he explains, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And she immediately started growling. Does she do this to you?”

“‘Growling’?” Vega queries. “She is not known to be like that. Did you upset her somehow?”

“Of course not!” the Marauder snarls petulantly. 

‘What were you doing?’ 

“Simply touching her,” he grumbles. “She came up seeking attention. I gave it to her.”

Vega’s face positively lights up when he finishes. “Oh! Marauder, she was not being hostile towards you,” his voice is bright and excited. “That’s her way of expressing happiness and pleasure--she purrs!”

He knows what purring is. Hell, he’s been accused of purring when content. He ponders it for a moment while Vega continues.

“Purring means she feels safe and happy,” he chortles. “She was not growling--she was pleased!”

As if on cue, Inky trots into the room, tail high and curled at the tip. When she sees the three of them, her ears straighten, and she starts to chitter excitedly.

‘Watch this,’ the Slayer beckons. He leans over, wiggling his fingers to her, drawing her over quickly. When in range, he picks her up, cradling her against his chest, scratching her chin. She does the same thing she had done with the Marauder just before: her eyes slit closed, she wriggles into the touch, and the low rumble starts up once more.

“You’re telling me,” he blurts, “that she ‘growls’ when happy?”

“To put it simply, yes.”

He steps over to the Slayer, gently laying a hand on Inky’s back to feel the rumble for himself. Her entire body seems to vibrate with the ferocious purring.

“How backwards,” he grunts, taking his hand back. 

“Different creatures have different ways of expressing happiness,” Vega offers. “Your wolf wags its tail when happy. The Slayer smiles. Inky purrs.”

A quick glance proves that yes, the Slayer is smiling smugly at him.

With a final flustered huff, he bids goodbye and goes to the main control room. Gazing out the bay windows, he considers what had happened. So, she was not being irritable...which meant he was doing something right.

⁂

The next time she appears to him, he’s prepared. 

This time, he is just returning from a much-needed outing. The Slayer and Vega had stayed at the base, leaving him to his own doings. 

As he enters the portal back to the Fortress, he immediately spots Inky. She is sitting on the console, tail curled neatly around her paws as she watches. As soon as she spots him, she lets out a chortle, tail straightening up as she stands. At first, he walks by her. She voices her displeasure with a pitiful whine, following after him.

He lets out a grunt, waving a hand at her. “Let me clean off first.”

She persists, following him to the armory once more as he puts his axe aside. A quick scrubdown removes any gore and viscera from his armor and body, leaving him suitable, at least to his standards.

In the doorway, she waits patiently. When he approaches, she stands, arching her back excitedly. Almost automatically, he stoops over and gently scoops her up off the floor, cradling her in the crook of one bulky arm. His free hand moves to ruffle her fur, which she leans into wholly.

He carries her out, intending to sit down in one of the chairs circling the data consoles as he mulls over his day. She does not fight his grip, going slack like putty. He settles down, now placing her in his lap. Instantly, she curls up into a ball, once again rumbling--purring--happily. His claws run through her fur smoothly, relishing in the way she squirms contentedly against the touches. 

He supposes he could get use to this.

[the-original-b]

Archangel Chapter 11: Talent Scouting

Format: Prose / Fiction, multi-entry

Part in Series: 3 of 9 (Previous Chapter | The Beginning)

Word Count: c. 2,600

Summary: Khai pressures Krueger to contain a rapidly deteriorating state of affairs.

Krueger stepped through the glass doors of the Sixth Avenue office—dressed in a commando sweater and dark jeans with classy shoes under his pea coat—and headed towards the conference room.

Danielle straightened up behind her desk as she noticed him walk past her. “They’re waiting for you inside, Mr. Krueger,” she said.

He thanked her with a nod and proceeded down the hallway, past Khai’s old office which CJ Silvio now worked out of, and entered the conference room to join her and Everett to discuss their next steps after the events at Pharaohs a few days ago. Visible on a computer monitor at the end of the table was Hayden.

“Gentlemen, Miss Khai.” he greeted them. “Is Mr. Desmoulins joining us?”

“We’re ironing out the connection now,” Khai noted. She wore a dark suit with a white blouse and black peep toe pumps. “It’s one thing to set up a video call, but another entirely to set one up with him.”

“The man lives in military grade encryption,” Everett added. Today he wore a conservative blue suit with a pale gray shirt underneath.

“It’s how he’s stayed invisible for so long…” she added sotto voce. She tapped a few more keys on the laptop Hayden’s face was on. “Got it,” she said, turning the device toward the other men in the room. “Brandon, can you hear us now?”

“Loud and clear,” Brandon voice confirmed through the speakers.

“Perfect. In the room you can see I’m here with Mr. Krueger and Henry Everett. Also joining us via teleconference is Mr. Hayden.”

“Hey, everyone.”

“Greetings,” Hayden said. “Good to see you’re all well.” He folded his arms atop the desk he sat behind.

“Same to you, sir.” Khai said, sitting down and facing the laptop. Krueger and Everett took their places standing behind her. “Have you heard any updates from Dana and Charles?”

“No, and that’s what concerns me. Karin’s seen a steady increase in the Dragon Tears’ popularity in her territory, but she and I have been in regular contact; and Herman’s reported no problems in his area. The others have had their hands full for months, and now that I haven’t heard from them since last week the rest of us are more than a little concerned.”

“That bad?”

“It isn’t just the drugs, it’s the problems they invite. Police budgets have been slashed nationwide, and the hardest-hit cities have turned to the private sector to compensate.”

“Castle Security Solutions,” Krueger noted. “I’ve seen a news story on them the other day.”

“It’s no coincidence they’re expanding while the Dragon Tears become more popular,” Khai noted.

“Are you suggesting they’re connected, Miss Khai?” Hayden queried.

“I’m saying there may be a causality, sir; that somebody stands to profit from the expanse of one or both of the two forces choking the Partners today.”

“I agree,” Everett added. “And thanks to Krueger, I think we know who.” He looked at the monitor. “Mr. Desmoulins?”

“Special Agent Peter Cross,” Brandon said. “Born August 14th 1966, UT San Antonio class of ’88. Eight years with the FBI, then transferred to the DEA in ’96. He spent three years there, then moved to ATF. He changed hats a third time and joined the CIA in 2002, after which the records stop.”

Krueger arched his brow. “The United States Government?” He crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one foot.

“We don’t know that for sure, but it does make sense,” Brandon mused. “If the CIA is sponsoring an effort to destroy the Partners, they’d want somebody like Cross at the tip of the spear.”

“Not their wheelhouse,” Khai commented. “That’s more the FBI’s job.”

“Also doesn’t make sense that his story stops after his start with the CIA,” Everett noted, his hand on his chin. “I get the feeling there’s more to this Peter Cross than the records show.”

“Especially since the buyer named him,” Krueger added, just loud enough for the others to hear.  He leaned on the back of a chair to Khai’s left. “Is it possible he’s changed sides, started working for another criminal organization?”

“Possible, but not likely; the only other major player in the region is the Company,” Khai said. “And after the ordeal with Osiris, they’re hardly on my radar these days.”

“Mine either,” Hayden said. He brought his knuckles to his lip as he looked away from the camera, breaking eye contact as he considered the new information. “Do we know if Cross is operating in the Tri-State?”

“I found an office in Long Island City,” Brandon said. “Registered to a Rook Capital. He’s listed as Operations Manager.”

Krueger and Khai shot each other looks.

“Then I think that’s where we should start,” Hayden concluded. “Mr. Krueger, head to the Rook Capital office tonight.” Hayden lowered his hand again. “Surveil the building and report back what you find”

“Understood,” Krueger said.

“If I may, gentlemen,” Brandon suggested, “I think I have a better idea. I wrote a script that clones a computer’s internal drive and writes it to another location. I call it the Intruder.”

“The one used at Miles Orham’s cabin?”

“The very same. I think we can use it again here, but we’ll need an access point for it to work.”

Hayden nodded. “I agree,” he said. “That is a better idea. Mr. Krueger, if you can gain entry to the office and upload Mr. Desmoulins’ program into their server room, I believe we’ll gather all the information we need.”

“I’ll get it done, Mr. Hayden,” Krueger said with a nod.

“Excellent. We’ll reconvene after we’ve made more sense of the data.” He reached for something off-camera. “Good day.” His visage disappeared immediately afterward, and the four remaining people on the conference call shared a moment of silence.

“I’ll make the needed modifications to the Intruder,” Brandon finally said. “Krueger, can you come by later today to pick up the drive?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get the address from you while I’m there as well.”

