#it's a cross it's a machine gun it punishes and later it saves....

[seoafin]

No I need every trigun thought you have bc wolfwood’s character is tragic like vash. This whole crew is just messed up and I need to see thoughts and feelings!!!

before anyone says anything you asked so i am answering. i talked about how insane it makes me that wolfwood is literally doomed by the narrative. both in the manga and stampede (sorry to those who think he'll make it out alive in stampede. he's dying.) our first look at him in both the manga AND stampede is seeing him carrying his own grave marker (which i could write a whole paper about just in the fact that it's literally a cross and a fucking machine gun!!!!!). it's representative of the lives he's taken and a tangible manifestation of his sins and guilt that is pointed out as extremely heavy by others. i think in the manga the only other person capable of picking the punisher up is vash??? (which makes me even more crazier bc what do you think that represents huh). the thing about wolfwood is that not only is he a character foil to vash, he completes vash in a way that only he can. only wolfwood can take the lives vash cannot in order to save people, which is something vash finally acknowledges during their fight with leonof the puppet master. i think the absolute saddest thing about wolfwood's character is that he is absolutely a caretaker at heart and violence is not at all inherent to his nature. in the orphanage he grew up in he cooked he took care of the younger children he helped the women out!!! thematically the orphanage he grew up in being the place of his last stand makes so much sense. he fights and dies to protect the orphanage and all the children (yes this includes livio). not to quote myself here but:

ww’s death doubles as salvation and tragedy. somewhere along the way of meeting vash and being witness to his unconditional love and forgiveness for humanity he found it easier to hope!!!! to begin to think that he could be saved. and that’s how he dies.

[huginsmemory]

Wolfwood, the Symbolism of the Punisher and Tragic Narratives

ID: A shot of Wolfwood carrying the Punisher.

MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS

Considering that my post on Wolfwood being a tragic character is doing the rounds and people seem to adore it in the most horrified manner, I thought it might be fun to point out some of Wolfwood's 'dead-since-the-beginning' motifs, specifically through what the Punisher signifies.

Symbolism of the Punisher

There are five (from what I've pulled out) things the cross-machine gun of the Punisher symbolizes. First and foremost, I'm going to talk about how the Punisher, in it's shape of a cross, represents Christianity and Christian morals. This is something that is highly ironic, as while it shape symbolizes the morality and salvation of Christianity, of forgiveness and unconditional love--and such missives as 'thou shalt not kill'--it is also clearly a specialized weapon created specifically to kill people, violating the assumptions of Christian morality.

In a way, this irony or contradiction reflects Wolfwood's own irony; outwardly looking like and pretending to be a priest with Christian morals while at any closer inspection is clearly an assassin. However, the inverted is also true; although Wolfwood is an assassin and kills people, it is shown through his moral quandaries, that these Christian ethics are ones that Wolfwood subconsciously believes in, but has rejected to survive in the world. As a result, the Punisher symbolizes the irony and contradiction of Christian ethics that Wolfwood carries.

Interesting side note, Chapel directly says that their actions as assassins--executing people with their machine gun crosses--is mercy and leads them to save themselves and others to redemption, much in the same way humanity was redeemed through the cross in Christianity, which is the excuse that Wolfwood carries with him for killing others; but that's a digression from what I want to talk about.

ID: Chapel says, “If killing is a sin... it is also the path to redemption. Did you not understand that?” Wolfwood, through black panels of narration, thinks: “I understand. I understand, but... He is foolish. His words are no more than the nonsense of a child. Idiot. I understand that.”

The second thing I wanted to talk about, was that in a way, the Punisher in a cross shape is apt, as the cross previous to Christianity was a literal torturous execution device. To be sentenced to crucifixion meant hours of pain until one finally died from asphyxiation. The Punisher in that manner, stays true to the execution part of the original symbolism of the cross, as it is being used to kill and hurt others; as well as in a way, it applies to Wolfwood himself, which we will get to later.

The third thing I want to talk about the Punisher, is how contextually it symbolizes Wolfwood's profession, and his connection to the Eye of Micheal (EOM), which causes him guilt (the fourth thing). The cross is literally given to him by Chapel, the man who inducted him into EOM; Chapel giving Wolfwood the Punisher, a prestigious weapon used by those from the EOM, can be considered the physical signifier of Chapel giving Wolfwood the brutal lifestyle that he lives under and his connections to them. Hell, specifically because of his weapon, Wolfwood is mistaken for being Chapel, it is so tied to EOM and Chapel himself. As well, by both being the weapon that shows his correlation to the EOM and the weapon that he uses to kill people with, the Punisher (and it's weight) also represents his guilt from the lifestyle, becoming literally the 'cross he has to bear' as a result of trying to protect the orphanage.

ID: First 2 images show young Wolfwood being given the Punisher and being told it’s the Eye of Michael’s highest honor. Its skull-shaped handle is shown. 3rd has Legato saying, “That cross... I’ve been waiting for you. You’re ‘Chapel,’ correct?” He and Wolfwood look at each other.

A quick, bullet point recap, of what the Punisher signifies:

Christian morality: unconditional love, absolution and forgiveness, and 'thou shalt not kill' and Wolfwood's irony around this concept

a literal historic torturous execution device

signifies his profession and connection to the eye of Micheal

signifies his guilt over his profession

Narrative doom and Wolfwood

The fifth thing I want to talk about, is how the Punisher and it's symbolism is related to Wolfwood being a narratively doomed character. I choose this specifically as the Punisher literally becomes Wolfwood's grave marker (or one of them, at least). Thus, the fifth thing the Punisher symbolizes as Wolfwood's grave marker is his death-- and how he's been dead since the beginning.

ID: Wolfwood’s grave with the Punisher sitting as a grave-cross above the flat headstone is the foreground of the last page of volume 10, chapter 8. In the background Vash and Livio discuss where Vash will go next.

Hell--our first introduction to Wolfwood is him slumped under the Punisher in the desert, and assumed to be dead by the bus driver. The bus driver even comments that he's a really well-prepared dead guy, referring specifically to the cross of the Punisher, which in the first-ever panel we see Wolfwood, looks like a grave marker for him-- and ultimately ends up being his grave marker. Since the beginning, our introduction to Wolfwood is him as a dead character, and in a way, he remains so as he literally carries his grave marker throughout the story, only waiting until the right moment when he can truly die.

ID: 1. Wolfwood is starkly shaded as he sits unconscious in the desert with the Punisher behind him, almost like a grave marker.

2.. The bus driver comments, “Whew... That’s one well-prepared dead guy.”

As well, not only is the Punisher literally his grave marker and is a symbol of his death, but the other symbolism that it carries can be considered to cause Wolfwood's death; Wolfwood's connection to the EOM, his guilt, and Christian morals. For Wolfwood's connection to the EOM and Chapel, it is Chapel whose actions cause Wolfwood's death. In fact, as Chapel is the one who gave Wolfwood the Punisher, Chapel is the one to give Wolfwood his grave marker--and was the one to ensure that it became his gravemarker. Since the beginning of Chapel taking him under his tutelage, he was condemned to die.

Not only does it symbolize Wolfwood's death as a result of Chapel, but it also symbolizes Wolfwood's guilt over killing as a result of working for EOM, which also contributes to Wolfwood's death. Wolfwood's guilt come into play in his choice to defend the orphanage alone, as he believed that due to his guilt he wasn't worthy or important enough to ask Vash to help him; even if he knows Vash has proved over and over again that he would put aside everything to help anyone. Ultimately, he is proved wrong when Vash shows up anyways, but by this time, it is already too late. Adding to this is Wolfwood's staunch refusal to kill Livio as he declares his belief in Vash--and Vash's principles, ie, Christian principles-- which also causes Wolfwood to die, which Chapel himself notes. As a result, it is his guilt, his connection to Chapel, and to a smaller degree, his acceptance of Christian ethics, that kills him--all things the Punisher, his grave marker, signifies.

ID: Chapel berating Wolfwood for not shooting to kill Livio.

As well, tying into the historical interpretation of a cross as a torturous execution device, one can take the symbolism of the Punisher, specifically of Wolfwood's profession and deep self-loathing guilt as a result of his ethics he's had to forsake, and interpret the Punisher as metaphorically torturing Wolfwood. And, as it's symbolism is tied to the reasons for his death, one can also metaphorically claim that it is also what causes Wolfwoods own death, or execution; fully fulfilling its historic significance.

Summary

TLDR/To summarize: The Punisher, in its cross shape, ironically symbolizes Christian values which both the punisher itself and Wolfwood contradict, although may aptly symbolize it's historic use of a torturous execution device. Contextually, the Punisher also symbolizes Wolfwood's connection to Chapel and the Eye of Micheal, as well as his guilt over killing people.

The final thing the Punisher represents, is Wolfwood's death, as it literally becomes his grave marker. This is connected to how he is narratively doomed as that he has since the beginning been carrying his grave marker, and even in our first interaction it is foreshadowed to be his gravemarker. The other things the punishers signifies is directly correlated to his death as well, such as Chapel being to one to give Wolfwood his gravemarker, and being the one to cause Wolfwoods death.

All in all, Wolfwood as a character was never, since the very moment we met him, meant to survive the series; he's been literally carrying his grave marker the whole time. There was never any chance of him being able to escape his life the way he so desperately wanted to. He's been dead since the beginning.

.

ANYWAYS Uhm if u enjoyed reading my meta, here's a master post of some other trigun meta I've done :D

Edit (mar 26): At the suggestion of @princess-of-purple-prose and using/adapting the ID's they've added via a reblog on my post, I've added ID's to the photos to allow clarity of reading for those unable/have difficult accessing the photos.

[indianamoonshine]

Solo’s Copilot

*I don’t know whose gif this is so please let me know!*

SUMMARY: Ben Solo is a smuggler. You're a weapon's expert for the Resistance who hates flying but loves cocky bastards.

Against your better judgement, you accept Ben's invitation to be his copilot as he smuggles dangerous cargo around the galaxy - cargo that includes Hutt merchandise.

RATING: M/E

CHAPTER: 1

This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea.

You'd punish yourself for agreeing to this later. You hated flying. Space travel was simply not meant for human beings - this you were convinced of. Your feet belonged planted into the ground. Space was no place for someone like you. It was cold, desolate, and terrifying. You avoided it whenever you could, even if that meant attending meetings through holograms. Sure, it put a damper on your work, but at least you wouldn't risk choking to death.

Ben liked to the fly. A lot. And you liked Ben. A lot.

"Do you think it's ready?"

Poe Dameron, general of the Resistance, could never say 'no' to a challenge even if it meant breaking protocol. Late last night, just before the cycle began again, Ben had gotten finished with putting the finishing touches on Poe's beloved X-wing. Somehow, some way, he'd managed to create something no one had ever succeeded to do before. He'd attempted to explain the process to you, but you were an expert on handheld weapons - not starfighters. Nonetheless, you tried to follow his commentary, even if it sounded like he was speaking a different language.

"I'll bet you ten credits it is," Ben says proudly. "Chewie wouldn't let me use the Falcon as a test rat if it weren't."

The giant and hairy Wookie roars from the weapon's crate he's leaning against. You can't speak Wookie, but he doesn't sound as convinced as Ben had let on. Chewbacca gurgles something in his native tongue - it seems like he's reasoning with Ben - and then huffs through his nose when he's ignored.

Poe shifts in his stance dubiously, arms crossed against his chest, and teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. You really didn't blame Poe for being skeptical. Ben was a great mechanic, but his "experiment" was reaching. If successful, however, he might have discovered a new way to train pilots. Personally, you hoped it worked; the news of beginners crashing to their fiery deaths was becoming too frequent.

The general understood the severity of this test. He shook his head, defying his better judgement. "Alright. Fine. But I wanna make it more interesting."

Ben raised an eyebrow, long fingers reaching for his jacket he'd draped across the crate next to Chewie. "Like...?"

Poe smirks a little. "A bet. We race from here and back again within ten parsecs."

Even Ben is taken aback. Chewie voices a forceful concern from behind, raising his arms in the air. But after a moment of deliberation, he shrugs with nonchalance.

"Alright. Bet," he says, reaching out to shake Poe's hand. They do, their grips tight around one another. You know Ben is showing off the strength Poe doesn't have by the way the general flinches when they pull away.

Ben turns his chin to you. "Come on, Petals."

Petals. The name gives you a warm, tightening feeling in your belly, sort of like if you'd just drank a shit ton of wine. You follow, grabbing the hand he's offered to you, and resist the urge to lean against him. But your eyes widen in shock when he lifts your intertwined hands and kisses the back of palm with closed eyes.

"What was that for?" you ask with a smile, blush creeping into your cheeks. So embarrassing.

He smirks a grin that could melt ice. "Does there have to be a reason?"

You blink away the lewd thoughts creeping into the shore of your conscious. The thought of him raising that same fist above your head and pinning you to the mattress, warm and plush lips sliding their way down your body as you moan his name in a whiny, almost pornographic, whimper...

That hadn't happened yet, you reminded yourself.

The two of you step inside the Falcon and he releases your hand. You almost whine at his separation, your palm growing cold without his warmth, but you keep quiet. It was still too early to pout like a touch-starved girlfriend. Even though you were touch-starved. Too touch-starved for your own liking. And he was right there; the man who wetted your dreams was right there and you hadn't even seen him naked yet.

Disappointment clouds your vision, but you walk to the cockpit anyway.

Nimble and long fingers dance around the controls you couldn't name if your life depended on it, and the Falcon roars to life. A button on the wall flickers and spits out a choking beep, but when Ben slams his fist against it, it stops. It was almost as if everything he does once seated in the chair is an instinct, like he was possessed by some all-knowing entity.

And while you had confidence in Ben, the fear of flying did not dissipate, even if drowning in a sea of lust. You raise your knees to your chest, the chair being so large that you had more than enough room to fold yourself in it, and begin to chew on your fingernails.

Ben looks over at you. "You don't trust me?"

But he's smiling. It's one of those cocksure smiles that feels objectifying, but still knots your stomach anyway. Maybe that's why it knots your stomach.

You nod your head. "I do," but it's shaky.

Ben hums in disagreement. "Then why do you look like you're headed to your execution?"

He was probably right. You couldn't see yourself, so maybe you did look a little too wound up from another perspective. Still, it was unavoidable.

"You know I hate flying," you say softly. "I belong on the ground."

Ben gazes at you for a moment, eyes twinkling with something you'd never seen in him before, and then leans over to whisper in your ear. "Petals, you belong among the stars..." his hot breath tingles your spine and you shiver as he buckles you in.

Fuck. The cockpit spins, air heated with desire. Your fingers curl into the meat of your palms and this time it's not from fear.

A switch is flipped and Poe's voice filters through the speaker - it jolts you back to reality. Suddenly, Ben isn't the only being in the entirety of the galaxy. "Solo, are we gonna go or what?" he complains.

Ben leans into the mic. "Yeah, ready to go."

The falcon lifts into the air and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, and muscles turning to stone. This can't be happening. How stupid could you possibly be? You hadn't flown in years. It doesn't help when your ears pop as you reach the stratosphere, and then finally to the mesosphere where the base below turns virtually microscopic. Ben pulls a lever, which you can only assume is the thruster, and the ship lurches towards the blackness of space. Within two minutes, you're off the planet completely, but your nerves have somewhat calmed almost unnaturally. You allow yourself to open an eye and peer out the window, but gasp at the bleakness, and hide your face into your knees again.

"I think you underestimate how good I am at this," Ben chides, but it's playful somehow. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

You peek at him through your lashes. "Promise?"

Something in Ben softens like marmalade. Maybe it was the pathetic way you squeaked, or the way your cheeks burned in humiliation, but he found something endearing enough to crane his neck over and kiss you gently on the lips. It's soft, warm, and it leaves you wishing it were more as he pulls away with one last peck to your temple.

"Promise," he mumbles in your hair.

Another forbidden image flickers through your head: Ben whispering gently in your ear as he rocks into you with tantalizingly slow thrusts, but deep enough to cause you to sob desperately beneath him.

Shit. Shut the fuck up, you berate internally while attempting to rebuke the scenario.

The speaker filters Poe's voice again. "Ready when you are."

"You trust me?" Ben says then, holding your gaze with his own.

You did. "Yeah."

He nods and faces the viewport while gripping the thruster and then says, "Hang on tight."

You knew the Falcon was fast. You'd been told of its legendary speed and noticed how people gawked like it was a living, breathing thing itself. People were enamored with the "hunk of junk" (as others so famously called it) and you'd never understood why. People liked the rush. People liked the stories. People liked the power. You'd felt this with weapons before; a few guns had really excited you over the years, but it was never on the scale of which the Falcon did for others. The Falcon was a war machine, riddled with battle scars from the Empire and the First Order. It was somewhat of a deity.

But to experience it was another thing.

You're jostled into the depths of space, body stumbling forward, but the restriction of the seat belt saving you from plummeting to the floor. Ben was enjoying this immensely, his face bright with exhilaration and fingers bracing for anything.

"Alright, you gonna hit me or what, Dameron?" Ben shouts to the speaker.

There's no reply from the other end and all is silent before there's a sudden...

Bang!

You shriek, desperately clinging to the arms of the chair, and peer out the viewport for any sign of Poe's X-wing. You hadn't even noticed how flawlessly Ben's ingenuity had proved until the general glides beside the Falcon with a thumbs up and a goofy smile. It'd worked. The stun blasters had succeeded on a ship for the first time in history. The controls of the Falcon have frozen, lights blinking erratically, but reported no damage to the hull. Within a few seconds, all the switches on the dashboard sputter back to life.

Ben lets out a joyful holler and presses the intercom again. "Fan-fuckin'-tastic! It worked!"

Poe laughs along with him. "Great job, Solo. You've just saved a lot of lives."

"Happy to be of service," Ben replies, still clutching the thruster. He turns to you and finds you've relaxed, legs now dangling off the edge of your chair. "How about that race now, Dameron?"

You gulp. Oh shit. You'd forgotten about that.

There's no warning before Ben jumps to lightspeed.

You may have not done much flying, but you knew this wasn't how lightspeed worked. At least, not when human decency was involved. Worlds whizzed past the viewport within seconds, the stars of the galaxy stretching into view in-between them. You scream, grasping onto whatever you could find, and wait for death. Ben's skipped to at least ten planets by now and it hadn't even been a couple of minutes.

You don't even think it's ever gone this fast before.

Ben chuckles a hearty laugh, something like a maniacal teenager would muster up, while skipping through the infinity of space-time. Landscapes of all imagination and color had dissolved in front of you, but when a water planet with a massive wall of a wave appeared before you, there was nothing that could stop you from screaming Ben's name in sheer terror.

But, of course, Ben had everything under control. Like breathing, his hands reached for the proper controls, and the Falcon managed to evade the mountain of ice water.

"BEN!" you yell, resisting the urge to slap him even when in lightspeed. Your hands tremble and you prepare for the next jump, praying to the Gods or the Force or whatever it was that controlled your fate, to arrive back home in one piece.

The Falcon rolls on its side, thrusting into another planet once more, until finally - finally - Ajan Kloss sweeps into view.

Ben looks more than satisfied. In fact, he looks like a lotha cat who got the cream. The smugness on his face is apparent, smirk lopsided while looking steady as ever. He folds his hands behind his head and leans back against the chair as you catch your breath, heart thumping randomly in your chest.

"It's never gone that fast before. I just beat my father's run. I can't bel...-"

Before he can even finish, you've pounced on him, desire coursing through your veins. The rush of adrenaline from a near death experience pools arousal between your legs while you swing them on each side of him. Gods, this man was going to kill you one day, and fuck all, if you'd let him. His calloused hands roam up your sides and then down to your ass to scoot you closer.

Your fingers weave through his thick locks, pulling him deeper into the kiss, and when you part your lips, his hot tongue slid against yours. It took everything - everything - in you to not tear off your shirt in that moment. And you would've, had Poe not interrupted so rudely.

"You son of a bitch. I can't believe you pulled that off!"

You growl at the intrusion, refusing to let Ben go. He smiles against your mouth, hands still cupping the meat of your ass with both hands; hands big enough to almost palm it completely. "You owe me ten credits!" Ben chuckles. You kiss against his neck with a hunger that felt foreign, still so heated from moments before. If Poe found you straddling Ben like this, so fuckin' be it.

Sure enough, Poe arrives next to the window and peers in. When he finds Ben meeting your open mouthed kisses, he groans in disgust.

"Get a room, you two. I'm going back to base."

Ben doesn't separate his lips from yours as he raises a hand in Poe's direction. He hums, "Mmm hmm..." against you as a reply. You allow a giggle that you'd been suppressing bubble from your mouth; Ben swallows it.

"I don't think you're afraid of flying anymore," he mumbles against you, eyes half-lidded, and then squeezes one of your ass cheeks roughly; you let out a yelp. "I think it turns you on."

You shake your head against him, pressing your knees upon the chair to raise yourself over him. More leverage. You needed more leverage. "No. You turn me on. How the fuck can you fly like that?"

"You've got a dirty mouth, don't you?" he teases, tongue entering your mouth once more. Gods, how you wished that tongue were in your pussy instead.

You hum against him as he'd done to you. "Just for you."

He laughs and pulls away from you, though by the way he hesitates you know he doesn't want to. You'd have to get home somehow, you suppose. Still, you weren't flying. Might as well continue indulging in something that doesn't happen very often. The excitement of being caught in an embrace, of being catapulted from one world to another at a dangerous speed...it was a rush.

Ben suppresses a deep laugh - how could he make a laugh sound sexy? - and starts up the falcon again.

[thecipherlegacy]

I'm really curious about Ari and the reunion with the young slave girl she knew. So any of those that fit the bill honestly, I just want to see that/know more about it 💕

OKAY SO THIS IS QUITE THE STORY and i'm very excited to infodump about it. (There's a little drabble for the prompt meme at the end don't worry)

So, Arianness was taken from her home and sold to a Hutt when she was just 6 years old. She was a cute kid people would fawn over, but she was mostly there for cleanup after parties until she got older. 

Through her first year she proved to be very kind, responsible, and caring for her age. She would sometimes give her rations to the younger kids and if something went wrong she often took blame so no one but her got punished.

Because of her responsible nature she ended up being put in charge of the new addition to the Hutts collection. A little baby sith pureblood. A bounty hunter hadn't realized or cared about what she was and sold her off. The hutt was proud of owning a pureblood sith child, and like most aliens owned by Hutts, she was nothing more than a trophy. 

Arianness ended up taking care of the pureblood as best she could for a 7 year old, and they ended up growing up together there until 10 years later. The little pureblood only trusted Arianness and was a loose Canon. She barely spoke and couldn't even say the Twi'leks name. She called her Ar-Ar instead, and since she didn't have a name, Arianness just called her Red. 

At 17 and 10 the two were ripped apart as Arianness was then put with the adult slaves. When the pureblood put up a fight and continued to demand her back they told her the Twi'lek had died. (A lie, of course) and Arianness was given the same news about the little girl she had come to consider a sister. 

Here is where paths cross. Mavasha, my torguta sith warrior, hears about this little pureblood slave causing some strife to a Hutt. The little girl is force sensitive so she was told to scout her out. With her husband, Malavai, she arrives and decides to adopt and train the little girl, naming her Cathilia and giving her a home and two sisters. 

A few years later Arianness finally breaks her bonds and kills her Hutt master before her full escape in an imperial ship, where she ends up with Toovee, the Droid that looks after the ship, as her first crewmate. 

Time skip to after Arianness gets her brothers back from the empire and has her full crew and her two kids. She ends up on Tattoine for a refuel and runs into a confused Sith in the spaceport. A little Chiss/Human girl, 15 years old and confused about her path in life. She didn't want to be a Sith lord like her parents and she didn't feel inspired by the Jedi code either. Kenaas, the grey Jedi in Arianness's crew, steps up and takes her as a Padawan to train her in both ways of the force, as he had been taught. 

After a couple years of training she feels whole again, and even had fallen in love with Arianness's daughter.  She begs them to take her home to see her parents again. 

They happily oblige and arrive at Mavasha's home, where Cathilia, her chiss wife S'cathe and their husband Andronikos waited for their runaway daughter eagerly. They certainly weren't happy that their daughter decided to not be sith, but they were glad she was safe. 

Now, at this point Cathilia and Arianness hadn't see each other in years. More than a decade. They assume the other is dead at this point, and from here I'll write a drabble for you of their reunion using #11 a kiss in joy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So, my daughter took up with some famous smugglers? I'm not certain that I'm filled with confidence about how safe she's been." Cathilia scowled as she walked about the kitchen, making some fresh caf for the large group that had shown up. "And she's dating a republic soldier no less. Can't say I'm very excited about that either."

Arianness chuckled, letting any intended offense roll off her back. "To be fair, my daughter works specifically as a repair woman that happens to be under a military contract for now" she corrected. "Also, it wasn't just smugglers on my ship. She was also with two sith lords, an ex imperial agent, a bounty hunter and a turned Jedi. She was plenty safe." She peered out the doors of the kitchen as she listed them off to see Noshiir making jokes and palling around with Andronikos. "And at least our husband's hit it off right away."

The sith looked at the same scene, also observing the rest of the group. The two sith were talking with her own mother and the agent was having a polite conversation with Malavai. "At least no one is fighting. That would have been a mess." She sighed. "Look, I appreciate you lot taking care of my daughter, but you really should have just brought her home…"

The Twi'lek could tell the mother had been stressed, worried, restless. Even the Chiss was all over their daughter, looking her over for wounds or scars and hugging her tightly. "I get it… trust me I do. I don't know what I would have done If Sevara had run away like that…" she admitted. "But look at how comfortable she is in her own skin. I think that this trip she took was worth it. She may not be the black wearing dark lord your family expected, but she's happy. It took guts for her to take this road of self discovery. You should be proud of her"

The other woman glanced at her, then looked back out at her family, who was surprisingly having a good time with the odd crew. "I am." She finally said. "I can see she was with good people. But I refuse to ignore how I felt when she left home. Even her grandmother was rendered sleepless."

A gentle pat on the shoulder made her flinch, but she relaxed a bit once she realized it was meant to comfort her. "You're a good mom. Now, why not try to enjoy yourself? My crew may be strange, but we're the best group you can ever party with."

Cathilia gave a small smile and nodded to her. "Sure. Let me go wash some cups for the Caf" she said and went to the sink. Arianness leaned against the counter with a smile. She was glad they were able to chat civilly. For a sith family, they were very understanding and welcoming. "Hey, captain. Can you turn off the machine? It should be finished."

Arianness gave her finger guns and winked "I've got you, Red" she said surely. Cathilia dropped the cup she was holding in the sink. That simple gesture, the phrase, the nickname. All of it flooded memories back to her and her eyes instantly burned as she whipped around to look at the other woman. 

"Ar-Ar?-" her voice came out as nearly a whisper. It couldn't be her, she had been told the woman was dead years ago. 

The nickname stopped the Twi'lek dead in her tracks and her heart stopped. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time…" she mumbled and directed her attention back to the pureblood. "I… thought you died"

Cathilias chest bubbled with joy and she felt like a child again "It is you!-" she choked on any other words she wanted to say, but found herself running and hugging Arianness close. The other woman hugged back just as tightly with tears in her eyes. 

They parted briefly and the older girl gently held Cathilias face to look at her closely. "You grew up so beautiful too- and you're a mom! Aw Red! I never thought I'd see you again!" She sniffled with a bright smile before kissing her face all over. After covering the womans whole face in familial kisses she returned to the tight embrace. 

"I thought you were dead too… I begged for you to come back for years." Cathilia whimpered. "I have never been more happy to be wrong than I am right now…"

Arianness buried her face in her shoulder. "I thought about you every day. Every slave we freed, every child we saved… I always did it in your memory. You have always been my little sister"

The pureblood smiled even more and wiped her eyes as the hug finally ended "I feel similarly, Ar-Ar" she chuckled in joy. "We have a lot of time to make up for. I guess you guys are staying for a while then" 

"If your mother doesn't mind. I'd like to hear every detail of what I've missed, get to know your kids, your wife and husband, all of that. Get ready for long nights of talking, kid!"

Cathilia grinned and reached back to turn off the machine for the caf, then looped her arm around Arianness's to join her family in the next room "I look forward to it" 

[bythebigcoolingtower]

Eye on Springfield - An Interview with Raymie Muzquiz

Since working on eighteen episodes of seasons two and three of the Simpsons, Raymie Muzquiz has enjoyed a strong, thirty plus years career in the animation industry, including directing eight episodes of Futurama’s second run. Here, Raymie talks about his spell on both shows, his other projects and the industry itself.

Let’s start at the start, how did you get into animation and end up at Klasky-Csupo?

In 1988-89, I was working for a movie trailer company. I was a production assistant and then a post coordinator for about 2 years. I learned a lot about film post production and worked on a flatbed editor, dubbing machines, etc. (all pre-digital). However, it was nonetheless a miserable, unartistic, poorly-paying job that laid bare all those awful “Swimming With Sharks”, fear-and-loathing tropes of the movie business. My boss was a horror. He’d yell at me about the dressing in his salad, or the variety of bread on the sandwich. I was his presumed personal assistant to deride. Yet he would shamelessly “lick the boots” of celebs and execs higher up the food chain. To this day, I cannot watch movie trailers. On the rare trip to a theater, I sit in the lobby and have my wife text me when the feature starts.

During this awful period I would look daily through the trades for another job. One day in the Hollywood Reporter there was an ad that included a picture of Marge (I think). Klasky-Csupo (just blocks from my apartment!) was looking to staff for Season 2 of The Simpsons. Since I storyboarded all my student films and some action sequences in live-action low-budget features at Roger Corman’s Concorde/New Horizons in the late 80’s. I applied for a storyboard position. What happened next gave me whiplash. I was given a test. Hours after turning the in the test I hired as a staff storyboard artist to start two weeks hence and immediately given a freelance assignment.  