“Awesome. Let me know when you’re on the way. Mr. Everett, Liz, take care.” And just like that, Brandon Desmoulins disconnected from the conference, and Khai shut her laptop before turning to face the two other men in the room with her.

“Well,” she said.

“It sounds self-explanatory to me,” Everett said. “We plant the Intruder, wait for it to do its job, and decide our next steps after we analyze the data.”

“We might run out of time before then.”

Everett shot her an inquisitive look.

“Rook Capital… Rook, the chess piece.”

“Castle,” Everett concluded. “The private contractors?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“I caught it too,” Krueger added. “It can’t be coincidence that Cross is part of their office in Queens, he has to be connected to the private contractors coming up in cities across the country.”

“All the evidence points to that,” Khai said. “And if all is as it seems then there’s no time to delay here…” She stood up from her seat, adjusting her glasses. “We have to kill him.”

“Liz,” Everett said, raising a hand to chest-level. “You’re talking about killing a possible U.S. Government agent. That’s a sure-fire way of drawing attention that we cannot afford.”

“It’s also the only way we can guarantee avoiding the same thing that’s happening to Dana and Charles right now, and to stop whatever’s brewing from destroying the whole organization…” She took a breath, placing her hands on her hips and shutting her eyes. She opened them again and met Krueger’s gaze. “Milo, go see CJ in the armory.”

“Liz,” Krueger began.

She started toward her desk at the head of the conference room, by the window overlooking Sixth Avenue. “It won’t be easy, but if you can get in and out before they know what happened, I think we can slip the noose before they get a chance to tighten it.” She took a seat and woke her desktop computer.

“Liz, I was ordered—”

“It’ll be tight, but there’s a safe house in Sunnyside, on 40th Street. You can lie low there while things settle down—”

“Liz..!” He got her attention.

Khai looked away from the monitor to face him.

“That isn’t the job,” he specified. “You heard Mr. Hayden, this is strictly an infiltration assignment.”

“I did,” she said, “but it may be too late to do anything about whatever facts we dig up by the time we analyze them all. We need to solve the problem before it becomes one.”

“And I agree with you there,” Krueger said, leaving his place at the table to approach her. “But this is different—you’re talking about having me remove a possible Federal Agent.” He stopped barely two feet from the edge of her desk, then placed his hands onto the desk top. “A long time ago I stood right here in front of your predecessor, and promised to kill him in his sleep if he ever ordered me to do something I’m not comfortable with.”

Khai didn’t take her eyes from his, even as she leaned back into the chair and uncrossed her legs. She wasn’t even aware of the distance she tried to create between them until she blinked, realizing what she was actually feeling wasn’t shock, but fear.

“I don’t want to have to revisit that threat.” Krueger finally said. He maintained his flat tone, deadly serious. “Least of all to you… but if I have to, I will.” He straightened his posture again, looking down at her. “I was issued an order, Liz. And I don’t intend to deviate from it.” Krueger turned on his heel and headed toward the exit, his hands in his coat pockets. On his way out of the office he acknowledged Danielle again and passed through the glass doors to the elevator down to Sixth Avenue.

Everett shuffled uncomfortably after Krueger left. “That wasn’t something I should have been in the room for. Sorry, Liz.”

“No, you’re fine,” she reassured him. “Really…” She let a quiet sigh escape her lips. “You know, that’s the closest thing to a fight he and I have had in the almost two years we’ve been together… I was always nervous about that, but now I think I was scared of the wrong thing.”

Everett followed her eyes darting across the top of her desk. He noticed her reach for a pen and absentmindedly tap its point on an old post-it note. He’d seen that look on her face before, and could practically see the gears turning in her head as she worked through what must have been a problem she’d revisited and resolved dozens of times already. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she declared, trying to convince herself more than him. “Yeah, it’s just… easy to forget who he is sometimes.”

“A good-hearted man?”

Khai looked up at him and, after a brief pause, exhaled. She shut her eyes and put the pen back down, then brought her hand back up to remove her glasses and rest them by the pen. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and first finger then pinched the bridge of her nose before allowing her hand to slide down her face to her mouth as she opened her eyes again, staring ahead blankly.

Everett looked over his shoulder to the conference table and headed over to retrieve a chair which he placed in front of Khai’s desk. “Don’t tell me,” he began, sitting down. “You’re considering ending your relationship with him; you’re listing the pros and cons in your head and trying to come up with any good reason to let him go on your own terms before you’re forced to make that choice.”

Khai quietly laughed and shook her head. “That obvious, huh?”

“You may as well be an open book,” he returned, smirking.

Khai relaxed her smile and brought both her hands together, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. She shut her eyes again and placed her face into her palms, exhaling slowly. She interlaced her fingers again, looking over her knuckles at him.

“And now, you’re realizing he’s not only the best thing to happen to the Branch, but also to you.”

Khai nodded. “I know,” she said. “And as much as I try to rationalize and poke holes in the pros, I can’t find a single reason to make it worth breaking up with him in the end.” She dropped her hands and turned her head to look him in the eye. “But I’m scared, Henry,” she admitted. “I hesitated even bringing him to the Brooklynite that night. I didn’t think I’d fall for him…” She shrugged. “But I did. A kind, charming, good-looking guy with a tragic past; I didn’t stand a chance,” she laughed. “I ignored my doubts and let myself get closer to him. No matter how many times I think I made a mistake with him, then realize I didn’t, I still feel like I’m going to screw this up somehow. And that terrifies me.”

Everett gave a half-suppressed chuckle as he considered his next words. “Forty years ago, I think I heard those same words come out of your father’s mouth when he tried to talk himself out of proposing to your mother.”

Khai laughed again. “I guess the apple plopped straight down,” she jested. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him he was the smartest person I knew. Then I chastised him for not being able to see the obvious choice,” he added with a smirk. “You inherited his brilliant mind, Liz. The two of you work through problems the same way—you consider all the approaches, all the variables, and by the time you reach your solution you realize you knew the right answer from the beginning.” He shrugged. “This is no different. I think you made your decision before we even started talking about this.”

Khai opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but stopped herself when she realized he was right. Sure Krueger caught her off guard with his parting words, but he said what he did because of who he was and—more importantly—who he wasn’t. Khai rested her cheek in her hand as she considered Krueger, weighing his numerous good qualities against his few bad ones. She tried to justify splitting with him in light of any hypothetical and actual threats to their relationship, and a soft smile washed over her face as she realized she couldn’t.

“There’s a reason you invited him to dinner that night, Liz” Everett concluded, leaning forward. “Remember that.”

~~

Krueger headed down Sixth Avenue and crossed at 51st Street to head toward the garage where he parked his car. He slowed after he made it across the street, then sighed as he stopped in his tracks. He stood off to one side to let others pass him as he slid his hands into his coat pockets and stared absentmindedly into the sky, re-playing his meeting with Khai, Everett, Brandon, and Hayden in his head over and again as he considered the information. After a while he fished into his coat pocket to find his mobile phone. “Ich werde es bereuen,” he said to himself as he dialed the number when he found it in his list of contacts.

“Mr. Krueger!” CJ Silvio’s voice on the other end answered. “What can I do for you?”

“I need something precise and powerful.” he said. “Last-minute.”

“How powerful are we talking?”

“Hole-puncher.”

“Uh…” Silvio shuffled audibly on the other end. “I think I can put a list together. Rifles or handguns?”

“The latter. The quieter the better.”

“Oh, well that narrows it down… I’ll have to see if we have any of those left in the armory.”

“Meet me there in thirty minutes.” Krueger ended the call and headed for the garage on 51st to his car.

(Masterlist | Chapter 12)

[itsuki-minamy]

“K - THE FIRST STORY”

CHAPTER 4: BLACK OR WHITE (Part 2)

* K - The First Story (List of Chapters) * Projects & Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

Inside the lunch box, alongside the white rice, the colorful and well-balanced garnishes are well packaged. The boy thinks it's like being full of "happiness".

The boy loves it because it looks like the treasure chest with an unbalanced brown lunch that is filled with "special" items like meat and fried foods that are always blessed with recommended side dishes. However, he was impressed by the desperate lunch that Kuro prepared as a harmonious world.

From the lunch box, the boy takes a plump, beautiful yellow egg with chopsticks and puts it in his mouth. The sweetness spread through his mouth. He asked Kuro to do it yesterday, the rolled egg was delicious too, but the sweet flavored egg grill is good too.

While trying with a smile, he heard a clear voice next to him.

"Shiro has his own lunch with side dishes!"