How did I get this plum position with zero experience? This requires some context. The Simpsons was an unexpected TV-animation phoenix rising from the ashes of a poverty-row industry. It is little exaggeration to say that the TV animation talent pool (as opposed to feature animation) consisted largely of old, alcoholic and broken-spirited artists doing Saturday-morning hack-work, subsuming their talent to low budgets and low cel counts. The necessary talent were simply nonexistent for this new, hip renaissance. The doors opened to the young, the students and the inexperienced like me; someone who didn’t go to art school nor drew for a living. It was a singular event for me. I was ignorant that there was even a difference between animation and live action storyboards. I was even naive about my drawing ability. Imagine my reaction when I saw trained artists draw in a professional environment. It blew my mind! My only saving grace was that as a live-action film graduate, I knew film language. I could stage without “crossing the line”. Scenes “cut” together and “hooked up” and I was staging in depth rather than in the traditional “proscenium” cartoon style. My acting was restrained, not broad or cartoony.

I did my first storyboard freelance while still at the trailer company. It was for Jim Reardon; his first directing assignment: Itchy & Scratchy & Marge in 1989.

Can you explain the work you did on the Simpsons?

Everybody probably knows what storyboarding is, so I’ll keep it short. It’s the visualisation of the script/story. It’s TV animation’s biggest step from script to screen. You are staging the characters in space and acting them out and breaking it up into separate scenes that informs the entire rest of the process. Design, layout, key posing, action and timing build off the storyboard.

When you were assigned to work on the show what were your thoughts? It was a phenomenon by that point.

The first season’s episodes of the Simpsons were being re-runned to death. I remember doubting if they’d successfully make more before the buzz died off. When I was hired I couldn’t believe my luck. The Simpsons was THE hip show of the moment. To actually be a creative team member on something fresh and original AND get paid more than beggar’s wages was like winning the lottery.

How closely did you work with the directors and writers, what kind of notes and feedback did you receive?

When I arrived for my first meeting, Mark Kirkland and Jim Reardon were crowded in a small room with folding tables, right off of reception. I believe they were both directing for the first time. Although I was already hired to work in-house, I had to give two weeks to my current, satanic employer, so I was assigned work as a freelancer. It was to board an act of Itchy & Scratchy & Marge by its director, Jim Reardon. Little did I know what I was getting into.

I never had to draw so much in my life! My drawing hand (left) was killing me in those early months. I had to develop a callous on the middle finger. They gave me the “radio-play;” an audio cassette of the recorded dialog to draw to and tons of model sheets.  

I remember being overwhelmed by the volume. And you had to draw in these tiny boxes of the formatted storyboard page. I didn’t have that kind of discipline (I never did: I eventually developed a style of drawing on blank pages, then fielding and formatting them onto a page. Sometimes I scaled my drawings down on the xerox machine. I also drew on post-its (the greatest invention in animation after cels) and taped them onto the formatted sheet.  

As this was freelance, I actually only met with Jim twice: Once for the hand-out and then again to show him my roughs. I vaguely remember him asking for changes that I thought were off-show (I’d seen all extant episodes multiple times on TV by then). Plus this was my first time and really had no expectations of what the process was.

But--he was the director--I addressed his notes and turned in the storyboard to the receptionist without further feedback. This almost became my undoing. In future, I would know the director should go over the storyboard and decide if it was ready, needed further revision or even just check the “bookkeeping”; the placement of dialog, notes and scene and page numbering before releasing it to the producers (all the Executives at Gracie Films across town). However--for whatever reason--this didn’t happen. It went directly from reception to Gracie. And evidently the executives didn’t react well. I was ignorant of all of this for years; until Mark Kirkland told me what happened...

The Executives were displeased with the storyboard and demanded to know what happened. Someone blamed it on the new guy (me!). So it was decided I had to be fired (before I even started my first day on staff)!  

Did I get thrown under the bus? I can’t say. I wasn’t there. I am only relating events second hand.  

Anyway, Mark Kirkland, who shared the room with Jim Reardon and was present during my meetings came to my rescue (again, completely unbeknownst to me). He vouched for my character and said I was worthy of rescue and rather than firing me, I could work with him. 

So I have Mark to thank for my career. If I was fired, it would have been crushing and I think it’s safe to say I would never have become the artist I’ve become in the thirty plus years of my career.

What was the pressure like working on the show and at the studios during that time?

Because of my lack of experience, I found it difficult judging deadlines and the necessary labor (and just pencil mileage) to succeed. Plus I was traumatised by my previous job; I was conditioned to fear punishment and humiliation at anytime for something I did or didn’t do.

The climate at Klasky/Csupo couldn’t be more starkly different; so egalitarian! Everyone was socialising and goofing around. Gabor Csupo couldn’t be a more laid-back boss! Long lunches with side-trips for comic books and toys! Nerf guns in the hall. I shared a tiny room with two other board artists, Peter Avanzino and Steve Moore. They would both have to vacate the room for me to reach my desk in the far corner. We bantered and laughed more than worked. Celebrities would drop by (Most memorable was meeting Frank Zappa). There were events always going on; bowling, screenings and parties. And yet, a ton of thought and drawing was necessary; especially for me. I worried I couldn’t work as fast as other artists. I often had to work nights and weekends to meet my deadlines. However, there always were other artists doing the same thing; they may have been more experienced than me, but they were young and not so disciplined; so I was never alone. Plus, you never knew how off the mark your roughs could be and after a meeting with the director and Brad Bird, you might suddenly be looking at a ton of revision work. I also remember that Brad was busy weekdays and meetings could sometimes only be done on Saturdays. I simply had a lot to learn and time to put in to build my proficiency. And Brad Bird was very important influence in those days: I could be nervous and exhausted preparing for a meeting with him, but he’d so infect you with his enthusiasm and creative vision that you’d end up re-doing the whole thing but be excited about doing it. He emphasized the cinematic aspects and empowered us to be bold and push the limits of traditional animation staging.

You worked on some of the show’s early classics, could you tell from your position how the episodes would come out?

My next episode for Jim Reardon was “When Flanders Failed”. Because of the kerfuffle of the first episode I did for him, I was anxious to be as professional and impressive as possible. I thought the act I did showed improvement. However, the episode seemed to languish at some point (after animation?) and word got around that it was a bust and wouldn’t reach air. My memory is hazy about this, but I was bummed at the time; thinking my working relationship with Jim was snake-bit.  

A season later, it eventually did air. I’m not giving a very good account of this, sorry.

“Flaming Moe’s” was an episode I was excited about. I remember Brad Bird suggesting some very exciting staging that turned my head around. Especially the part where Homer ends up--“Phantom of the Opera-ish”--in the rafters. I think that was a turning point for me; I was going to be a Brad disciple and determined to push the staging from then on.

“Stark Raving Dad”, is memorable to me, but not for a good reason. It was one of the last episodes I worked on; only doing an act. I remember being scandalized that Michael Jackson was the subject of the episode. Being a Simpsons purist, I believed that the show existed in a parallel universe and celebrities were parodied for laughs; it was too hip to be a shill for celebrity. There was no Arnold Swarzenegger, there was McBain. There was no Hal Fishman (our local channel 5 anchor), there was Kent Brockman. Dr. Hibbert was a parody of Bill Cosby. Mayor Quimby was a parody of Ted Kennedy. Even Nick Riviera was supposed to be Gabor Csupo! Having Michael Jackson exist in this universe and embodied in a sympathetic character (rather than a target of ridicule) was seriously “jumping the shark” in my opinion. I believed the show had done the unthinkable and it would prove fatal to the series.  

Of course I was wrong. The Simpsons goes on like a perpetual motion machine. But I couldn’t abide watching this wise and subversive show trample over its principles to star-fuck. Now of course, which celebrity HASN’T been on the Simpsons. As you may well know, “Stark Raving Dad” has been pulled from the series since the premiere of the HBO documentary “Leaving Neverland”, giving some credence to my long ago objection: sometimes it bites you on the ass.

“Black Widower” was my swan song. I remember meeting Kelsey Grammer at the table read and being mesmerized by his voice. He sounded just like Orson Welles. The act I boarded included Bob and Selma’s honeymoon. I wanted to give the staging a Hitchcockian influence with deep-focus, Z-axis compositions (like looking out of the fireplace, across the gas burner to Selma and Bob) and my first-ever use of DX (double exposed) shadows to provide menace. I thought that was my best work of the series.

One of my favourite early episodes is ‘Homer at the Bat’ which you storyboarded. What are your recollections on working on it? Did you get any specific notes when it came to the players?

“Homer” was my third “at bat” (pardon the pun) with Jim. He’s a baseball fan as I am, but he also PLAYED Chicago-Style Softball (baseball with a huge, soft ball). I’m a baseball fan too, but I felt I’d be exposed a dilettante due to my terminal lack of athleticism. I was assigned all three acts of the show as well! I really had to be on my game (again, pardon) and not miss any of the references. I reluctantly took him up on his offer playing in one of the Chicago-Style games one Saturday in Burbank. It was a sacrifice as I had to work weekends to keep up with the workload of this episode. I went with a fellow board artist, who’ll remain unnamed (to remain friends).  

It went terribly. At bat, I whiffed three pitches in a row, and Jim kept pitching more and more out of pity. I missed them all. He finally had to tell me to just give the bat to the next guy. In the outfield, I stunk just as badly. The piece-de-resistance was when my fellow board artist was at bat and swung hard on a pitch. He missed the ball AND dislocated his knee. I ran to him as he plopped down in agony onto home plate with his knee, shin and foot pointed in the wrong direction. “If my leg stays like this much longer, I think I’m gonna start crying,” he said through the pain.  After a terribly long moment, his shin and foot rotated snapped back into place. We hobbled off the field as Jim and his pals resumed the game. Could things have gone any worse? I was certain that Jim had no faith in me by that time. If so, he never said it. He was a laconic guy.  

I worked on it a hundred years ago so I don’t feel the pride I objectively should. The episode went against The Cosby Show and beat it in the ratings!  There’s even an exhibit in The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, that I wasn’t aware of until I went there. No artist other than Matt is mentioned. It’s all about the writers and the players who voiced the show.

I still have the storyboards of Jose Canseco in the bathtub with Ms. Krabappel that Jose objected to and we had to cut. I’ll post them someday.

How do you reflect on your time working on the show? Do you ever watch those seasons and episodes back?

See below for details; but no. I haven’t watched the episodes I worked on or those seasons for decades. I haven’t watched any episodes after the 3rd season at all. I did see the movie.

The relationship between Klasky-Csupo and Gracie Films finished at the end of the third season, when Gracie decided to move production to Film Roman, what was your view of that situation?

With the handwriting on the wall that Fox might pull The Simpsons from Klasky-Csupo, the in-house producer Sherry Gunther countered by getting all us artists to sign a document tying us exclusively to Klasky-Csupo in an effort to block Fox access to the crew. That gambit didn’t dissuade Fox. They pulled the show anyway and took it to Film Roman. At the time, I wanted desperately to follow the show, but naively thought I couldn’t because I was bound by Sherry’s contract. Virtually everyone left Klasky-Csupo for Film Roman anyways; contract be damned.

The studio became a ghost town. I stayed, distressed that I had to work on Rugrats. However, I eventually concluded that being torn away from The Simpsons was the best thing for my creative growth. Wherein The Simpsons was written so well, closely supervised and finding its stride, The Rugrats scripts were mediocre and the gags not funny. Rugrats was a vacuum to fill and I was empowered to add gags and exercise Gabor’s mandate to really push the staging into warped and low-angled baby POVs that defined the series. It lacked the regimentation of The Simpsons and I exposed to all the other processes in making cartoons. On the Chanukah special I directed, I timed the animation, I even helped direct the voice talent and supervise animatic and final edit.

The Simpsons, like many prime-time animated shows, are dominated by writer/producers who closely control the creative aspects and the artists are more or less staying in their lanes.

After the Simpsons you were assigned to work on ‘Duckman’ where you directed eight episodes, what was the step up to direction like?

I didn’t go directly to Duckman. There was a period of boarding on Rugrats and assistant directing on two Edith-Ann specials for ABC. It was a sad time, something like being in purgatory, but one which I believe was necessary in retrospect.

Speaking of being in purgatory, here’s an anecdote. Klasky-Csupo was a bunch of empty rooms after the Simpsons left. I was working on Edith Ann one day and Gabor was walking a tour of potential clients through. I showed them what I was doing and then Gabor directed them to the next room; opening a door to usher them in, various large and small auto parts suddenly tumbled noisily out onto the floor. A car bumper, pieces of trim, a fender and hub-caps.  

You may ask why auto parts were in there? I’ll tell you: When Rich Moore worked there, his office overlooked the corner of Highland and Fountain avenues. Over time, he and his crew witnessed a lot of auto collisions on that corner. They would go and retrieve the parts left behind and hang them on the wall. Rich obviously left without taking his collection and somebody decided to hide them all in this room. Suffice to say, it didn’t look professional and I felt terrible for Gabor at that moment.

When I did become director, there was many moments of panic. I was used to storyboarding to my personal standard and quality that defined my aesthetic. Paradoxically, being a director meant losing close control. I had to depend on clearly communicating to the storyboard artists, quickly learning you can only tell artists so much before they “top-off” and forget what you said. No one took notes! It was all by memory! I always took notes as a board artist. A good board artist makes a director look good. There are far more mediocre storyboard artists than good ones; mainly because the good ones are promoted to directors (I feel the quality has improved over time). And I had to deal with freelancers for the first time. They are the guys that fill-in when there’s not enough staff artists. These people were usually moonlighting for extra money and end up storyboarding your show in the style of the show they were working on during the day. There just wasn’t enough time in the schedule to fix everything without working crazy hours. The Simpsons had layout. So storyboards didn’t have to be so precise and if something wasn’t staged right or acting out in storyboard, you could work with a layout artist in shorthand to correct it. Virtually my entire career has been absent layouts. They are very rare for TV nowadays. This makes the storyboard all the more important. The bar must be high; we call them “layout storyboards”; they need to be closer to model and the acting must be spot on.  

Animation timing was also something I had to get control of; At first, Duckman didn’t have a supervising timing director, who could maintain the quality and the timing aesthetics particular to the show. It was up to the director to check timing. I had almost no experience and it was a new show. No one person had the answers. I could review the timer’s work (so often a dreaded freelancer) and I could see it wasn’t at all right and I’d wholesale erase it, but then I panicked that I might have done more damage than good; suddenly in over my head. It took time, but I got it.

I believe that the director who masters his x-sheets is true master of his show.  I could add quality and personal aesthetics in a new dimension.

Does you background as a storyboard artist influence the way in which you direct?

Absolutely. In animation history, there were directors who didn’t storyboard or even draw. There were a few of these “dinosaurs” on Rugrats. They sat and read the paper when we boarded their shows. But because of the overseas process of animation and the loss of layouts here at home, if you are going to direct at all, you have to be comfortable drawing a detailed, informed layout storyboard. It is literally the blueprint of your show.

That said, I had to mature as a director who storyboarded. It was insane to try and board all my episodes personally, though directors will put some work aside for themselves, especially if its a sequence that would be too hard to delegate to another artist. If a sequence involves a new character, location or prop integral to the story, it may not be designed yet, so I’ll take it on and “feel it out;” designing as I board.

I had to learn how to be a good delegator and a clear communicator. I pitch sequences to the board artist before they begin and give them roughs of designs, poses or staging I think is important for the sequence. From my boarding experience, I don’t like directors who don’t tell you what they want until after you’ve drawn the storyboard. That wastes time and effort. And morale. I want the artists to know my take and hopefully that will inform the storyboard they do. I also know from my board experience that you should balance criticism with praise. Communicate what you like about how they do this and that before you go through critiquing the parts that aren’t working. Ultimately, you want to help the board artists be successful in storyboarding it their way, not my way. If it works, don’t change it just because it isn’t the way you’d do it. Lean into and support what they’ve done.

‘Duckman’ had a cavalcade of guest stars throughout the shows run, did you ever get to meet any of them, and if so, do you have a favourite encounter?

I was always of two minds regarding using live-action stars for animation. Yeah, it’s fun to meet them and some like Jason Alexander can knock-it-out-of-the-park, but sometimes this kind of “stunt casting” backfires. In my first episode, we used Crispin Glover in a stunt role as a crazed maniac with only one line. He showed up brandishing an eight inch hunting knife acting like a REAL maniac. Maybe it was method acting, but we were scared of him and got him in and out as fast as we could. His delivery didn’t work for the line and it spoiled the joke in my opinion, but it remained in the episode. If we used one of the legion of professional voice actors available, we could have worked with them for the perfect “voice” and delivery and nailed it.

We also used Teri Garr for an episode (not one I was directing) and I attended because I was a huge fan of hers. I got to see her behind the mike as she looked over her pages and said acidly, “This isn’t exactly Tolstoy, is it.” That is the opposite attitude you should have when you’re hired. She was soon pitching underwear afterwards...obviously not Tolstoy either.

So I’ll say it again: using celebrities can bite you on the ass.

Performances aside, I certainly did enjoy meeting legends. Carl Reiner played a priest in Noir Gang. Mind you we recorded in a small studio that was in the back of the Rugrats building that was essentially a cavernous storage room. Ed Asner looked visibly uncomfortable when we huddled around him in there. I’ll never forget the look on Marina Sirtis’ face when she arrived to record an episode. Me and a couple of other guys were laying in wait in this sketchy storage area eating our lunches. She was concerned: “is this the right place?” I felt like a lech and stopped going to records that I didn’t have to be at.

Overall, if the celebrity you’ve cast for a voice roll has theater experience, you are more likely to get a good vocal performance. Especially musical theater experience. They are more aware of their voice and have the tools. This goes for Jason and others like Tim Curry and Bebe Neuwirth; all great voice talent to have behind the mic.

You worked on the second run of Futurama, had you been a fan of the original seasons?

No. I didn’t watch the show before. I had to catch up and learn the “canon” when I was hired.

How did you get involved in working on Futurama?

The animating studio, Rough Draft, was something of a clique. They didn’t just hire “anybody” and unlike most studios, they maintain a staff of lifers who usually have the choice positions. I knew Peter Avanzino from our Simpsons days doing storyboards together, so he vouched for me. I was hired to direct on the 2nd season of Drawn Together. So they had a taste of what they could expect from me. I was no longer an unknown quantity when Futurama came around.

One of the eight episodes you directed was, ‘The Mutants are Revolting’, the shows hundredth episode. How special was it to work on such a landmark episode?

It had the most visibility of my episodes, at least internally. They made T-shirts and some publicity art and even the script had a nicer cover. But it was the episode with the most headaches. The scope of the story was huge with multiple set pieces. The opening newsreel, movie in a movie of the Land-Titanic, the asteroid delivery, the party at Planet Express, the riot in the sewers and the flood and “parting of the red sea” climax all required a ton of designs and characters; plus more hand-drawn and CG effects. That’s a lot to manage and marshall for a TV show. Most episodes don’t require the director to do this kind of heavy lifting. I find that when a show demands this much visually, the story ends up being more superficial, gag driven and episodic feeling. Such is the case for this episode. It was visually pumped up because it was representing the 100th episode; meaning I was saddled with managing lots of logistics rather than the usual character-based comedy and emotion of say, Tip of The Zoidberg, which is a relationship story that--as a director--I feel I give more time to flourish and shine with.

‘The Mutants are Revolting’ features some fantastic animation, most notably a brief sequence of Bender standing perfectly still as the Planet Express ship moves around him. Can you explain the challenges of a sequence like that?

That’s a good, insightful question. A shot like this shows off the resources Rough Draft has that aren’t available at just any other studio doing TV animation. The interior of the Planet Express Ship was built and animated in CG. At it’s gimbal point was a CG version of a stationary Bender; locked to field, but who’s feet move with the CG ship. Once the CG elements were approved, they were printed out as wire frame drawings printed onto pegged paper. My Assistant Director drew key poses of the characters on a separate layer in register with the CG print outs, old school on a light box animation disc. This all was sent to our overseas studio Rough Draft Korea for inbetweening and color of the characters only. That came back as an alpha-channeled digital file and layered over the CG animation in our digital compositing department.

Scott Vanzo runs the department and directs all the CG animation effects. I can’t remember who exactly built the interior of the PE ship and animated it, so I’ll rely on IMDb: Don Kim and Jason Plapp. But all the guys in the digital department do tremendous work and allowed us to fine tune a lot of animation (that doesn’t have CG in it); giving us the ability that raises the quality and takes the curse off of overseas animation limitations.

‘The Tip of the Zoidberg’ was nominated for a Primetime Emmy, how proud were you of that achievement and the episode itself?

The episode was one of my favorites; it was character focused and elaborating on canon so a director couldn’t ask for more. As for the Emmy nomination, it’s one of those show business awards that I realized early I can’t get emotionally vested in. The Futurama guys have a formula for figuring out which episode will be submitted. I think it has something to do with each writer getting a shot at the statue. And then from then on it’s just politics.

You’ve also done work on ‘Disenchantment’, giving you the distinction of having worked on all three of Matt Groening’s shows. What’s your relationship like with him?

I can’t help but laugh at this question. I’ve run into him twice out in public over the years and he didn’t recognize me. Once at the Moscow Cat Circus! But that humbling fact aside, he’s a genuinely nice, funny person devoid of pretence and he’s said some very complementary things about my work. However, it’s all business. Like virtually all primetime shows, he’s with the writers at their separate production office. Animation production takes place in a different geographical location. My face time is limited to usually 2-3 meeting points in a show’s schedule. Anything in between are fielded via emails routed through coordinators and assistants.

As well as short form animation you’ve been involved with several feature length productions, including ‘The Rugrats Movie’ and ‘Despicable Me’, what are the key differences between long from and short form animated projects?

I don’t think I’ve ever had a purely feature production experience. The Rugrats Movie(s) were spin-offs from TV series so some processes were grandfathered in from TV production. Despicable Me was truly off-the-wall in that the storyboard artists were working remotely from literally all over the world. No one met each other. I met with Chris Renaud once. I was not allowed to see the entire script, only pages here and there. It was called “Evil Me” at the time. I was truly working in the dark and ultimately, they didn’t use anything I drew. Which to me seemed par-for-the-course: this was one harebrained, inefficient, right-hand-doesn’t-know-what-the-left-hand-is-doing way to make a show. Again, I predicted it would fail. Again, I was wrong.

At the time I was working on Despicable Me, Gru looked like Snape from Harry Potter and there were no minions yet, just an “Igor” kind of 2nd banana that was a shorter version of the final Gru design.  

So my takeaway from those experiences is that I prefer TV production. You don’t have the luxury of a feature schedule, but there is less time for executives to get replaced, sundry monkey-business and creatives pulling the rug out from under you. However, TV is catching up in those regards. See below.

Do you have a scene or episode you’re particularly proud of working on?

I feel fulfilled and proud of directing and being supervising producer on Hey Arnold: The Jungle Movie. I was empowered to work in every aspect of the process and benefit from my experience to make it the smoothest running ship and happiest crew ever. Only at the very end did the executives get into overdrive meddling. But it ran well and looked good. It may not be as funny as my prime time stuff, but I think we elevated the material across the board; writing, design, animation quality. And it was a project put in mothballs 15 years before being resurrected. So it completes me in a way.

Ultimately, I believe work is about relationships and quality of life. The shows where you were empowered and respected and not overworked due to inefficiency are the shows I’m proud to work on. As Jim Duffy would always say, “It’s only a cartoon.”

Often sequences are cut or revised before broadcast. Do you have any favourites that didn’t make it in?

If I had, I’ve forgotten them.  

What are the biggest changes you’ve seen in the industry over your time and what do you think the next big change will be?

The trend seems to be as I get better and more efficient at my job, creators and writers (especially in streaming prime-time) are becoming more entitled, indecisive, mecurial and demanding. As processes have evolved in digital technology, we’ve opened the door for those in power indulging in more rewrites, revisions, reviews, etc. Despite the technical advancements, animation remains expensive and time intensive and good artists (especially in TV) have to work intelligently and diligently on tight schedules to produce funny, inspired, detail-oriented work. Rewrites and revisions burn out artists and make us feel like office machines and though our overlords pay for the last minute re-dos, they are often throwing out higher quality work for patchwork revisions that lower the overall quality of a show.

Who inspired you as a young animator and who do you look to now?

Ironically, I never saw myself becoming an animator. I did do some stop-motion on Super 8 as a kid. But that was because I didn’t have access to peers to act and help. What inspired me were live action directors with strong, individual styles: Orson Welles, Stanley Kubrick, Peter Greenaway and Terry Gilliam. I think of these guys in essence as “live-action-animation directors”. The stylization in their sequence planning, shot selection and composition as well as how production design integrates in their storytelling reminds me of how background design and art direction naturally occur in animation production.  

I’m sure there are new visionaries out there, but I’ve become so disenchanted with modern cinema, I rarely see new movies anymore. I find streaming TV much more interesting. Current movies strike me as self-consciously mannered and hyperactive. I find it endlessly fascinating looking back into cinema history before movies had to begin with three or four production company logos whooshing noisily about.

What advice would you give to people looking to break into the animation industry?

I’ve seen an improvement in the college educated animation students over the years. They seem to be of a higher intellectual standard than before. They aren’t as thrown by the rigors of schedule and they ALL can draw circles around me.  

Be original in your own work, but also be a craftsman (as opposed to purely an artist) who can take criticism neutrally and have the tools to fit in the grand scheme of a show that might challenge your personal aesthetics.  

Denis Sanders, a directing teacher I had in college said the director’s job is to be “an expert at all things”. In animation, that translates into intellegently knowing what to draw. If a character is looking under the hood of a car, know what an internal combustion engine looks like and what reasonable pieces you can have your character toss out of said engine. The distributor, the carburettor. Find and use reference! Go that extra step and inform your work with the texture of reality.

Don’t regurgitate old tropes. A trite example of what I’m talking about: If a character is peeking at another, avoid the obvious keyhole in the door trope. Keyholes aren’t in doors anymore. It’s been a cliche from the beginning of cinema. Rather, crack the door open, slide your cellphone under the door, look through a window or punch a hole in the door and look in. Like I said, this is a trite example, but making non-obvious choices rather than knee-jerk non-choices makes cartoons fresh and funnier.

What animated shows do you currently watch and what’s your opinion on the current state of animation?

It’s a terrible admission, but I’m not watching anything in animation. There’s a lot of animation that seems to be just writer-driven, animated live-action sit-coms. There isn’t a reason for them to be animated. Those are the kind of jobs I get offered a lot. It seems like a more trouble than it’s worth.

Who are some young animators you think we should be looking out for?

Gosh, I don’t know.

What projects are you currently working on?

I’m productively unemployed at the moment.

Where can people follow you on social media?

I only do tumblr: mashymilkiesinc.tumblr.com

[masterofmagnetism]

Monster || Self Para

“He had become a monster, happily, for just a moment of having his head above water.” -Ian St. Martin, Lucius: The Faultless Blade

WHO: @master-of-magnetism, mentions of @burdenedxtelepath, @jeanelcinegrey,@mistressxfmagnetism, @jameslogans, @apoisontouch, @shakeandquake, @firstxman,@mysteriousmutant

WHAT: In the aftermath of finding out about the firebird that’s taken up residence in Erik’s mind, Charles grows wary of his old friend.  Erik sees him flinch and starts down a spiral that changes how he thinks of himself and those he holds dearest.

WHEN: After Lorna’s visit to see Charles at the Institute.

WHERE: The Institute and one of Erik’s safehouses.

WORDS: 4k

WARNINGS: Holocaust mention, depression, anxiety, PTSD, child abuse, child death, paranoia, smoking, guns, manipulative behavior.

He’d been a fool.  A blind, naïve, sentimental, stupid fool.  

Even with how sudden the shift in the tides was, the abrupt influx of old enemies and estranged family alike returning to his side in the aftermath of Central Park and the Raft, the thought to examine why hadn’t crossed his mind.  It seemed self-evident, at the time—they had finally seen what he’d seen for decades, from the humans.  They had seen the inevitability of the war, the atrocities humans were willing to commit against their people.  

How very uncharacteristically optimistic of him that belief had been.  As always, the truth was far less pleasant to entertain.  Perhaps Charles had rubbed off on him rather more than he’d thought he had; Charles always was prone to telling people pretty half-truths as opposed to what Erik had thought of as ugly truths.  

At least one of the other man’s half-truths had clearly made a home in his mind, and he was paying for it now.

That day years ago in the gardens outside the Institute, Erik had let Charles into his head further than he’d trusted anyone--even himself.  There were ghosts in the corners of his mind that he’d always thought best to let lie as much as he could; they haunted him enough on the hard days that he saw no reason to try and wake them on the easy ones. But he’d let Charles in, and the man had reached into his mind and dredged up a memory from the depths where he’d buried the thoughts of the first family he’d lost all those decades ago.  The point between rage and serenity, he’d said, and used that precious memory of his mother to coax Erik into turning the satellite for him.  Like a performing show dog.  Pathetic, that that was all it had taken, but even more pathetic was how quickly he’d internalized the words the man told him after.  There's so much more to you than you know. Not just pain and anger. There’s good too, I felt it.

And that had been all it took—Charles saying those words, looking at him like that.  Having his mind opened and being reintroduced to the most invaluable memories had flayed him open and soothed the sting all at once, and in such a state, he’d taken the words in like air to a drowning man.  They had wrapped their roots around the fragile parts of his psyche and taken hold, may as well have shifted the world on its axis.  