Kukuri opened her eyes and looked towards the shrine that surrounded the lunch box with Kuro and Neko in the coffee shop. For whatever reason, he have two lunches on his hands.

He decided to advance through school with his own face, saying he was a "transfer student."

This school is located on an island, isolated from the outside, and basically he cannot enter the site without a pass. However, probably because they were relieved by safety, the people on the school island were enthusiastic about the safety aspect. Even the seemingly suspicious Kuro and Neko are accepted as "I'm a school person because I'm here with a natural face."

By the way, he managed to calm down Neko, who doesn't like clothes, and put her in the Ashinaka school girls uniform (when the boy praised Neko in uniform like "cute!) However, Kuro is still in his uniform. Also, even though he had a sword on his waist, the people around him naturally accepted Kuro's existence, probably because the boy was with him.

Kukuri looked at the contents of the boy's lunch box with a surprised look, and the boy put his hand on his cheek.

"This time it is my beloved wife's lunch."

"If you just say stupid things, I'll stick my tongue out at you."

Kuro draws his sword threatening to cut off the boy's tongue.

As for Neko, he has already eaten Kuro's lunch, and she looks at Kukuri's lunch and makes a voice that waits, "Are you hungry?" Kukuri opened the lunch box and asked, "Do you want to eat?" She opened the lunch box, but for some reason there was no main food, such as fried or roasted salmon, and various kinds of vegetable side dishes such as slow-cooked dishes, salads, and hot vegetables were packed in the lunch box. She wonders if she is on a diet.

Despite the interaction between Kukuri and Neko, the boy looks towards a PDA.

"Oh, what's up? It's different from the school's designated PDA."

Kukuri said, paying attention to the boy's PDA.

The boy's PDA has disappeared, therefore he borrows Kuro's. By the way, a handmade plush doll hangs from Kuro's PDA. When he told him that he thought it was a hobby that did not suit his face, it seems that it is a doll that he made himself, imitating the appearance of Miwa Ichigen, and from there he began to sigh the story of how wonderful Ichigen was. So sorry to ask. Frankly speaking, Kuro's emotion when he talks about "Ichigen" is very disgusting.

The boy squeezed Kuro's PDA and made another comment.

"It's from my wife."

"Do you really want to separate yourself from your tongue?"

Kuro draws his sword again threatening to cut off his tongue. He's not sure if he's unexpectedly good or if he's really mad, because he can't even pull a joke, but his reaction when he hit him is a bit funny.

After a little tantrum, Kuro regains his mind and turns to the boy looking at the PDA.

"Did you find out something?"

"No, it is an unclear image..."

What the boy sees on Kuro's PDA is that video of a person, who looks exactly like the boy, killing a person.

This was transferred from his classmate Mishina. He said he found this video on a website. With the curiosity and drive of a healthy high school boy, Mishina is good at watching erotic videos and images, avoiding the security restrictions placed on school-designated PDAs. Some of his classmates also have part of the videos that Mishina found. Yesterday, Mishina intercepted the boy in an uncrowded corridor and told him a secret story: "I found a bad video yesterday."

Although the boy does not have a young and perky sex drive like Mishina, he looks at Mishina's PDA with the feeling of "Well, if he wants to show it, I can't wait to see it." But, it was not an erotic video.

It is the video of a murder that was shown on a huge monitor in Shizume.

However, Mishina believed that this video was false. It seems to be treated like a naughty video even on the net. However, the criminal's face looked exactly like the boy, so he became interesting and came to show him.

Mishina laughed mockingly, saying, "If you did something wrong, should you be selfish?"

In fact, the boy cannot tell if it is a fake video. But if the person was actually killed and this was false, it would probably mean that the real criminal had redesigned the footage to replace himself with the boy. However, this video was taken by the murderer himself, and from what the video looks like, it appears that it was taken with a retro camera rather than a PDA. The video itself is also owned by "Homura", whose partner is the murdered person. Could the criminal have tampered with the video? If that is not possible, is it the crime of a person with the appearance of the boy? Is that possible?

The doubts have no end, but what the boy must do is not pursue the truth, but prove his innocence.

The boy never does. The boy who lives in the dormitory has rarely left Gakuenjima except to run errands these days.

The boy looks at the picture. It says "12.07 23:45". It's been a week. Of course, the boy does not remember leaving Gakuenjima at that time.

"Are you seeing it multiple times?"

Kukuri looks mysteriously at the boy's hands.

"Hmm, this is a mysterious video delivered by Mishina."

"Eh, Mishina-kun?"

Kukuri overreacted to Mishina's name. The cheeks are slightly tinted red. The boy suddenly remembered the incident that would save himself at Kukuri's appearance.

++++++++++

Fushimi snorted as he watched the scenes projected on the many monitors in the information room.

Each image in each location is displayed one after another on the monitor. Not only the city's surveillance cameras were collected and analyzed, but also all kinds of data such as personal camera images of PDAs and the content of private communications.

Knowledge of the system. As long as the system is up and running, there will be no privacy for the people of this country.

It was a system that prioritized investigations into people's human rights, which could be triggered by the special "Real Level" information disclosure request issued only in emergencies where an undetermined number of lives are in danger. Since the approval of the activation also requires the permission of the Prime Minister, the order of the "Golden King" Kokujoji Daikaku has also been obtained.

He doesn’t want to activate it to find a child.

Fushimi was alone in his heart and ironically distorted his mouth while looking at the private lives of strangers.

"It is quite a masterpiece."

"Help me if you have free time."

Awashima takes Fushimi's words as dislike without raising her eyebrows.

"I am not free."

Fushimi looks back at his desk and slides his finger over the keyboard.

On Fushimi's desk monitor, there was a video of the murder posted by "Homura." A bullet was fired into the roof of the Hirasaka building, in the Western District, at 11:45 p.m. on December 7.

Tatara Totsuka was not good for Fushimi. When he was in "Homura", even if he showed that he didn't like that Fushimi didn't get used to it, he didn't care and felt like he would stop him and see through the line that he really didn't want to step on. He saw it with his eyes. It was not good for those eyes.

He was a man of the opposite nature to Fushimi, and he always laughed with a face that everything he saw was funny.

"Totsuka-san, you are dead."

A whisper came from Fushimi's mouth.

Fushimi stared at the image of the man whose face was always smiling, falling on the concrete without force.

Suddenly something happened. Akiyama, who was doing the compilation work, called out to Awashima in a whispering voice, "Lieutenant Awashima!" The voice turned the eyes of everyone in the briefing room towards Akiyama.

There was a child on the monitor that Akiyama showed. The facial recognition matches the criminal boy that Fushimi just confirmed. Fushimi's expression also tightened slightly.

"Do you know where he is going?"

"Yes, please wait a moment."

Akiyama immediately responds to Awashima's question and runs his finger across the keyboard. Review the points on the web in chronological order. He was at the foot of a bridge where he is captured by Shizume's surveillance camera, an ordinary PDA camera trying to capture the confusion caused by "Homura's" people, and finally the boy.

A connecting bridge that spans from Tokyo Bay and leads to an artificial island. The boy goes over the bridge and enters the island. That was the last appearance of the boy found by "Yuishiki" (Wisdom).

Awashima looks at the map of the place where the boy was last seen.

"The Ashinaka school island?"

It is a gigantic school that is very independent and does not allow outsiders to enter easily, partly because the whole island is one site.

He hears Awashima mutter under her breath, saying it was troublesome.

++++++++++

Anna finally did.

Yata was running. Anger and fighting spirit burn the flames of the body. From that day on, he couldn't find a place to hit and was swirling in his stomach, turning Yata into a fiery bullet with the target he should be heading for now.

A motorcycle gets next to him and they run side by side, they seem to fly in the landscape around them. There was a huge body that he knew on the motorcycle.

"Yata-san! What's wrong?"

"Oh, Kamamoto! Very good, you are coming too!"

"Where you go?! What happened?!"

Yata looked down the road and told him to sharpen his eyes and growl.

"We're going to the school island."

"Gakuenjima? The school island in Tokyo Bay?"

"Just a moment ago, Anna's skill finally found out where it was!"

Kamamoto took a deep breath.

Anna is a member of the "Homura" clan, but has more power as a Strain than the power of fire. She has always been searching for the criminal's whereabouts with her sensitive ability.

It finally showed results.

Yata remembers the bar just before. Anna spread the map on the table and stared at the many red marbles rolling on it. Its responsiveness detects the criminal's signal, and the marbles move and gather towards a point on the map. Beneath the bright red marble is an artificial island in Tokyo Bay.

“Here.”, Anna's transparent voice said like a decree. The criminal is there.