Erik hadn’t thought of himself as a good man since he’d lived in Ukraine.  Not since the day Anya died, when in the ensuing surge of anger he’d swept away the lives of twenty people as easily as drawing breath.  That single moment had sent his wife, who he loved as dearly as the daughter he dug out of the ashes that day, fleeing from him with terror in her eyes.  He’d never laid a hand on her, never dreamt of it.  But when she had seen that side of him, she had decided that it outweighed all else.  She had decided that she couldn’t stay in the presence of a monster like him, even to bury her own daughter.

It wasn’t the first time someone had thought as much of him—Sonderkommando hadn’t been well-regarded in the camps.  They had always been kept separate from the rest of the camp, put up in dormitories isolated from everyone else.  Some people thought they got special privileges. Others dismissed that as rightfully laughable, and hated them anyway for the jobs they imagined they were made to do.  The camp administrators kept that secret, and accordingly rumors had abounded of what atrocities they may have been made to help perpetuate.  That had stung in his throat: the hatred of his own people being directed at him.  It didn’t need to be everyone—it was enough, those few glares that they got when they did come into contact with the others in the camp, to make him feel nauseous and guilty anyway. Those stares were unavoidable if he wanted to see Magda.  But they’d been at least tolerable, so long as she never looked at him that way.

And then she had, that day in Vinnitsa, and Erik had lost everything in one fell swoop.  His daughter, his wife, and any idea he’d had that doing what it took to survive and protect her had made him a good man.  

Maybe Schmidt had taken out what made him good, in all those days at the camp, and turned him into something else.

That thought had lingered for decades.  When he went to Israel, when he started hunting Nazis, the idea was only reinforced.  Everyone he ever worked with had signed up to do the very same thing as he had, but stared at him like there was something wrong for the ease with which he would end the lives of their quarries.  Left to his own devices, Erik never let them die swiftly.  He thought it righteous retribution, justice, to let them feel a fraction of what he and so many others had.

( He never had quite seen the difference, between the two things: what was justice if not balancing the scales?  If not an eye for an eye?  There were other teachings, of course, later teachings about turning the other cheek, but as far as Erik was concerned, they’d had it right the first time.  His family had turned the other cheek, when all this started, and all they’d gotten for their troubles were torture and unmarked graves.  That wasn’t justice.  Justice was making their enemies feel for even just a few hours what he and six million of his kinsmen had suffered for years.  The scales would never be righted, but he would be damned if he wouldn’t try. Leaving their punishments to a G-d who had watched as the camps were built and his chosen people were slaughtered didn’t seem enough to even things out as much as what he could accomplish with his own two hands.  Maybe it was blasphemous to think that way.  He rather thought that if it was, he’d earned a bit of leeway. )

The others were afraid of how easily the cruelty came—maybe they thought he’d been one of the unfortunates made to perform such acts on his own people, in the camps, or maybe they had sorted out that difference he’d never seen. Either way, eventually the partnerships had stopped coming.  They’d never pulled him back from the field, probably because he was efficient if nothing else, but he’d stopped getting others assigned to help back in the seventies.  It’d been fine.  He worked better alone, without their stares upon his back and the green tint to their faces when he’d finished with his target.  When, in showing his partners the meticulous pins that could sometimes fill the walls of entire rooms he was staying in, he didn’t have to hear the whispers under their breath calling him a blood-fueled machine.  

( If only they knew the half of it. )

And then he’d met Charles, and the man hadn’t looked at him like that, despite the situation he’d found him in.  Erik had been prepared to kill Shaw on that yacht, and this little Oxford professor-type had dragged him out of the water, knew it, and still looked at him like he was a marvel.

Like he was worth saving.  

After so many years, it’d been intoxicating, the way that Charles looked at him.  The way the man relaxed around him—even when he was curt and abrasive, Charles never went tense or looked at him like he was the cold-blooded hunter that he’d become.  More than that, Charles had asked Erik to stay, to set aside the mission and help him help others like them.  He’d spoken about his vision, about wanting to build a safe haven, had been willing to trust Erik in the care of children.  And as much as the thought terrified him, it was everything that he’d ever wanted, and Erik couldn’t say no.  He knew from a lifetime of experience that inevitably, Charles and whoever they brought under their roof would pay for their association with him the same way both of his families had.  The same way Suzanna had just years before.  The same way everyone always did.  But Erik was a selfish man, and Charles’ optimism was in some ways contagious, and Erik couldn’t leave that acceptance behind to go back to working alone when he’d had a taste of what a partnership was supposed to be like.

Monsters didn’t get happy endings, though.  And surely enough, Charles had paid for it.

They’d planned Cuba for weeks.  Charles had never liked Erik’s goal of killing Shaw, though he had come in recent months to understand the necessity of taking the man out of action.  The telepath thought they could hand him over to law enforcement.  That the combined efforts of the entire team would be enough to overpower Shaw and his allies, enough to let the worlds’ governments step in and take care of him in the legal way.  The humane way.  

It was the most severe in a line of miscalculations Erik had been quietly cataloguing for months, the worst of the times that Charles let his idealism get in the way of his brilliant intellect.  Erik didn’t trust any government to be competent enough to take care of Shaw, especially when it seemed the man had been manipulating the Americans and the Russians to the brink of war for years.  He knew all too well the effects that Shaw could have on a person--how the man’s madness and cruelty could be dressed up in charisma and the air of power that seemed to suck the air out of any room he was in.  Charles wanted to believe that mutants and humans could work together against greater threats, but there was no amount of reasoning Erik could try that would convince his dearest friend that the humans would never see them as any better than the worst amongst them.  They couldn’t even respect their fellow humans that much, let alone another species.  Their differences would be enough to earn the humans’ contempt, even if not all of them made the leap that Charles himself had in his genetics thesis--that they were the next step of evolution that would wipe homo sapiens out if nature ran its course.  

Charles was dangerously wrong, and it was going to get him and the whole team killed.  So Erik had made his own plans, like he was used to.  He had willfully and shamelessly tricked Charles into being an accessory to murder, and while he regretted the pain it had caused the man, he would do it again in a heartbeat, because this was bigger than one man’s pain.  Charles could take it, had taken it seemingly no worse for the wear by the time he’d gotten out to the sand to see the evidence that Erik was right pointed at them.  And even then, even with a hundred missiles pointed at them threatening to blow the island into so much rearranged sand, Charles had argued for the humans.  Had said those most hated words, that the men on the ships were just following orders like every single man in the camps who marched after Hitler’s vision over the corpses of his people, and Erik had seen red.

The next minute had passed in a blur of thrown fists and metal singing to him as it hurtled across the sea towards its targets--and then Moira had shot at him.  Shot metal bullets at a metallokinetic.  And Charles, in all his eternal wisdom, had not hit the ground like everyone with sense and without Erik’s powers should when a gun went off, but had stood behind him while Erik’s attention was a million places at once, the past included.  It didn’t matter that Moira and Charles both had been stupid, though--Erik had been the one to curve the bullet.

Laying there in the sand, Charles had told him that he didn’t want to be by Erik’s side.  That they did not want the same things, despite months of conversation indicating otherwise in all senses but for the one.  In less than an hour, Erik had made a murderer and a cripple both of Charles, and so he had finally done what the man seemed to want, what he should have done from the beginning, and left.

The guilt for the bullet never went away.  The guilt for tricking Charles into violating his beliefs was worse and more complicated because he didn’t feel guilty enough that he would change it.  The bullet, of course.  But not that.  It had eaten him, that he was willing to use someone he truly cared about like that and not want to take it back.  Surely a good person wouldn’t be.

Erik had been content to leave it there: that Charles had been wrong about him the same way he’d been wrong about so many other things.  But no--he hadn’t been wrong at all, Erik knew now.  

He’d simply been lying.

Because today, when he’d been at the Institute, when he’d been trying to care for the man, Charles had been perpetually watching him out of the corner of his eye.  The telepath had made excuses for why they needed to go somewhere around other people, despite his studious avoidance of contact with anyone who wasn’t Jean, Hank, or himself for weeks.  Erik had been sitting at his bedside taking care of Charles since the rescue without issue. But then Hank had said something, when they were all together in the kitchen, and Charles had flinched when Erik’s voice got harder when he snapped his response.  

The first moment after, Erik had thought that perhaps it had just triggered memories from the kidnapping, but then the pieces fell into place with a sickening clarity that made his chest feel like it was caving in.

Hank had raised his voice, first, and not gotten a flinch.  Charles had been trying to keep from being alone with him all day, had been watching him like a bomb in the corner of the room.  He was afraid--not of the raised voice, but of what he must have somehow found out despite Erik’s efforts to hide it.  Charles knew he had the Phoenix, and he was afraid of it.  

But, had prompted that little voice in his mind, he isn’t afraid of Jean, is he?

No.  Even when Jean had nearly taken apart rooms of the house in fits of frustration or anger or sadness, Charles had never looked at Jean once in anything like fear.  Charles didn’t tiptoe around her, didn’t hate being alone with her—he enjoyed it, being with their daughter alone.  Even when said daughter was the living conduit of the Phoenix force.

Which meant it wasn’t a Phoenix problem.  It was Erik.  

Charles was afraid of him.  And all at once, Erik had felt the dizzying vertigo of familiarity—the rug being pulled from under his feet as someone he loved, someone he thought loved and trusted him, looked at him like he was feral.

Erik had made his excuses and left immediately, because he knew the emotion welling up in him was dangerous. Just like Charles thought he was—he was right, Erik was a time bomb, and he refused to go off at the Institute.  

His safehouse hadn’t been so lucky.  The place was a mess, but Erik had a few feet of clearance around himself where he sat against the wall, staring at the opposite wall absently as his mind twisted, reconciled itself with a reality he’d refused to consider before.

Charles was afraid of him.  Not the Phoenix.  If that was the case, it couldn’t be new—maybe more pronounced, now, but not new. And the more Erik considered it, the more he realized it had to have been true.

The near-nightly chess games had been more than simple friendship, they’d been check-ins.  The constant brush of Charles’ mind that he’d found so comforting for his months at the Institute wasn’t out of intimacy, it was monitoring.  

There’s good too.  Not a statement of fact, but wishful thinking.  Trying to make him something good, through the access Erik had given him to his mind and heart rather than through fists and fear as Schmidt had. And Erik hadn’t ever even considered it. He’d welcomed the man into his head after a few short weeks, let him set up an outpost, let him see things Erik had never—

So fucking stupid.

Of course that had been what it was.  Erik had known he wasn’t a good man, but had believed from the moment that he met Charles that the telepath was one. He’d thought that the man chose to associate with him because maybe, maybe Erik had been wrong about himself, but no.

Charles had seen what he was.  It’d been an exercise in containment. He’d seen that Erik wasn’t a good person and lured him to the Institute to keep him contained in a cage dressed up far nicer than the one Schmidt had used.  He had put him under him in the X-Men because he had seen that Erik needed to be controlled, and Erik had gone along with it because he’d been following orders his whole life and because he had trusted Charles.  

How useful that was for him, in recruitment, in boosting his ego.  The telepath had been right, on that beach when he'd told Erik that they didn't want the same thing.  Erik had always wanted freedom.  Charles wanted control.  Charles wanted to fix people, to trot them out and say look what I did.  He’d made Raven stay in a skin not her own for years around other people.  He'd hidden himself as a telepath from others, Raven said, and simply done whatever it took to win them over until Moira McTaggert.  Always about being liked.  Always about hiding the things that didn't fit the picture.  Always about the people around him keeping up the all-important image Charles cared so much about, cultivated so carefully.  Why, then, associate with Erik?  Erik, who was rough around the edges, who was sharp and dangerous and too hot-headed for his own good and nothing at all like the type of person Charles would’ve associated with in Oxford.  Erik, who Charles believed with every fiber of his being was fundamentally wrong about the world.  Why bother with him?

Certainly only for the satisfaction of a job well done.  What an image boost that would be, wouldn’t it?  The man who trained a housepet was nothing compared to the man who brought a feral animal to heel.  Rehabilitation was a lofty ideal, one that Charles could say he’d accomplished with someone as fucked up as Erik at his back.  Look, I can bring even the worst down to settle.

Erik had been too broken even for that.

And Jean—

Jean was afraid of him, too.  Oh, he had no doubt that she loved him, because she had been too young to fake it then and he still felt it now, when he let her into his head.  But she was afraid, too. She did what Charles had done, dressed it up in concern about his well-being, but it’d slipped through in her conversations with him, too, even if he’d been too stupid to see it at the time.  

That’s a fantastic idea, Erik. Lose your inhibitions even more.  

Sober up before you hurt someone not on our hit list, would you?

The chosen avatar of the Phoenix force was afraid of him—his daughter was afraid of him.  Of what he was willing to do.  Of what he would do if he wasn’t kept on a leash. She wasn’t here to help.  She was here to do damage control.  Just like the father she’d chosen years ago.  

Jean had said, time and time again, when he talked to her about the force running through both of them, now, that the Phoenix cuts through lies.  The Phoenix shows the truth.

The next hour was spent wrapped in smoke as he made his way steadily through nearly a whole pack of cigarettes, carefully cataloguing all the data he’d gotten but ignored regarding the people he surrounded himself with.  He stepped back, looked at it from out of himself, from the Phoenix that apparently could see what he would not, and evaluated all the little details he’d disregarded out of fear of disturbing the fragile self-image he’d started to repair all those years ago.  

They were all afraid of him.

When he’d tried to talk to Logan about Terry, the man had jumped immediately to telling Erik to stay away from her, threatening to kill him if he hurt the woman.  As if Erik would.

Daisy had been surprised, the morning after, because she hadn’t expected he would do something so basically polite, something he considered baseline etiquette. She’d expected something meaner.

Lorna had balked, during the rescue, at the lack of care he’d had for torturing the man for information about his leader.  She’d been disgusted, had avoided looking him in the eye for hours after.

Anna had left him once already because she was afraid of what he was willing to do.  He’d thought that they were getting back on track.  But she had been appalled, he vaguely remembered, when he’d told her about the plan while drunk and devastated against her side. She’d covered it with agreement, but he’d felt the way she shifted beneath him.  He hadn’t wanted to look at anything from that night, when he’d woken up the morning after, but now?  Now he saw.

And Raven.  Raven, who he thought might know him better than nearly anyone.  She’d told him flat out that she was afraid of him, too, that he sparked the same fear she’d been fighting as a child.  He’d felt so betrayed when he found out about the Park, but maybe she’d been right.  Maybe she’d seen in him what he wouldn’t see in himself.

One by one, he felt the rocks that he’d been braced against slipping under the water.  Charles, Jean, Logan, Daisy, Lorna, Anna, Raven.  All but one.

Scott—Scott wasn’t afraid of him, he was certain of that.  When Scott had been a student, Erik had noted quietly the similarities between himself and the boy.  When he’d found out years later that Jean and Scott had fallen together, he’d felt almost relieved, because Scott was like him--Scott would do anything to protect Jean, he knew.  ( And if Jean liked Scott, maybe they were similar enough that she didn’t hate Erik as she had every right to, now. )

When they’d teamed up that handful of times before Scott had formally come to his side after the Park, Scott had never once been afraid of what Erik did to those who got in his way.  Scott knew what he could do, what he would do, surely enough, but hadn’t hated him.  Scott had looked at him in exasperation, irritation, concern, amusement, but never fear. Not once. Not even as an X-Man.  