Yata holds his hand tightly in his fist. That night, it was a hand holding a bloody body. This hand knows the cold body that fell on the rooftop in the middle of the night and the warmth of the blood that was spilled.

Yata gritted his back teeth tightly and said, "Kamamoto, take me." He put his hand on Kamamoto's shoulder and jumped into the back seat without slowing the skateboard propelled by his skill. At the same time, he kicked the skateboard and lift it to catch it in the air.

"Speed ​​it up! I'm going to Gakuenjima to kill that damn guy!"

"Hey!"

Kamamoto twists the throttle grip to accelerate the motorcycle. Grasping Kamamoto's thick back, Yata puts his strength into his arm holding the skateboard.

"Wait, you fucking bastard!", he whispers into his mouth.

++++++++++

In the locker room, which was simply installed by pulling a curtain in the classroom, the boy dressed in a khaki kimono and looked at the borrowed PDA. The video plays on the PDA.

“The date shown in that video that was shown in the city was at 11:45 p.m. on December 7th. Given the distance between the school and the crime scene, it is not possible to move in an hour."

"And so..."

Kuro was also dressed in Japanese clothes. With a short sleeve and a hakama, the original long black hair hairstyle collected and the sword attached to the waist match, and it looks like a samurai.

The boy wears a yellow garment over a khaki kimono. It's a hand-sewn costume for a female student, but it's pretty cool.

"Yes. If it is proven that I was at school around 11:45 PM on the 7th, my alibi will be established."

"But you're in a single room. If you slept alone in the room, it wouldn't be an alibi."

Kuro turned his eyes to Neko. Neko also wears kimono. Although she was wearing it, she didn't seem to know how to wear the kimono, so he could see the white skin with the front wide open.

Neither the boy nor Kuro did not change their complexion because they got used to seeing Neko naked. Perhaps he couldn't see Neko playing with the obi in her hand, and when she approached him, he wrapped the obi around Neko's body with one hand as if he was gathering an old newspaper.

"I'm telling you! I don't accept this testimony as an alibi!"

"Kurosuke, you are stupid! Shiro has been with me since I met him! Wagahai's Shiro is a good Shiro!"

"Shut up. You're saying you don't trust me. If I find out you were responsible for this, don't worry. I'll be prepared."

The boy opened his mouth sweetly, looking at Kuro and Neko as if they were really like a dog and a cat.

"Well, it's my fault. That day was the day that preparations for the cultural festival were allowed at night, and as I recalled earlier, it was a day where there were many incidents."

"Incidents?"

The boy trusted the mysterious Kuro.

"So there must be someone who can prove that I was there too."

The boy used a bird hat to finish. A beard is also attached to the mouth.

"Hmm! How many times do you change your clothes while chatting!"

Feeling free to open the curtains on the simple wardrobe, Kukuri stuck her face inside.

"Oh, it looks good! Shiro-kun, you are a valuable person to look good like Ebisu-sama even if you are not fat at all."

The boy, Kuro, and Neko were forced to try on the costumes they would wear to the main event of the school festival. On the night of the school festival, they will wear these costumes, carry a sword and pull a horse to parade to the shrine behind the school.

The Ashinaka school school festival has a mysterious flavor, in part because it overlaps with the annual shrine festival.

Kukuri was in a good mood when she saw the three people wearing costumes, and while saying to Neko, "Wagahai-chan is a beautiful woman!" On the first day, Neko who hated wearing those clothes and had trouble with the boy's hands, was also happy to be told that she was a beautiful woman.

Well, the boy changed his expression.

He has been living at school almost normally for the past half day, but his life is involved. He has to ask someone to testify that he was at this school that day.

The boy saw Kukuri. The girl who started the confusion that night.

Yes, it started with a runaway boy who fell in love with her.

--- Testimony of the classmate, Sota Mishina.

Oh sure, it was around 11:45 PM on December 7th. There is no doubt that the preparations for the night of the school festival had just finished.

He climbed the stairs of the clock tower with the determination of a generation.

In progress…

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

I do most of my writing in google docs so as to worry less about having to back it up and also be able to access it on mobile, but with no power, no wifi, and no data signal for the past day and a half, I couldn’t get to anything that I should’ve been working on. So instead, I got bludgeoned in the face with an AU that is entirely on-brand for what I am right now, but also if I ever dare to try and continue this, I do not just permit you all to beat me to death with my laptop. I in fact encourage it.

“Roddy, what have you done that’s so--?” 3k of the opening of a FE3H Fae AU, ft. Jeralt and the three lords. That is my crime.

-----

Jeralt cradles in his arms a child that has never once cried, and it stares up at him with big eyes, ever silent as the grave. "You know what this child is, don't you?" the doctor asks, and Jeralt wants to tell him no, I don't, or maybe fuck off, that's why I brought you in here, or maybe just fuck off, but instead of any of those options, Jeralt stares without a word. The doctor sighs and continues, "You have a changeling child on your hands. You can tell by the way it doesn't have a heartbeat."

Is its silence a mark of a changeling, too? Jeralt has seen babies before - he knows their eyes always look too big for their heads, but this child's eyes are just slightly too big, not just for its head but for anyone. Its eyes are blue but have depths like the sea, fathomless dark, and its big eyes are too perceptive, following Jeralt wherever he goes, and he feels like there's something much more than a child peering out from behind them. Its eyes have the keen stare of something ancient and wise, some creature more and less than human.

"What do you do with a changeling child?" Jeralt asks. How to care for one - how would Jeralt care for any child? What does a changeling eat - what would any motherless newborn eat that Jeralt can provide? What does Jeralt do with any child now that Sitri is gone? It doesn't have teeth - the baby doesn't have teeth. Babies shouldn't have teeth, but Jeralt heard that changelings have from their births sharp teeth that draw their mother's blood and drink it. Jeralt has heard a lot of things about changelings.

"There are options," the doctor replies. "But you're past the point that iron would help - iron is preventative. Hang a horseshoe over a cradle, or beneath the pillow--"

"I know," Jeralt interrupts. He's been around a long time. He watched those customs fall out of fashion and recently start to resurge. In times of tumult, people fall back on old ways, old traditions good or bad, and Fodlan might be at peace but Jeralt feels a storm coming on the wind. "I know. We're past that point."

The doctor clears his throat. "Well, mistreatment of the child will often prompt the mother to come collect it. Even they have some sort of protective instincts towards their offspring, to not want to see them come to harm. You could beat it with some implement of iron, leave it out exposed to the night elements, or leave it over hot coals or a fire. Leave it at night unprotected by iron, whatever you choose, and pray that in the morning you find that your own child has been left for you, and the changeling taken back."

Jeralt studies the child and it seems to study him back, its eyes as intently fixed on him as his are on it. Its gaze is uncanny and seemingly knowing. But it doesn't make a sound, and surely if it has any understanding of the spoken word, it would cry out on hearing the doctor's suggestions. Perhaps it is nothing more than a child, if a faery one.

It doesn't look anything like Jeralt; it looks very little like Sitri. The few tufts of hair on its head are too dark. Its eyes are blue, like the evening sky has pooled within them. It is too quiet to be anyone's human child. Blood pulses through its veins but its heart does not beat. It is a changeling, a faery child, and that means that somewhere there is a child of Jeralt's flesh and blood - a child of Sitri's flesh and blood and Sitri's own life traded to birth it. There must be that child, spirited away to some netherworld, if there is this changeling child here in Jeralt's arms. 

That must be what that means, but Jeralt was there so soon after the birth that Sitri's body was still warm, yet the child in Rhea's arms was still silent as the grave. It had not yet been fully cleaned of blood and the residue of birth but it did not cry and Jeralt thought that it might be dead until he saw those big eyes blink. It was silent so soon after its birth and if that is a sign of a changeling then it was switched so soon after its birth. And if it was switched barely parted from its mother, then the one responsible must have been the only other living being there.

Jeralt does not know what Rhea is; he knows she saved him when he should have died, and then over a hundred years hence he still has not died. And that he knows that is enough. 

Rhea might be the one who possesses the child whose heart beats to pump the blood of Jeralt and Sitri through its veins. And if she has that child, then for her to swoop in and save the silent child and return Jeralt's to him, then Jeralt must--

Its eyes are too big and it is too silent, without a cry, but it is still a child. Its eyes survey Jeralt like it is a predator waiting to pounce, but its small hands cannot grasp Jeralt's fingers. It is still a child and still helpless. It cannot lift its head. It might not be the child of Jeralt's blood, but it is still someone's child. It is still a child.

There is a fire. A great, blazing fire that tears through the monastery, devouring pieces of it even through the rain that falls still upon it like tears for Sitri's death. There is a fire, and Jeralt thinks of the doctor's advice.

Rhea cries for the child with a grief beyond what she even expressed for Sitri. But no other child appears. No child of Jeralt and Sitri falls back into the empty cradle.

Jeralt takes the strange, wide-eyed child whose death he faked, and he runs. He leaves behind some truth he cannot fathom and does not want to; he leaves behind the woman who he has served for a hundred years, and he leaves behind the esteem of the Knights of Seiros, and he leaves behind the grave of his wife. He is not sure that he is leaving behind another child that has a heart that beats. He is no longer sure of anything but that he does not trust Rhea. He could not trust Rhea even with a changeling child, either.

Jeralt leaves behind ashes and takes with him a child that never cries, a child he could not put to flame.

-

Claude - though not Claude then, not yet ever set foot in Fodlan then - hears stories of faeries from his mother; she tells him the stories that she and her brother were once told, stories that urge children to behave for fear of faeries. Children out in the night. Children who stray from the path in the woods. Children who venture alone too far from their homes. Any might be disappeared away forever, or perhaps changed instead for some strange faery-child. Faery-children have sharp teeth from birth and a thirst for blood; faery-children are too quiet and too smart, and when rarely they speak, they speak with full phrases well beyond their years. Faery-children have no heart.

He doesn’t believe in faeries for several reasons. Children who get lost in the night or the woods can easily fall victim to wolves, or wild wyverns, or starvation, or the cold. They might be kidnapped by bandits or political rivals and so, vanish. Some kids just don’t like to talk but are smart and observant despite it - doesn’t make them monsters.

If he believed in faeries, anyway, he would still worry less about them than he does about assassins. But he doesn’t believe in faeries, because he’s been a target of assassins but there are no stories about faeries in Almyra. “First I heard of them is from your mother,” Nader says. “Our armies can cross the Throat, but these faery-people can’t? Seems to me they’re far weaker than us! Scared of us and our wyverns, if anything.”

Not that Almyra’s armies ever stay far past the Throat, or Fodlan’s push far past it either on their counters. People who cross the Throat never stay on the far side of it, no one but his mother. He asks her if people back in her homeland might blame faeries for taking her (because there’s some stories of them taking or switching adults, too, not just children but mostly children), and she considers that and decides yes, they might.

His mother tells him a lot about faeries, and when Claude - now Claude, now also of House Reigan - goes to Fodlan he hears a lot about Almyrans, and he finds overlap. His mother said that faeries hold grand feasts that last for days, and dances that last all through the night, and Claude thinks of Almyran celebrations. His mother tells him that humans taken by the faeries cannot eat of their food else they will fall into debt and be forced to work their life away to pay back a mouthful, and that humans joining to their dances cannot stop and will dance until they die of exhaustion in the dawn. People of Fodlan tell horror stories of what happens to prisoners taken by the Almyrans that sound so the same. And Claude might not know everything that happens in Almyra but he knows that isn’t true. People from Fodlan talk about Claude’s people like they’re monsters. But people from Fodlan are also Claude’s people.

The Alliance nobility whisper about this Reigan heir who so suddenly appeared in Deirdru to live with the Duke. Claude listens to the whispers because it’s good to know what people think, even if they’re wrong, and time and again he hears himself called a changeling. “Do they mean it just because I’m some weird child who turned up here seemingly out of nowhere?” he asks his grandfather. “Or do they actually think I’m a faery?”

His grandfather has no firm answer, one way or another. Claude thinks if faeries were real, he’d feel bad for the changelings. It’s not their fault if they’re placed among people who expect them to be monsters just because they’re different. 

-

Edelgard holds fast to a dagger of iron and makes promises to herself, to the world, to her siblings’ spilled blood on the stone floor of a dungeon. “They act as though they’re so different,” she tells Hubert, “the Seelie and the Unseelie, but they aren’t.”

They all take children, some way or another. The Unseelie emerge from beneath the ground when summoned, wearing beaked masks and beneath them faces and hair as white as bone, and they take children and carry them off below. But those who survive them they let go. Edelgard has seen the sun again, and she has heard rumor of what happened in Ordelia territory and that their house has as well, one surviving daughter. A few lucky ones escape the Unseelie.

But the Seelie - they sit high above humanity and they are more subtle in the way they steal human hearts, sink their claws into them and wrench them forth and replace them with their own wills. (Faeries do not have hearts and must take those that belong to humans.) No one escapes the Seelie. Convince another generation of the supremacy of the Church of Seiros and those humans will live their lives in fealty to the Seelie whose court sits at the top of the Church, there at Garreg Mach, teaching generation after generation of nobility. Convince another generation of the necessity of Crests that it blinds them to all other aspects of a person’s worth, and they will summon the Unseelie to do their horrific, bloody works. 

The flames beneath Edelgard’s skin, the two Crests burning through her blood, stand testament to that.

The Seelie and Unseelie claim to be opposites but they are intertwined. The crimes of the Unseelie are facilitate and encouraged by the unchanging society that the Seelie preside over. And at least the Unseelie went to ground, live away in their faery hills except when they are called upon, but the Seelie stand at the peak of a hill and overlook all of Fodlan and perpetuate its every ugly aspect. The Unseelie claimed the lives and blood of Edelgard’s siblings, but the Seelie have the lives of all Fodlan in their grasp, and they squeeze. They slowly squeeze the life from all of them.

The Seelie and Unseelie are the same and neither court sees it and so they hate each other, but Edelgard can see it and she can use it. The Unseelie made her at the behest of the society that the Seelie made, and so they will reckon with her. She will topple the Seelie, whatever the cost, and once Fodlan has seen them shattered on the ground she will drag the Unseelie into the light and burn them away.

She does not know when this iron dagger fell into her hands, but she clings to the salvation it promises. An iron blade in her hands and the full force of her human heart behind it.

-

Dimitri sees ghosts through fae-touched eyes, a curse surely laid upon him for having the audacity to survive when no one else did. They fade in and out at the edge of his vision, and he can't move quick enough to leave them behind in the day. And in the night they always find him in his dreams, grabbing at him with hands that are not human hands, hands that have claws protruding out of nails. Their faces are familiar faces, almost, soaked in blood and scorched by flame, with familiar but accusing eyes demanding vengeance for their deaths, a chorus crying out for blood, blood of the ones who did this to them or failing that, any blood at all. They look like people he has known but if they were not human. If his father had not been human but was a creature in a faery-story instead. If Glenn was. They claw at his skin, seeking his own blood in the night, and in the day they continue to whisper their demands.

An uprising sparks in the western Kingdom and Dimitri goes to quell it, to put his own people to the sword because those who command them seek the throne. Dimitri is too young to claim his crown and birthright but he is old enough to stand on a battlefield and fight in a conflict that has emerged because of that void that rests beneath the crown. Dimitri cannot rule but he can kill, and that is enough to sate the ghosts. He can barely hear them over the clamor of the battlefield but their desire is clear; they insist on the blood of anyone whose blade crosses Dimitri's. They drink it up from his lance and the earth that it spills onto and when they are gorged in it they are silent and smile with sharp red-drenched teeth.

For the price of some other lives, Dimitri receives silence, relief so welcome he is almost giddy with it, almost dizzy from it. Two years that they lingered without ceasing in front of his eyes, spoke so often into his ears, and they are gone, have granted him reprieve, if he cannot pray that this is permanent. For a time he has fed them and he is free.

But when the battle is over and Dimitri lingers in the sweet, blessed silent of the aftermath, he is reminded again of the cost of blood. Innumerable dead soldiers on both sides of the battle whose names he'll never know; a corpse of a man clutched a locket as he died, a locket that has spilled open to reveal strands of golden hair. It must have belonged to someone important to him, but what relation, Dimitri cannot say, will never know. It is hair that belonged to someone who may now be haunted by this soldier's ghost, and Dimitri prays that someone will be blind to it the way that all eyes that are not Dimitri's own seem to be blinded to the spirits that surround him. He prays and the goddess will not answer.

Children in Faerghus, soon after their births, are gifted an iron dagger to lie on the edge of their cradles or beneath their pillows, to protect them from faeries when they are not old enough to protect themselves. When they are older, it becomes a tool in hand with which to defend themselves and cut their own paths. But Dimitri gave his dagger away and he wonders if that is why the faeries reached down and sank their claws into his eyes so now that ghosts bleed out of them.