He could trust Scott.  The other one who’d had the Phoenix force pressed upon him, the one Erik had long thought was more similar to himself than the younger man would admit to himself, who he now realized Jean clung to because she had the best parts of himself without the rest, without the parts that terrified her and everyone else he’d ever loved.

Scott was a good man--the best of himself and of Charles.  Scott hadn’t lied to him.  Scott hadn’t tried to control him.  He could trust Scott.

If no one else.

He needed space, needed a few days to sort through what was true and what wasn’t.  Seeing things with clear eyes would be essential, in the coming weeks, and he wasn’t there. Not yet.  But he was getting there.

He left the safehouse he’d been staying in in its state without bothering to straighten anything.  He would come back in a few days.  For now, he left the contents scattered around the room in pieces, alongside the lie of what he’d pretended to be.  He was right, in that bar years ago, when the Nazis he’d left to choke on their own blood asked him what he was.

A monster.  

[luluguardainofcreative]

Villainous: Toxic Affairs Ch.6

     Thunder could be heard outside of the manor, Flug didn’t pay much attention but when a storm happened on Hat Island it’s hard to tell what the storm would turn into, a few months ago a tsunami just appeared on one of the coast lines while a tornado was blowing away the tallest buildings on the island. Flug didn’t like 5.0.5 going out in these storms even if they had a job to do, but it was safer for him than getting blown or swiped away.

Flug was welding some parts of the machines he was working on which dealt with swiping body parts around on a hero: such as their hands would be their eyes and mouth would be where their nose would. It was a simple thing, but what makes their clients happy would keep them in business. Flug continued to work, unaware of the time, it was almost lunch time and 5.0.5 would bring him something to eat something before going back to work. It wasn’t too long before Flug felt something hit him against his back, there were a few guesses who it could. Demencia would be a little rough when she tapped him against his shoulder, 5.0.5 would have been softer about touching him and gave him a warning about him touching while he’s working.

Flug removed the welding mask off that covered his paper bag face, he looked around to see what it was that hit him against the back before seeing an envelope on the floor before looking up from it to see Ghost standing on the other side of the room. Flug gave her an annoyed look towards her, crossing his arms with the welding tool in hand making sure he didn’t burn himself.

“You’re suppose to take that to Lord Black Hat.” Flug said to her turning back to his work. Ghost grunted a little, grabbing the welding torch from his hand with her parasite arm from afar, FLug watch how it moved, almost like Black Hat’s tentacles in some ways. He shivered a little seeing this from someone else than Black Hat himself. He should be used to this by now, but it was just a little bit strange to him still.

“Does it matter who I bring it to?” Ghost asked him trying to pull the welding torch away from him again. “In this cause, yes.” Flug noticed how the tentacles weren’t pulling the torch away, they felt like they were trying to instead set the torch down rather than taking it away from him. They still show some signs of hostility, but it wasn’t as aggressive “Trust me, you don’t want to make him wait long. I’m saying this to save your ass from punishment.” Flug remembered a few missions ago where he and Demencia failed some missions before, the punishments weren’t pleasant, add more work on him was a pleasant punishment, but having your body bent in ways the human body was never meant to bend that was painful punishment.

“Look, I want to work on my plane, I don’t want to see him right now.” She glared a little bit. Flug just let out a sigh grabbing the envelope off the floor. “I will do this once, but next time you have to do it.” Flug pulled something off his desk giving it to Ghost before heading to Black Hat’s office. It was a toolbox that he was working with sometime this morning, “I made copies of my tools so you won’t have to keep taking them from me.”

Ghost stared at the toolbox then looked back at Flug. She didn’t think much of it, but she grabbed the toolbox away from him walking away from giving him this look as if it was looking into an old mirror from long ago. Flug could feel a cold chill down his back, it wasn’t the same way as Black Hat would give, but the way she stared at him, it was almost like staring back at an old friend. Flug just watched her leave heading back to hanginer. He let out a deep sigh knowing what was going to happen. He didn’t want to disturb Black Hat, when he did it wasn’t pleasant.

Flug just shivered at the thought of what could happen once he entered the office. He took a deep breath in before entering Black Hat’s office seeing the thunder outside almost hitting the window as if it was a warning for Flug to turn around now. “S-S-Sir, Ghost has returned from her mission.” Flug could feel Black Hat’s hands around his neck choking him whenever he was in his bad moods. Black Hat turned to him to see him holding the envelope that Ghost was supposed to bring to him, he growled a little in annoyance since she didn’t come to him.

“Why didn’t she come herself?” Black Hat asked Flug awaiting for the answer she might have given to him. Flug just stood there frozen for a moment, trying to think of something to say. Ghost didn’t really say why, just that she wanted to work on her plane.

“Well...she didn’t say…” Flug was trying hard to come up with some sort of excuse for Ghost, he didn’t really know what to say for her reason, but he was going to pay the price. Flug waited for the punishment but Black Hat seemed to be calm, too calm for some reason and yet Flug could still feel his hand around his throat. “I’ll deal with her later.” Black Hat said to him before appearing behind him, placing a hand on the scientist's shoulder.

“Just make sure she reports back to me next time.” Black Hat said before disappearing once more. Flug felt his stomach turn a little, it was only the first day for Ghost and now she might have made the fatal mistake of making Black Hat angry, yet somehow he was calm about this. Flug stepped out of Black Hat’s office seeing 5.0.5 in his maid outfit with a vacuum in hand, noticing the look on his father’s face. “She’s dead…”

Ghost sat on the floor near her plane looking over the tools that Flug made for her, but she was checking to be sure that he hadn’t planted anything that could kill her, from her observation of Flug from the little time she spent with him, he didn’t seem the type to really kill someone. Something about him just didn’t seem right, she tossed the wrench that was in her hand before feeling someone breathing against her back.

She turned around to see Demencia breathing heavily laying under her plane with a smug look on her face. “Must I ask why you’re here?” Ghost asked her still looking over the tools, Demencia crawled closer to her staring at her with a strange look in her eyes. “How do you know about my darling Black Hat?” Ghost stared back at her, just looking annoyed by her. Demencia started to repeat the question again to her waiting for an answer from her. Demencia couldn’t stop thinking what Flug had said to her earlier, if she really had dated Black Hat then she must know what he was like on dates, she always imagined what they would be like, Demencia would do anything just to get that piece of information. Ghost ignored her opening the lid of her plane.

Demencia jumped onto the lid causing it close on her, Ghost’s normal hand was out of the way but the parasite arm wasn’t out of the way of the lid. Demencia waited to see if she would cry out in pain or anything, she did love seeing Flug being in pain or sometimes when things went wrong, it was always the highlight of her days, but Ghost didn’t show any reaction to the pain. “This arm doesn’t feel pain. Thanks to your boss.” The parasite arm started to move out of the plane like a piece of paper into a mailslot. Her arm formed into its normal self as if nothing had happened just now.

“So you have some of Black Hat’s powers.” Demencia didn’t like the fact that she had some of her Black Hat’s power in just one arm. Ghost heard some hostility in her voice, it sounded more like jealousy as Ghost’s moved her arm around a little to make sure it was still intact or just to make sure the bones were fine. Demencia still hovered staring at her with this look of disgust and anger on her face. She wondered what this girl was told about her from either that scientist or Black Hat. Ghost leaned against her plane staring back at the lizard girl with a tired and confused look. “May I ask what you were told about me?” Ghost waited to hear what Demenica was going to say, but Demencia jumped in front of her growling a little bit at her, ready to fight her.

“You dated my Black Hat!” Demencia shouted at her pushing her a little. The push was hard enough that she almost sent her across the room. Ghost’s arm grabbed the edge of her plane keeping her balance steady. Ghost let out a laugh as if hearing a joke that was just made. Demencia could only stand there a little confused seeing how her reaction changed a little. “Where did you get that idea?” Ghost was laughing so hard that her sides were hurting a little, almost like she hadn’t laughed in years.

Demencia seemed to relax a little, did she jump to conclusions too soon or did Flug just say those things to mess with her. Demencia knew Flug wasn’t the type to pull jokes or pranks, but this wasn’t in his character at least not to her knowledge. “I don’t care if you love that demon, I just want to kill him.” Ghost’s arm began to form into a spear, Demencia soon let out a small growl, she wouldn’t let anything happen to Black Hat no matter what Ghost said to her. “I’ll be watching you really closely, if one hair on him is gone, you’re going to be very sorry for joining.” Demencia slithered away from the hanger, Ghost watched the green mass disappear into one of the ventilations tunnels that ran through the manor.

As she stood there, her arm started to feel tight, the parasite seemed to grow a little, almost swallowing her right arm. Ghost turned her head to see Black Hat standing there grinning at her. His arms behind his back almost hiding something from her view. “What do you want now, didn’t your scientist give you the damn debt?” She said to him, while her good arm tried to reach for the gun that was still in her jacket. Even if it was useless, she wanted him to feel the pain she had felt for years now.

Black Hat just chuckled a little when Ghost’s parasite arm moved on it’s own grabbing her normal arm pinning it to her side. “In the future you’ll have to bring them yourself to me.” Black Hat told her walking up her grabbing the gun from her pocket and breaking it in half in his hand. “Do you remember our contract my dear?” He asked to which Ghost growled feeling the parasite wrapping around her body like ropes. “I can make a few changes to it, you have the longest contract than others before you.” Ghost glared at him as Black Hat pulled out the contract.

“Do you remember your lover?” Ghost’s anger began to grow, she wanted to tear out what he called a heart out. She struggled against her own arm, but those memories of her lover, they were a blank to her now, she caused so much bloodshed in the past and just wanted to kill this thing. Black Hat held her by an invisible chain in his other hand causing her to look at him. “Your hatred for me seems to cloud your memories?” Black Hat looked at her arm that was holding her still making her feel paralyzed. “I remember how much you ruined my life.” Ghost hissed. Black Hat made the parasite hold her tighter, trying to break the remaining bones in her body. The look in her eyes seemed to make Black hat excited, the rage she was feeling was exciting for him.

“What about the lives you ruined?” Black hat commented seeing how Ghost’s rage grew but there was no remorse in her expression. Black hat loved seeing a human with no emotions left in them. “Do I care about that? You don’t.” Ghost told him spitting in his face, he wiped it off his face before he brought her to her knees. “You agreed to work for me if I saved your love’s life, you would do anything to save him. Weren’t those your words?” Black hat pulled out the contact in front of her, Ghost stared at it reading some of it until looking at the dotted line. The name didn’t seem familiar to her.

“He’s still here on the island, I’ll allow you to find him if you’re able to remember or if he remembers you at all.” Ghost’s face changed a little. Her eyes went wide a little bit, the dark circles somehow grew darker Black Hat just stared at her waiting for an answer from her, he could sense the anger rising inside of her, she seemed to relax a little bit trying to move what abilities she had over her body right now. “To you this is going to be a fun little game to satisfy your boredom or do you even get bored?” She smirked at him seeing how his grin soon faded.

She was trying very hard to outsmart him or at least trying to get him off his guard. “I’m not that easily fooled. You may have some of my powers, but it’s just in one arm and I can easily take those away from you.” Black hat brought her to her knees almost strangling her a little bit, it was almost like trying to tame a wild dog. “Just do as you’re told or else.” Black hat raised his hand as the parasite on Ghost’s arm seemed to disappear. Ghost bit her bottom lip as a shot of pain rushed through her body, she was numb for a moment or two before looking back at her right arm. Bent in such a way that it was impossible to move.

Her arm looked twisted, scratched up as well from broken glass and metal, it was black and purple as if it was never fixed when the parasite took over the arm. It was the same as it was when she came to this island. The parasite didn’t seem to let the bones in her arm become infected or scared her flesh, the parasite seemed to just stop everything in her arm from infecting the rest of her body.

“Whatever...but the devil has to make one condition if I’m going to follow you.” Ghost trying to ignore the pain trying to get her thought across. “I want that contact burn.” Black Hat raised a brow as if the game seemed more interesting now. He let out a chuckle holding the contract in his hand for a moment before it vanished. “Only until you find him.” He said to her before vanishing like thin air. Ghost could feel the pain vanishing as well as the parasite arm’s return. She sat up leaning against the side of her plane looking at the Black inky color arm.

She wiggled her fingers to see if she had full control of this parasite again. She went inside of her plane which was still a mess which she preferred that way, she looked at the symbol that haunted her each day which was sprayed painted on the ceiling at the back of her plane which didn’t suffer as much damage. “I’m going to kill you first before you ruin another life.” she said under her breath scratching the ceiling hoping that her planning would be enough until she found her childhood friend and lover.

-------

Sorry for the long wait, here is Chapter 6 of my villainous fanfic.

ghost/Carol Davison @luluguardainofcreative

Villainous (C) Alan Ituriel

[jolienjoyswriting]

Rockman - Exciting Times in L.A, Ch. III

Chapter 3, the finale of "Exciting Times in L.A," a Mega Man fan fiction story.

No plot holes, here, folks.  Just some good-ol'-fashioned forward thinking!  Or… something.

Word count: 4,660 – Character count: 26,759 Originally written: June 12nd, 2019

Wily is revealed, but King is still in it to win it!  How will Rock and Roll save their creator?

Roll, Rush, Albert W. Wily, Rock/Megaman, Thomas Light, King, Bass, Protoman, Mega Man/Rockman, and related characters and properties created by and © Capcom Co, Ltd.

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    A quick glance revealed to Roll that she was laying in a pile of chairs situated in a staging area of the conference hall.  Another look “up” revealed the owner of the voice…     Standing at the back of the room was a thin, mean-looking man in a lab coat, black dress-shirt and red tie, blue jeans, and brown loafers.  The spiky tufts of gray hair accenting his balding head, the bushy moustache along his lip-line, and the slightly-less-bushy eyebrows were all-too-familiar to Roll…  There was no doubt about it…  The man standing on-stage, holding that microphone and looking so smug, was exactly who he said he was: Dr. Albert W. Wily!

    “Before, my robot was barely able to lay a single hand on that annoying, armored robot.  But, now look the pathetic construct!  Beaten in two hits!”     He paused to cackle… which gave Roll time to get to her feet.     “King just got lucky!  But, never mind that!” she called over the echoing laughter.  After pointing at the mad doctor, she narrowed her eyes and asked, “Where’s Doctor Light?!”     “‘Luck’ has nothing to do with it!” he replied, completely ignoring her question.  “With my new Double Gear System, not even that pesky Megaman will be able to compete!”     “You talk too much!” she snapped.     When Wily just laughed at her, she growled and trembled, growing visibly angrier.     “Stop laughing at me!” the girl furiously shouted.     “Or, what?”     She gave a blink of her green eyes.  Wily wasn’t laughing, anymore.  In fact, he looked pretty intimidating…  Well, as intimidating as a stereotypical “evil scientist” could be.