A month after the battle, empty of the glut of blood they devoured, the ghosts of familiar faces but with faery teeth, sharp and stark white, reappear, resuming familiar cries in Dimitri's ears.

[atamascolily]

lily liveblogs Star Trek:TNG 1x11 - “Haven”

aka the “Troi has an arranged marriage” episode.

we get to see Riker smirking as he watches two attractive women in togas play the harp. Oh, Riker.

creepiest message ever for troi: a silvery mask attached to a literal talking cube. Quoth Troi: Oh fuck no.

I don't blame her for being upset; I'm disturbed myself. 

the creepy message box opens up, spilling jewels all over the transporter, and Troi has to inform the oblivious Riker about her upcoming arranged marriage that she very clearly hates

(Item: I cannot tell what is up with her relationship with Riker because the show has given us very little information to date, but I cannot imagine any scenario where this wouldn't be awkward and embarrassing.)

(Left to my own devices, I assume that Troi pegged Riker on the regular and she was the one who broke up with him, but I suspect the writers thought it was the other way around, lol. but it's pretty clear that Riker is dtf aliens and Troi is half-Betazed, so... *shrug*.)

Troi tries to explain her situation to Picard while Riker is mansplaining in the background. RIKER PLEASE CONTROL YOURSELF.  

All Picard wants to know is if Troi is gonna be sticking around or if he's going to have to find a new counselor, lol.

Troi tells him she won't be staying, and Picard is very clearly disappointed and trying to make the best of it, and you can just SEE the moment where Riker realizes he's still in love with Troi and goes all soft, and it's rather endearing.

(For the record, I mock Riker relentlessly, he's often an asshole, and I hate how the writers keep writing him so he's Always in the Right / expect us to identify with him, but I do enjoy him as a character most of the time.)

Riker leans casually against the wall not looking at Troi LOL. He doesn't have to because she can read his emotions.

Troi: "don't ruin your career for me,"

Riker: "babe, but I wanna"

troi: "how ‘bout no"

 Riker: "okay, then, guess I'll die"

troi: how 'bout you stop being a dramatic bitch and dance at my wedding?”

riker’s like "maybe?" and walks STRAIGHT INTO DATA WHO HAS NO IDEA ABOUT THE WRITHING MASS OF AWKWARDNESS HE’S STUMBLED UPON

Deanna's future in-laws arrive OH THE SPACE FASHION LOL

her fiance Wyatt is human (???) gives her a "chameleon rose" that changes color with her moods, I am SURE we will be seeing more of this magic mood ring flower later as a plot point, but 10/10 excellent gift.

(his sweater game is pretty good, Wesley Crusher should take notes)

Troi calls her mother "eccentric" which is a massive understatement

her mom's first act is to scold her for not using telepathy and to make Picard carry her luggage even though she knows he's the captain

(okay, so Troi is half-Betazed, and her MOM is the Betazed and her dad is human? for some reason I thought it was the other way around but w/e)

the other dude with the elder Troi is her valet, so that makes her snub to Picard even worse, and Troi puts her foot down in the corridor

(love how both geordi and data look at that and agree "not gonna touch that shit")

The fact that Troi's mother is such a raving narcissist makes me love Troi so much more. Like, I already loved her, but this just takes it to the next level.

pretty sure the dude playing the valet is the same guy who was the time traveler in "Where No Man Has Gone Before", lol

picard: please accept our humbly awful '70s space future accommodations

I don't know what color white is on a Mood Rose, but that rose has been pure white ever since Lwaxana Troi showed up

Lwaxana Troi believes in radical honesty, which actually puts her roughly on par with Data in terms of social skills, ironically enough.

Troi, who is a professional diplomat, is like, Mom, please, fuck no, humans are complicated, okay?

"Failure to communicate is inherently hostile" - wow, that's this show's philosophy in a nutshell, isn't it?

I love Electorine, the leader of Haven (the planet they’re orbiting) - she looks like how I imagine a grown-up Ozma of Oz

So Troi's fiance is human? I'm so confused about the politics here, especially when Lwaxana is such a snob about Betazed superiority. 

Troi tries to console Wyatt by saying "I'll only be half as annoying" as a Betazoid/my mother. He doesn't laugh, but I think she meant it to be funny? I LOVE YOU TROI.

He wants to know if she can read his thoughts, she says no, but maybe we'll get there, and then she almost spills the beans about Riker, but catches herself at the last possible moment

to his credit, dude picks up on that right away and asks "Do I have competition?"

Troi says NO, but we all know that's a lie.

Turns out Dude also has issues: he's been hearing voices/seeing the face of a woman his entire life, and he just assumed it was Troi because aliens are Like That, am I right?

he says it doesn't matter but he's CLUTCHING THE PORTRAITS HE'S DRAWN TO HIS CHEST AS IF THEY'RE HIS MOST PRECIOUS POSSESIONS so I have Grave Doubts

Picard to his personal journal: am I biased? I'm pretty sure I'm not and this is a legit disaster in the making.

oh hey, there's a strange vessel approaching the planet to investigate, so time for another conference!

(ngl: I realize the conference room scenes are unpopular but I personally love them even though they generally do not work on multiple levels from a writing/viewing perspective)  

turns out the ship is full of plague and heavy-handed metaphors about the nature of humanity

Lwaxana Troi causes a scene at the cocktail party quarreling with her future in-laws, and both Troi and Riker are in their own personal hells

data looks like he could use some popcorn

Love Troi in her non-work outfit here

Data tries to chat up the silent valet about his drinking habits, with hilariously awkward results

RANDOM GONG FOR NO APPARENT REASON

Lwaxana has a pet Tradescantia vine that starts crawling on one of the in-laws and Riker has Had Enough

Everyone is appalled to learn that nudism is mandatory at Betazed weddings.

Troi screams at everyone and storms out and Tasha is amused.

Data believes the proper study of mankind is man: "Could you continue the petty bickering? I find it so intriguing."

awww, riker is brooding in the holodeck, lol

SEARCH YOUR FEEEEEELINGS, RIKER

(why does Troi always have to be the adult in this relationship?)

So "Imzadi" is confirmed to mean "my beloved" and Troi asks if they're beyond that now, and Riker's all jealous and defensive, and... surely they have polyamory in the 24th century??

Rikers like "I'm an all or nothing guy," which, okay, fair. BUT WHY THE HELL DID YOU TWO BREAK UP THEN, I'M SO CONFUSED? Did Troi break up with you because she thought it was interfering with your career (not sure how that tracks but whatever)? Or did Riker instigate the break-up? (In which case, I have less sympathy because he shot himself in the foot there! GROW UP, YOU FOOL, GROW UP)

Wyatt the Betrothed shows up and is like, "oh, hey, your loss" to Riker, which just made me roll my eyes.

Riker responds by stalking off in a dignified huff, lol SO EMOTIONALLY MATURE, Y'ALL.

"So we'll go half naked?" AHAHAHAHA, TROI, I LOVE YOU AND YOUR DEADPAN SENSE OF HUMOR SO MUCH.

meanwhile, the plague ship approaches *jaws theme*

turns out the woman in wyatt's drawings is on the ship, although I admit I would not have made that connection if Troi hadn't pointed it out

Wyatt goes to ask Lwaxana for relationship advice, which goes about as well as you'd expect it would.

he decides to break quarantine and transport over to the plague ship because HIS SECRET DREAM WOMAN IS REAL (and also he's a doctor and this is his life dream to cure the plague)

the ship is decorated with portraits of Wyatt at various ages which is totally not creepy at all

so anyway, that's that!

Lwaxana concludes by flirting with Riker, much to his amusement and Troi's annoyance

it turns out the valet could talk this whole time, he just... didn't want to before now? Or maybe he's come to understand humans better enough to communicate on their level... or just really liked the wet bar at the reception

(oh, and I was totally wrong, that color-changing rose was just a space macguffin that didn't go anywhere, sigh)

at least we'll always have the vine-pet-creature-thing!

I still don’t understand why this episode is called “Haven,” the planet has almost literally nothing to do with anything and nobody even goes there.

so this episode has a lot going for it! lots of fun character moments, even if I’m still confused as hell about a lot of things the show should have explained.

am I entertained? oh, absolutely.

[ffamranxii]

I draw a manga/write a light novel series based on that manga, which is essentially an amalgamation of my favorite series and giving some of my favorite characters, who I feel were shafted in their source material, a better ending. That series is called C’est la Vie 5, because it originally featured five fandoms that I LOVED enough to have created an original character for.

Now, like many people, I’ve created a fuckton of OCs for a fuckton of series. However, unlike, say, Dragonball Z and Pokemon (RIP to Son Mei and Cissy the Eevee breeder), I still use these characters. I am still active in these fandoms. Some of these characters are nearly as old as I am. Some have gone through so many iterations that they’re nearly unrecognizable from their original forms (looking at you, Haruhi, Suzuka, and Kinoko). But they have ALWAYS been there.

C5 the way it is now started as a fun little project in college to help me memorize my Japanese vocabularly. It was a series of one shot or 4koma doodles in the margins of my notebooks, featuring PGSM+Hina. Then the doodles got mutated. I replaced Makoto with an original character named Sun Hwa, who then was replaced with Ayumi Yamada from Honey and Clover. I added in Hagumi Hanamoto from H&C too. Ami was renamed Moeco, and her appearance changed. I ended up splitting Ami in two, because I loved her Dark Mercury arc so much, and ended up with Moeco and Akumi. I added Mio Kuroki but called her Arisa Kuroki, because my Usagi at the time was called Mio. I added Mikasa from Attack on Titan. Misa Amane (named Erika after her actress in the live action). And it spiraled from there. C5 went through a TON of iterations as well over the past ten years. There was a character called Haruhi, but she was from the Haruhi Suzumiya series.

Now it’s pretty ironed out. The cast is so big I’ve split the series into a set of volumes into one big volume, so it doesn’t become Naruto. Each volume has a set of plots, two of which are contained within that volume. It’s pretty easy and I like it.

HINA is a mishmash of three fandoms (two if you count PGSM and Sailor Moon as one fandom). I fell in love with Boys Over Flowers (the Korean version) after discovering the live action Sailor Moon, and had a complete fit the entire time that Jandi chose Junpyo. (WHY, Jandi. WHY. Jihoo was BETTER for you. BETTER!) I had a Korean friend in my Japanese class, and it was at this period that my Makoto doodle was replaced with Sun Hwa (another Korean) and that Hina Kusaka (who is exclusive to PGSM, and whose name I stole for my OC) became Hina Ku (after the actress who played Jandi, not Goo Junpyo). Hina and Sun Hwa had small side conversations in Korean that my friend taught me, while the group as a whole reinforced my Japanese lessons. C5 has plenty of Boys Over Flowers characters (a mix of the Korean, 2019 Chinese, and Japanese versions), but I never made an OC for the series. Hina filled both roles. In PGSM and Sailor Moon I kept her name as Kusaka, but in C5 it’s Ku, and she is a zainichi - Korean-descended. Hina also plays a different role depending on which series I’m using her in. In PGSM, I used her as Sailor Sun. Sailor Sun has been a character I’ve had since I was five years old. She’s changed style and looks considerably over the years, but she’s always been there. In every other iteration of Sailor Moon, I prefer the theory that Naru and Unazuki are Sailors Earth and Sun, and Hina is one of Usagi’s many friends. In the pre-C5 era, she, Usagi, and Erika were part of the 3 Bakas, for their bad grades. 

AKIHO is my newest OC and holy shiiiiit I have cleaved to the Persona series hardcore. Rather than create a new OC for each entry in the series (though I may change my mind when Person 6 comes out), Akiho’s look, style, and role in the story changes (I reconcile this to be something akin to Clara Oswald in Doctor Who). In P5, which she was created for, she’s a Phantom Thief. The idea came to me when I learned there has never been a playable character of the Temperance arcana, Hifumi was supposed to be a PT, and the general consensus that Mishima and Shiho should have been PTs. Akiho has been through several iterations herself but her general look is based on Tae Takemi from @scruffyturtles ‘s Adult Confidant AU. Her personality seems very calm and serene, but she is a secret metal head and a huge fan of Eikichi Mishina’s band Gas Chamber. Her PT mask is based off a butterfly. Her role in C5 is a shrine maiden, where she gets along with Rei (Sailor Moon), is the sister of Akira Kurusu (who is a separate person from Ren Amamiya), and the daughter of a pair of mobsters.

KINOKO is my second oldest OC, having been around since I was twelve. Her original name was Cherry (like every other Tokyo Mew Mew OC) and her original animal is lost to the sands of time. Luckily, my favorite animal is a red data animal, so she can be fused with that now! Kinoko has been through so many iterations it isn’t funny. In the TMM world, her hair is an auburn, a dark brown with red undertones, mimicking how some mushrooms (where her name comes from) appear. (It’s a callback to her original name). Her Mew outfit has also changed considerably and I still haven’t settled on it completely. The Mew Mews are not a unit in C5. Zakuro is a model with Ann and dating Minto, Ringo (LOVE Ringo) is a middle schooler who hangs out at an arcade and is best friends with Bu-Ling, Ichigo is a waitress with Berii, Retasu works with Ryou. And Kinoko works at a karaoke bar, chasing troublemakers like Bu-Ling out. She also interacts with the new Au Lait boys.

SUZUKA is also an old OC, her name having originally been Meiling. She’s from Fushigi Yuugi, which I was obsessed with as a child. She’s nearly as old as Kinoko - I was introduced to the series at around the same time. Suzuka’s original role as Meiling was Miaka’s attendant and general Mary Sue, and she was one of my first attempts at exploring fanfiction (along with Kagami the cat demon and Teiten the Thunder Sister from Inuyashs, RIP), because I couldn’t decide which of the original Suzaku warriors I loved most. Everyone had such a wonderfully tragic, lovely backstory, and I needed to give them all blankets and hugs, and Miaka was just a dumbass, okay? (I think I settled on Tasuki. Love me some Tasuki.) Anyway. Suzuka eventually morphed into the Priestess of Kouryuu once I learned that Fushigi Yuugi was based on real Chinese legends, and one legend sometimes included Koryuu, the Yellow Dragon of the Center. (Fun fact: There’s a video game that explores this option, but in it, Kouryuu, is treated as a false god.) In my OC world, Kouryuu is the Great Unifier, only able to be summoned once the first four priestesses have summoned Suzaku, Seiryuu, Byakko, and Genbu, and it is he that will stop the war that threatens the four countries of the Book of the Universe of the Four Gods. In C5, Suzuka works at a bookstore owned by Hifumi Togo that specializes in rare books.

HARUHI is the last old OC, but she’s also new? Haruhi was, for the longest time, existant in a stage of limbo. Fruits Basket was introduced to me as a teenager, when I was about thirteen or fourteen, and I didn’t quiiiite embrace the message, behind it. I couldn’t get past the art style (I was very picky about what I visually consumed back then), I couldn’t get into the anime for the same reason, and I couldn’t quite get past the whole “it’s called Fruits Basket wtf and also they turn into animals? And it’s not a magical girl anime? What in the actual fuck?” But like many things I of course loved the characters, I adored my baby Kyo, and I of course made an OC specifically for him, because I back then did not ship Kyoru (sacriligious, I know). I don’t even remember what Haruhi’s original name was. I just decided that she was a Sohma and the rooster, because the curse of the original rooster was broken, and broke a long time ago, so it was entirely possible for Kyo to have a love interest who was a Sohma and the rooster who was around his age (in my teenage mind). That old Sohma OC, is of course, RIP. I can’t even. And recently, I discovered Fruits Basket Another, and I somewhat resurrected that OC in the form of Haruhi, but as the child of the OG cast. Sawa needs more friends, more protectors, and there’s no tsundere besides Hajime. It always bothered me that Kagura never got any canon love interest or story wrap up after she let go of Kyo, and then in Another she doesn’t have children. :( I love Kagura, so Haruhi is hers! I’m also sad that no one in Another dresses in kimonos when so many in Furuba did (Ritsu, Akito, Shigure, Kazuma, Kunimitsu), so Haruhi dresses in them when she isn’t in school. 

KEIKO is special. Not only is she the newest, but she is also the only character exclusive to C5. While the other characters in C5 are based on characters from other fandoms and have their personalities and such shaped by the new series, Keiko is entirely unique. Her name is a combination of the two things that birthed the series: Sailor Moon and Persona 5. Keiko is for Keiko Kitagawa, the actress who played Sailor Mars in PGSM; and Makigami is for Kazuya Makigami, a major character in Persona 5 the Daybreakers. Kazuya is also Keiko’s brother in C5 and he is... not a great person lol. Neither is Keiko. Her appearance is based on how I wear my hair irl and the clothing of Jim Hawking from Outlaw Star, my favorite anime of all time. (I sadly never made an OC for that series. I tried but I am not good at space opera.)

None of the OCs ever cross paths in C5. It would create a temporal paradox and probably result in one of them fainting or dying lol. Since they’re all essentially the same person. Fun fact: I, Ffamran (known in-universe as Bideru the author) also occasionally make cameos, and I also cannot cross paths with the OCs. Luckily Tokyo, where C5 is set, is a very big place. 