    “L-look, just tell me where Doctor Light is!” she demanded with a little less enthusiasm.  “And– and, let these people go!”     “My dear robot… these people aren’t being held captive.  They’re free to go at any time!”     “What?”  She gave another blink before shouting, “You’re lying!”     “No, no, it’s true.”     Her attention turned to a nearby man.  He was tall, lanky, and while he didn’t look particularly unhealthy… he looked like he’d missed a few meals.  In fact, he was almost more of a stereotypical “science guy” than even Wily!  That’s how Roll saw him, anyway.     “We really are here of our own accord,” another, much rounder scientist told her.     “Some of us bolted after his UFO was spotted…” a third person – a female roboticist with brown hair and angular glasses – told Roll.     “But, the rest of us stayed behind,” the first scientist finished.     The second one started, “Albert may be a criminally-insane… er, criminal–”     Wily crossed his arms and gave an audible “Hmph!” from on-stage.     “– but, he’s still a scientist and roboticist.”     “We really wanted to hear what he’d come all this way to tell us!”

    Roll didn’t like what she was hearing…  It was hard to believe that so many people had actually put themselves in danger all to satisfy their curiosity.  Ultimately, though… that didn’t matter.  She still wanted to know one thing, and only one thing:     “Where’s Doctor Light?!”     “Found him!”     “Huh…?”

    Roll’s attention turned to her right.  Rock had finally caught up and, to her surprise…     “Doctor Light!”     He was helping the doctor to his feet.     “How does it feel, knowing that you were the one who single-handedly put your own creator in danger, little robot?”     “Wh– wha’…?”     The girl looked back to the stage.  Dr. Wily was smirking, again…     “Everyone in this room was perfectly content to listen to my brilliant ideas and hear about my magnificent innovations…” he chuckled, “but, when you two showed up, I knew you would try and interrupt me.  You always do.  So, I sent King II to distract you.  If you had simply given up instead of fighting…”     The man with the wicked grin gestured to the room.     “No one would have gotten hurt!  Especially your precious maker!”

    Roll looked around… then, she gasped.  She hadn’t noticed it until then… but, there were actually a number of scientists who were standing up and brushing themselves off.  Some had nasty bumps on the heads while others looked a fair bit worse-off.  Even Dr. Light seemed pretty banged-up… and, it didn’t take her long to figure out why.     “Wh… when King knocked me into the room…” she quietly worked out, “the… the shockwave must have…  A-and, all those chairs…  I…”     She was almost ready to cry… but, instead…     “This is your fault for sicking your dumb guard dog on me!”     She got angry, again.

    “King II is more than just a ‘guard dog,’ you simple machine!” Wily countered, his smirk curling into a scowl.  “King II is the next evolution of robot-kind!  Imagine… robots that can be instantly empowered at the-push-of-a-button!  They can work even harder… even faster… and, get our work done even more efficiently!  And, as was demonstrated with King II… the applications for combat are almost limitless!  And, just think…”     He flashed another grin.     “He’s not even using the full power of the Double Gear System!”     “What?”  Roll gave another blinked.  “What’s that supposed to–”     “Double Gear!!”     The girl spun around… only to be grabbed and restrained by the robot twice her height.

    “L-let go, you weirdo!” she cried as she struggled in his arms.  “I’m warning–”     Her eyes went wide.  She’s heard something crack… loudly.     “N-no… s– stop!  Please!!”     King was crushing her… or, trying to.  There was just one thing standing in his way.     “Rush!!”         All-at-once, she realized… she’d messed up – badly.  And, Rush was the one taking the punishment for her mistake.

    “That’s it, King II!” Wily pumped his free fist into the air and he barked from the stage, “Crush that robot!  Show the power that I’ve given you!  Hee hee hee ha haaah!”     “Nooooo…!”     Roll whimpered, her eyes finally filling with tears.  With each passing second, the armor she wore groaned and strained, the metal bending and the cracks becoming more apparent.  She was doing everything she could think of to break free, but nothing was working and it was making her panic, again…  Eventually, the only thing she could think to do was call out…     “H-help me, Rock…!”     Unfortunately… Rock was in no position to do anything, himself.

    “I… I can’t get a clear shot!” he told her as he tried to aim his fully-charged arm cannon at King II.  “I might hit you!”     “Powerless in the face of true genius, are we?”     Rock flinched, his eyes glancing at the mocking form of Dr. Wily.  The villain had hopped off the stage and was walking over to where he and the semi-conscious Dr. Light were.     “S-stay back…!  Please?” he asked with uncertain politeness.  “I… I don’t want to hurt you!  I don’t want to hurt anyone…!”     “Come now, ‘hero…’” Wily said as he navigated the maze of chairs to get over to the two.  “Surely, you can figure out how to fix such a simple problem?”     “I… I…”     “If you shoot me…” he mocked with half-closed eyes and a grin, “then, all your problems are solved – present and future!  If you shoot King II… then, even if you hit your precious little ‘sister,’ she goes free.  And, if you stand there, doing nothing…”     “Gyaaaaah…!!”     “Rock…!!”     The doctor’s grin widened.  “Then, I win.”

    Roll looked on in horror as Rock fired a shot through the ceiling before collapsing to the ground.  It sounded like the doctor… zapped him, somehow, and knocked him out… at least, she prayed that was the case…  Meanwhile, her own situation was getting worse.  Her energy was beginning to drain away – a clear sign that Rush was in no condition to protect her, anymore.  Everything hurt and she felt hot… tired… dizzy… and, completely out of options.  It seemed like Dr. Wily had finally won…     “Albert Wily!”     At least… that’s what she thought.

    “What?”     The doctor grumbled.  As he turned around, though, he noticed something…  Something that made him chuckle.     “Really?” he said with an amused grin.     “Yes, really!”

    Roll blinked a tired eye.  All the other scientists and technicians had fled after King II grabbed her… but, those three from before had stayed and watched everything unfold.  What was even more amazing, though… was that the trio of doctors had Wily surrounded and held up by some odd-looking devices of varying designs and, presumably, functionality.

    “You three think you can stop me, the world-famous Doctor Wily?”     Wily chuckled… then, he burst into laughter!     “Please…  You three mental midgets couldn’t even inconvenience me with those things!”     “Oh, yeah?!”  The beanpole scientist aimed at Wily’s face and shouted, “Eat this!”     To Roll’s surprise – and, to a lesser extent, her amusement – Wily suddenly found his face covered in what appeared to be… steaming-hot spaghetti?!  It even had a meat sauce!

    “Hot-hot-hot…!!”     The mad scientist cried, hopping in-place as he flailed and dropped the microphone.     “Maybe, you should chill out!” the lady-scientist taunted before firing her hand-held device.     “Gack…!”  Dr. Wily had just gotten the pasta off his face before getting his with a spray of… “Br– breath spray…?  Mint-flavored breath spray?!  Are you kidding me?!”     “Never leave home without it!” the lady said with a long, somewhat-annoying laugh.  “You never know who you’ll meet at a science-and-technology expo!”     “And, you…!”     The remaining scientist – the short, round one – blinked and jolted.  Wily’s full attention was directly on him.     “Let me guess…  Your weapon shoots pea soup or some such nonsense?”     “N-no, sir…”     The mad scientist blinked as the guy’s “blaster” sprayed a light stream of water at him.     “I-it’s my kid’s squirt gun, sir,” the scientist explained.     Somehow, Wily almost seemed kind of disappointed…  A second later, though…     “Gah…!”     He was left rubbing his head, angrily glaring at the man who dared to throw a child’s toy at him!

    “That’s it!  King II!” he called to his minion.  “Let go of that broken robot and–”     Dr. Wily narrowed his glare at King II.  The robot was vibrating… but, didn’t respond.     “King II!” he called.  “What’s the matter with you?!”     “It’s… it’s hot…” Roll groaned, still being held aloft by the larger robot.  “It’s too hot…!”     “What?  Wait…  I… forgot to tell him to disengage the Double Gear System, didn’t I?”     As if on-cue, King II suddenly dropped his captive, then collapsed behind her.  Roll huffed and whimpered, relieved to be free… but, she was still too disoriented to try anything.

    “Hmm…  I guess I’ll have to work on venting,” Wily mused to himself.  “The Double Gear System generates a lot of heat, and–”     Dr. Wily paused… then, he looked around.  He was still surrounded by the scientist trio.     “Oh, enough,” he scoffed.  “You couldn’t beat me even if you had real weapons!”     “No, but I can!”     “What– gyah…!”     Without any warning, Roll – who had manually disengaged the Power Adapter – ran up to Wily and… just slapped his still-red face.  And, when he looked down at the girl-robot with her hands on her hips and a look of sincere disapproval on her tired, somewhat-red face… it made him feel far more vulnerable than he actually was.

    “Say you’re sorry!!” she demanded with a pant.     “I… I’m sorry?” he told her, sounding and looking confused.     “Say you’re sorry for ruining the expo!  Apologize to the scientists!”     “I… I’m sorry for ruining your exposition…?” he told the trio – all of which were just as confused as he was.     “Now, apologize for hurting Rush, Megaman, and Doctor Light!”     He gave a suspicious look as he repeated, “I’m… sorry for hurting Doctor Light?”     “Apologize for hurting Rush and Megaman…!” she firmly repeated.     Dr. Wily narrowed his eyes… then, he looked away, crossing his arms.     “Say it…” Roll ordered in a stricter tone.     “No!  I don’t want to!”     “Say it…”     “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”     “Say it, or so help me…!”     Wily whipped his head back and shouted, “The Great Doctor Wily doesn’t apologize to household appliances!”     “Fine!” the girl shouted with an angry huff and a childish stomp.     “Fine!” was his response as he looked away, again.     “Jerk!”     “Pest!”     “Meanie!”     “Insubordinate maid!”     “I don’t like you!”     “Well, I don’t like you!”     “Children.”

    Wily, Roll, and the trio of scientists looked to the right side of the room.  Dr. Light had gotten to his feet and, even though he looked a little winded, he was casting a disapproving look their way.

    “Doctor Light!” Roll cried as she ran past Wily and hugged her creator.  “You’re alright!”     “Yes, yes, I’m fine…” he sighed and laughed.  “Goodness, you’re warm, Roll…”     She paused… then, she looked up at the doctor with teary, sad eyes.     “That mean old Doctor Wily hurt Rush!” she cried.  “He hurt Rock, too, and he took all these nice people prisoner!”     “I did not hold these people captive!” Wily countered.  He had already walked over to King II and was checking him for damage.  Strangely, the trio of scientists who had attacked him seemed to be helping him.     “This is all his fault!” Roll continued.  “Why can’t he just be a good-guy, like you…?”     “Because…”     Dr. Wily stood up and adjusted his tie as he looked at the Lights.     “Thomas is an idealist.  Whereas I, Doctor Wily, focus on practical application!”     “You’ll never change, Albert…” Dr. Light said with a sigh and a smile.     “Neither will you, Thomas.  And, that’s why, when it comes to me… you’ll always be second-rate!”

    “Albert isn’t truly ‘evil,’” the bearded doctor told Roll as Dr. Wily shrugged and turned back to his own creation.  “He has good ideas and the knowledge to execute them.  He simply… uses his skills for his own selfish desires, rather than try and help mankind.”     “Mankind doesn’t want my help!” the wild-haired doctor rebutted.  “They’ve made that abundantly clear!”     “That doesn’t give you the right to hurt and scare people, all-the-time!” Roll interjected.     “You know nothing of how the world works!  You’re just a robot!  A robot child!  You came into this world ignorant and naïve, and you’ll continue to be ignorant and naïve until the day you’re decommissioned and replaced by a better, more modern unit!”     The girl blinked… then, she stared at her creator with wide eyes.     “Y… you’d never do that… would you, Doctor…?”     She looked afraid…     “That… is the-way-of-the-world, little robot!” Wily said before Dr. Light could respond.  “You’ll be replaced by a new version just like I’m going to replace this robot with a new one!”     He stood up, again, and adjusted his coat.     “King III will succeed where all others have failed!  Gyah ha ha haaah!!”

    Suddenly, something crashed through the ceiling of the exhibit hall.  Once the dust cleared, all those present could see that Dr. Wily’s UFO had appeared and he was already on-board, gripping King II in a claw from the undercarriage.     “This has been an… interesting experiment,” Wily called as his UFO made its signature, somewhat-annoying “wooing” noise – turned down so he could be heard, no doubt.  “The data from today should prove infinitely useful in my Double Gear System tests.  I should thank you, little robot ‘girl…’”     “‘Roll!’” she angrily shouted.  “My name is ‘Roll,’ and you know it!”     The doctor narrowed his eyes… then, cleared his throat before continuing.

    “I should thank you… but, you were, after all, just… playing your role in my experiment!”     Dr. Wily let loose another cackle… then, he calmed down and settled into his vehicle.     “Until next time, Thomas…”     As the top half of the UFO slid down… Wily wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.  Then… he noisily flew off into the distance, carrying his defeated robot sentinel.

    “Albert will never learn…” Dr. Light said after a few moments.     “Doctor…?”     Roll blinked…  The doctor was hugging her a little tighter than before.  It was kind of comforting… especially after hearing what Wily had said.  Though, all things considered… she would have rather been hugged by–     “Rock!!”     All-at-once, the robot-girl pulled away from her creator and kneeled down beside her counterpart to check on him.

    “He’s… just stunned.”     According to the external gauge on his arm, his Life Energy was still mostly full.  Flipping to another read-out told her that his brain was rebooting – slowly, but surely – and diagnostics reported an electromagnetic pulse to be the culprit.  She sighed, then she looked up at Dr. Light with a relieved smile.     “He’ll be out for a while – I’m sure you already knew that, though,” she said with a little giggle.  “Oh!  But, are you okay…?  I… didn’t hurt you when I sent those chairs flying… did I…?”     “You didn’t send the chairs flying, per se,” he told the girl with a smile of his own.  “That was King’s doing.  Regardless, I’ll be alright after I take some headache pills.  I could do with a ginger ale, as well…”     “Do you want me to get one?”  Roll stood up, looking anxious.  “I can–”     She blinked, pausing as the doctor put his hand on her head.     “I can’t believe you tried to fight King…” he sighed.  “What were you thinking…?”     “I…”  The girl looked away.  “I guess I wasn’t…  B-but, he was just acting like… like a big-fat-jerk!  Saying all those things…  That wasn’t the King we know!”     “Indeed,” Dr. Light said as he stroked the robot-girl’s head.  “King II was a completely new construct.  He had very little to do with the incarnation roaming the world and helping people-and-robots, alike.”     “The real King is waaay nicer!” Roll giggled, again.  “I wanna meet him, someday!”     “‘Someday,’ for certain… but, for now?”  He smiled as he said, “Let’s go home.”