If you stuck with me through this very long post about OCs, thank you! I just really wanted to go off about them since I’ve been in a writing mood and I’m on volume 2 of C’est la Vie 5 now. 

[thearkhound]

Ganbare Goemon Production Material Museum Part 1: The Rescue of Princess Yuki

The following is a translation of the first in a series of seven commentaries from the now-defunct official Ganbare Goemon website. Each entry featured production tidbits between Etsunobu Ebisu, who was the general producer for the Goemon series at the time, and artist Madoka Yamauchi, followed by concept art related to the game.

This first entry covers the first Super Famicom game in the series, Ganbare Goemon: Yuki-hime Kyūshutsu Emaki, which also happens to be the first game that was brought over to the west as Legend of the Mystical Ninja. You can still read the original here.

Production Tidbits

Yamauchi: Greetings! I was told to introduce Yuki-hime Kyūshutsu Emaki (The Rescue of Princess Yuki) in this so-called “Goemon Production Material Museum” thing. I’m Yamauchi. Because I’m not very reliable by myself, I have with me Ebi-san, general producer of the Goemon franchise.

Ebisu: Greetings! I’m Ebisu. I’m supposed to be talking about Goemon 1 & 2 here, but can I really remember something that happened such a long time ago? I can’t even remember the dinner I had yesterday. As someone who is always living in the present, the past is pretty much non-existent for me.

Yamauchi: Oh no! I’ll be in trouble if you can’t tell me even a single thing. Is there anything you can tell us about Yuki-hime (the first Goemon game on SFC).

Ebisu: The team leader in charge of Yuki-hime was Ume-san, who previously worked on the Famicom port of Gradius II. At the time Ume-san was pretty reputed in his field, showing great skill in developing new technology, but we still struggled quite a bit though, since it was our first Super Famicom title.

Yamauchi: It seems you did quite a lot on Yuki-hime. I heard it was quite a hell of a development process.

Ebisu: We couldn’t fit everything with the capacity with were given (or it would had doubled our company’s expenses) as we were approaching the deadline. During the last six months of development, the deadline kept being pushed back to a month, so the developers repeatedly found themselves in a position where they would be crunching themselves to death until they ultimately went in with all their might and they were like “let’s do something!.”

Yamauchi: So you were using up your memory capacity until the last moment. It’s incredible that Yuki-hime has such a huge amount of content. I still can’t believe it’s only on an 8-megabit ROM cartridge. Truly the culmination of everyone’s sleepless nights, no, their efforts. Speaking of which, there used to be a radio exercise program that aired very morning at 9:00AM back then (laughs). Radio exercising in the morning after staying all night... That takes me back.

Ebisu: You sweat it all out easily, didn’t you? Oh well.

Yamauchi: Are these all the development documents we had for Yuki-hime? It’s only about three volumes of documents.

Ebisu: Nope, I only pay attention to what’s ahead of me.

Yamauchi: Please keep track of your stuff properly. It seems that these documents contain mostly just data, so they’re not something that most people will understand by simply showing it to them.

Ebisu: That’s right. It’s nothing but a collection of data. Even I don’t know what they mean.

Yamaguchi: Hmm, if we must show something to our readers, we could publish some concept art. But graphic designers back then were already drawing with pixel art tools without having to come up with some concept art first, so there isn’t that much that could be shown to the public. What should we do?

Ebisu: What about those drawings of the boss characters?

Yamaguchi: Ah, that could work! They’re a bit rough, but you could still extrapolate a lot by introducing production materials from the period.

Ebisu: Next time we’ll talk about Goemon 2 [the Super Famicom version].

Concept Art Introductions

Ghost Woman (Stage 1)

Offense: Main (N/A), Dishes (2)

Stamina: Main (6), Dishes (N/A)

Description: She materializes from a well and hovers around in a Sine curve pattern while spinning a pair of plates. She throws her plates at regular intervals. The plates will bounce back to the screen if it hits the edges of the screen during its downward trajectory. The ghost cannot be harmed by striking her body directly. You can only damage her by hitting her dishes in order to deflect them back at her. She is actually a disguise used by the Ninja Cat Kurobe, who is looking for a brave hero.

Lantern Man (Stage 2)

Stamina: Main (54) Attack (4)

Description: A mysterious demon who leads the Hyotokko Mask Gang. He carries a wooden frame on his back which is used to hang all of his paper lanterns (it is believed they will become demons too). It seems he has a single hand under his loincloth, but no one has ever seen it. He has a natural fondness for cat. In fact, it is said that he caught Koban Cat to eat it. He usually says “Of course I like cats!”

Otafuku (Stage 4)

Offense: Main body (4), Twin sumo wrestlers (4), Ball (4)

Stamina: Main body (32), Twin  sumo wrestlers (8), Ball (4)

Description: When the player first enters the room, they will encounter a pair of sumo wrestlers guarding the Otafuku statue. The sumo wrestlers will attack the player with a bouncing ball they throw back and forth at each other. They can only sustain damage at their heads, so the player must use jumping attacks to damage them. When the sumo wrestlers are defeated, their souls will inhabit the Otafuku statue, causing it to expand and attack the player. The statue has three attack patterns.

Sasuke (Stage 5)

Offense: Sasuke (3) , Underling Ninja (2)

Stamina: Sasuke (16), Underling Ninja (2)

Description: The leader of a ninja gang that guard a mansion. At first he simply sends out his minions to battle the player while he rides a kite and observe the battle from the background, but after all of his minions are defeated, he flies towards the player and fights them on his kite.

Kabuki (Stage 6)

Offense: Main body (4), Tsuzura box (4) Stamina: Main body (32), Tsuzura box (16)

Description: This boss appears before the imperial palace in Kyoto in order to steal the boarding passes of any wanderer he comes by. A tsuzura box will appear from the top of the screen with a spotlight shining on it. The tsuzura box will then fold down with a Kabuki actor wearing it on his back.

Hakuryū (Stage 7)

Offense: 2

Stamina: 10

Description: A white dragon that lives in Dragon Pond. It guards the legendary White Mirror that has been passed down since ancient times. The most effective weapon against Haukuryu is the koban coin toss if you’re using a regular weapon or the bomb throw if you’re using a special weapon. Toramaru and Pekomaru are also effective too if you’re going to use a jutsu. In fact, with a jutsu he can be defeated almost immediately.

Daruma Otoshi (Stage 8)

Offense: Head (4), Parts (4)

Stamina: Head (6), Parts (N/A)

Description: A sub-boss that appears in Stage 8. At first it consists of five pieces and a head that are vertically aligned atop each other and they move from one side of the screen to the other from the bottom part to the head on the top. When all the parts and the head have been moved to one side, they will moves back again to the other side. You can hit the lower parts from the side or jump on them, but they cannot be destroyed. Only the head can be destroyed by damaging it. Once the first head has been destroyed, the second part on top will become the new head. When all the other heads have been destroyed, the last one will escape and the floor will collapse, allowing the player to move on to the next area.

Yajirobe Daruma (Stage 8)

Offense: 4

Stamina: N/A

Description: The remaining head of the Otoshi Daruma from the previous battle will combine with a Yajirobee [a Japanese balancing toy] to form the boss of Stage 8. It places Princess Yuki on top of a cauldron as it awaits the player to rescue her. When the player jumps onto the cauldron, the lid will open and the boss will appear. Its durability is not particularly great and it can be defeated by jumping into the baton that is riding it. Since the lid that the player rides moves in an irregular pace , the player must use jumping attacks or projectiles to damage the Daruma head. You will sustain great damage if you get hit with one of the two iron balls it is attached with, so be careful when it starts to shake too much. Timing your attacks is crucial.

Warrior & Lion (Stage 9)

Offense: Lion (4), Warrior (4)

Stamina: Lion (32), Warrior (33)

Description: The lion is actually the transformed shape of Gonta the magic user. The lion can repel any of the player’s attacks and the only way it can be damaged is by hitting the arrows shot by the warrior riding it to repel it back. While the arrows can strike any part of the lion’s body, it usually uses its forelegs to repel them when they fly under its head. While the lion does not have an attack of its own, as it simply moves back and forth, the warrior riding it will usually shoot two arrows at the same time at regular intervals. The warrior cannot be damaged while he’s riding the lion. Once the lion has been defeated, Gonta’s spell is broken and the warrior (actually a robot) will fight the player on foot. The robot warrior will attack the player with a rolling attack.