    After a trip back to the hotel room to retrieve their luggage, the Light family climbed aboard Dr. Light’s shuttlecraft and they started on their way back to Colorado.  Rock had woken up around the time they were lifting off, and Roll was telling him everything that happened after Wily had zapped him with that EMP.     “Doctor Light says he’ll run some diagnostics on you when we get home… make sure you aren’t infected with a nasty Wily Virus or something!  But…”     She hugged his arm and brightly smiled.     “You seem fine, to me!”     Although Roll was in a very chipper mood as the two sat side-by-side in the rear of the craft… Rock didn’t seem like he was in the mood to smile.

    “I let you get hurt…” he said with closed eyes.  “I let Rush and Doctor Light get hurt, too…  And, all those other scientists…!  Some ‘hero’ I am…”     “None of that was your fault, Rock…”  She offered a comforting smile as she told him, “If anything, it was my fault!  I was the one who picked a fight with King II!  I… wasn’t expecting him to knock me through a wall, though!  Several walls…”     The boy finally cracked a grin.  Roll was rubbing her head with a closed eye and her tongue out from her grinning mouth.     “You did good, Roll…” he told her.  “I was really impressed!”     Her eyes lit up and she brightly smiled.  “Really…?” she asked with excitement.     “Until King cheated, anyway!” the brown-haired Light ‘bot playfully added.     “Yeah!  He did, didn’t he?”     Roll huffed, crossing her arms.  Then, she paused before looking his way with a frown.     “I did, too, though…  And… I got Rush hurt.”

    The two looked across the way.  Rush – who had reverted to his normal form – was laying on the bench, hooked up to a couple of different computers.  Aside from a few big cracks in his armor and the banged-up CPU cover on his head, he didn’t really look that damaged… but, the diagnostic tools had announced that there was a bit of damage to his circuitry and that he’d gone into “low-power mode,” the fight completely draining him.  It wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed… but, Roll still felt absolutely horrible about it.

    “Rush was modified for this sort of stuff – just like me,” Rock reassured his sister-unit.  “He’s used to getting roughed up…”     “B-but, if I’d just been more careful…  If I hadn’t let King grab us…!”     “It’s okay, Roll…” he told her as she started to get weepy, again.  “Really!”     “But… but…”     “Roll?”     She blinked.  Rock was giving her a neutral look.     “Want a hug…?”     Rock softly chuckled, happily hugging his companion as she finally let all the stress of the day out, crying into his chest and tightly holding him.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been there for her to cry on and he knew it wouldn’t be the last… but, he was relieved, whenever she did.

    Things quickly wound down after the Light family returned to their home.  Rock and Roll carried their pet pup into the workshop and Auto promised to do his best to fix him up, “right-as-rain-in-Spain, das!”  Roll grabbed some gummy candies on her way to her room, then got changed before meeting Rock in the living area to play some video games.  Time really seemed to fly by and, by the time Dr. Light called for bed, they were both pretty tired – especially Roll, who had decided that her repairs could wait.  Just before they turned in, however…     “Hey, Rock…”     “Yeah?”     She decided to have one final conversation with him.

    He stood from his bed, smiling as Roll stood at his open doorway.  They were both wearing matching pajamas – though, hers were pink and his were blue.  When she asked if she could enter, he invited her in with no hesitation.  The two sat on his bed, then he tilted his head.  Roll was staring at the floor, not saying a word…     “Um… Roll?” he called after a while.  “What’s up?”     “I had a lot of fun, today…” she told him, sounding a little shy.  “Even fighting King II was a little fun…  B-but, I more mean before all that happened.”     “Oh?”  He smiled as he told her, “I had fun, too!  I like spending time with you!”     She blushed and asked, “Y-you do…?”     “You’re special to me, Roll.”     Her blush brightened and she could swear her robotic heart was thumping against her chest.  What… was he trying to say?     “I love you, lots…”     Her eyes widened.  And, as she finally looked his way and saw his bright smile… she was sure he was about to say…     “You’re my favorite-and-only sister, after all!”

    Just like that, the girl stopped blushing…  That wasn’t what she was hoping he’d say… but, somehow?     “I knew you were gonna say that,” she told him with a somewhat-hollow chuckle and a softer sort of smile.     “It’s ‘cause we’re so close!” Rock laughed.  “I bet we can even…”     He paused, grinning and waiting…     “Fi… nish each other’s thoughts?” Roll eventually guessed.  When she heard the boy-robot laugh and saw him smile, she couldn’t help but let herself smile, as well.     “Love you, too… goofball.”

    The two shared a hug that lasted longer than Roll had really expected it to.  It seemed like Rock was hugging her a little tight, as well…  She was about to ask him what was up, when…     “You really scared me, today…”     She heard that.     “I-I’m sorry…?”  She paused… then, her own hug tightened.  “I’m sorry…”     “Heh, it’s okay.  I keep forgetting what a tough girl you are!” he laughed as he sat back and smiled.  “But… I just– I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever…”     He didn’t seem to want to finish that thought or even look her way, then.  He almost looked… guilty…

    “I really am sorry I worried you, Rock…” Roll quietly told him.  “If we ever get into a dangerous situation, again… you can be my hero… and, I’ll be your damsel-in-distress.  Okay?”     “What…?”  He blinked, then looked her way.  “Roll, th-that’s not what I–”     He had to blink, again.  Roll had pecked him on the cheek.  A second later, she stood up, brushed the creases out of her pajama bottoms, and walked to the door only to pause and smile.     “G’night… Megaman.”     Then, she left the room and headed to her own.

    For the longest time, Rock sat there with his hand on his cheek, staring out the door.  He couldn’t seem to process what had just happened.  But, after several minutes of thinking, something finally hit him.     “She… really wants to play the ‘damsel’ role, I guess?”     He blushed a little, then rubbed his cheek with a quiet laugh.     “She didn’t have to kiss me, though…  Gosh…”

    After a little more time, Rock turned off his lamp, closed his door to a crack, and crawled into bed, cuddling a spare pillow.  He spent a few more minutes thinking about that kiss… thinking about all the kisses Roll had ever given him…  He kind of liked it when Roll did that since she always giggled and smiled.  But… did he like it?  As he thought about it a little harder… he suddenly remembered something that had happened.  Something pretty important…

    “Where… did Bass go…?”

    Rock’s previous train-of-thought derailed, overtaken by the sudden thought that he never paid Bass back for attacking Roll!  Where did he go, after that…?  Why wasn’t he with Wily…? –––––

    “I’m fed up with the old man…”

    Somewhere in the commercial district of Los Angeles… high on the rooftop of a tall apartment complex… a boy and his dog were camping out and watching the city, at night.

    “‘Light’ this… ‘Megaman’ that…  Hey, Doc!  I wanna beat that little, blue twerp into the ground more than anyone, but even I need a break, sometimes!  Why can’t that bald butt-head just get a hobby, already?”     “You’re one to talk…” called a voice.  “Isn’t your hobby harassing Megaman?”     “Eat me, Proto-Nerd.”     The owner of the other voice smirked.  Seated atop the roof access of the building was a boy wearing a gray body-suit, big, red, boots and gauntlets, and a red helmet with a white, spear-like insignia over a black visor that looked like sunglasses, and of course… a yellow scarf.

    “You know…” the boy in black armor said after taking a sip of his mixed drink, “you’re lucky I don’t kick your ass.  You’re actually worse than Megaman!  ‘Oh, look at me!  I’m a mysterious sometimes-hero who ignores The Big Three!’  Pah!  What’d Wily ever see in you?”     “Potential, Bass,” the robot-in-red told him.  “He saw potential.”     Bass shrugged, then he stroked the dozing wolf-dog laying by his side.     “Whatever.  All I know is that Wily broke the mold when he made me!”     “Is that because you’re so ‘awesome?’  Or, because you were a ‘disappointment?’”     “Why you–!”     He shot a glare at Protoman.  Even though the other robot was smirking… the question he’d asked didn’t really feel like an insult.  More like… a neutral question with smart undertones.

    “You’re lucky I like you…” he sighed before turning back to his drink.     “Us ‘Wily ‘bots’ stick together.  Right, ‘little bro?’”     Bass looked his way, again, and narrowed his eyes.  “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”     He smiled.  “Maybe.”     “Why’d you even drag me ‘n Treble away from Wily?!”  He growled before turning and facing Protoman.  “Whaddaya want from us?  Whaddaya want from me…?”     “I was bored,” was the serious-but-casual answer he got.  “Besides… did you really want Wily crying for your help when King II failed to do your job?”     Bass thought about it… then, he just huffed and shrugged.     “It’s a nice night, in La-La Land…” Protoman started.  After sipping his own drink, he added, “Take in the view.  Enjoy some time away from ‘the boss.’”     “He’s not the boss of me…” the other robot quietly murmured.  “I do what I want.”     When the robot-in-red didn’t respond, Bass sighed… then, he smirked.     “Ya know what I like about you, Red?”     “What’s that?” Protoman responded.     “You don’t care.”     “I do.”  He smiled.  “But, only when my ‘family’ is in over their heads.”     “Guess I can relate…”  Bass grinned.  “Wily’s always in over his head.  Idiot.”     The two grinned at each other, then they looked out over the city.

    “Thanks, Red…  We needed this.”

[zeroxmi-blog]

eden project: i.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑, a solo for the unaffiliated reputation reward.

the call arrives in slivers of trepidation, and he captures the hints of hand tremors that come alongside it. it’s 2:38am. the voice contains too many fears, dissolving the truth of despair. it’s the man’s first time diving into the pool of blood, so naturally, jongin understands that he’s scared. still, it’s impressive how the man can find the number that leads to zero. there’s no secret code to decipher, everything given in plain details as the man seems to cling to this as the last resort. definitely naïve, but jongin isn’t here to judge. there’s always a first time for everything, and he respects the prior engagement the man has conducted to reach the point he is now: speaking to the altered voice of a heavily cloaked presence. fairly sure the man shakes more once jongin ended the silence on his end to speak in the unnatural voice, ensuring the man that the job can be done at such a price. it’s hefty, sure, but the target isn’t just anyone. the man speaks too much, or so the man realizes, stopping himself in the midst of his own rant. it’s amusing, to say the least, and jongin decides to give this man the time of his night. he’s patient — or so he’d like to think.

thoughts flit. the name returns to the conversation albeit stilted. the crooked spine of this man’s wants a young blood dead. his mind filters names, conjugating them with faces. kang doyoon isn’t a man of unabridged riches; it reminds jongin of himself. they’re of the same age, and certainly within the same social circle. all the affluent, they’re bound to cross paths in this small island run in cold veins. and here’s what jongin understands: nothing can touch doyoon for those whose channel doesn’t splay across the territories jongin has known like the back of his hand. and that’s where zero’s aid is needed. therefore, the so-called job, but jongin has a feeling that this won’t unfold the way his client wants it. still, payment has been sent to the fictitious account, that will later meander its way through twenty-eight more from banks in various countries, ending up in an actual bank account that jongin has never bothered checking. say, he does this occupation as a form of volunteer, wiping the weak off this filthied land so that the thriving players can last longer in the games. long enough to strive for the pandemonium to begin. all the manmade slaughter; everything that jongin wants to witness in this reality.

he doesn’t need to know the man’s name; an untraceable number, discarded after its use is over. sure. he will know soon enough, jongin decides. a man like kang doyoon doesn’t keep his mouth shut, enemies with slit throats acting like common decencies in his agenda. jongin only understands that doyoon suspects nothing of him as far as he’s concerned, kim jongin the beguiled and spoiled heir who poses no danger whatsoever towards doyoon’s wellbeing. but zero, now doyoon perhaps has heard of him in fleeting news. rumors that sneak into the corners of the transient thoughts. and back to the blueprints of this potential crime scene, instincts tell the man to hang up as soon as possible: all these idle talks get naught done. also, perhaps the man notices that the more he converses with the supposed hitman, the more about himself spilled. alas, it doesn’t matter now. the assassin has been multitasking, discovering the coordinates as to where the man’s currently at. how careless, but it adds to the amusement. he accesses the public camera, finding the man standing nearby an alley, his posture slouched. balding, perhaps in his mid 50′s to 60′s. wrinkled shirt, tie hanging loosely from his collar. pacing in anxiety, trying to end the conversation that has lasted for almost five minutes. jongin rests his chin on his hand, ennui creeping in together with impatience. ah well, there goes his presumed virtue; he’s not here for inane exchanges. when it eventually ends, jongin finds his eyebrows raised. he’s taken notes, both mental and physical, on anything that’s required for the task at hand.

kang doyoon is coiled around his own ego, flattering to say the least. it almost reminds jongin of his life prior to boston, with tacit bodyguards following him around, except this one is more twisted. those shadowing doyoon works for a certain gang whose strings are synchronized around this island’s existence: a name hushed among the bustling city. he’s known enough about all of them, deeper than superficial level. sponsors that support their means are provided with protection, and doyoon has exactly that. as far as impression goes, doyoon is lacquered with borrowed arrogance. a pinch of daredevil smiles that don’t fit his mouth well, but jongin isn’t one to comment on that. instead, he decides to see where this leads. he’s in a river; this is a flow. calls it a night after collecting enough information for himself, he calls it a night. being roused from sleep is not a rarity, inevitable in this line of job, but an insomniac would still find it a nuisance at the very least.

a day is all he needs, schedules cleared to make space for this one kill that might turn things around. the men around doyoon remain vigilant, as if smelling his presence already, but zero isn’t one to be taunted by sheer number considering the experiences he’s pocketed. underneath the shadows that flicker with the night’s jaundice lights, he admires the dedication. it’s almost midnight. he can wait longer, always pedantic with his works. all the punishments ouroboros has marked on his psyche are not in vain — they’ve shaped such an effective weapon with too many repressed traumas. but here, a toast for these merciless men. stitches that don’t dry in his mind, now only soothed via his lust towards chaos. an infernal machine he is, clad in his specifically designed gear; kang doyoon certainly doesn’t make it effortless for zero with having his office within the confines of too many walls. walls to penetrate, with dozens of guards readied to take zero down. well, fuck, doyoon could’ve had an office facing the city skyline, all full-length glass windows that shatter with ease — but instead, he’s enveloped with the highest level of security. yet, zero has mapped it out, the escape route and everything.

time is incising. inside, probably buried underneath the piles of paperwork, is his target. he’s approximated at least twenty people in the perimeters, and zero knows this won’t leave a clean scene, but the bloodier, the better. when he enters the building via the rooftop entrance, he’s greeted by two men that hold this like nothing of a surprise. coursing in zero’s veins is the hunger for a good fight, however, so he entertains their trying to shoot him from the distance, evading bullets an ingrained skill. he closes the gap between them and himself in quick strides, leaping to meet one’s chin with his knee. taking down the other with the gun of his comrade’s is always satisfying for zero, saving his own for a latter’s use. a point blank with the silencer attached, he grabs the man in his grip closer, turning the position around to wrap his garrote around the neck. it’s an easy kill, and a quiet one at that, too. he hasn’t given them time to notify their fellow bodyguards, but they might realize the night is silent, too silent. zero likes it this way.

the stairs are all equipped with the cameras, stalking his every move, but he’s not here to be furtive. once he hits the second from the top level, he knows that the evacuation system for the man they’re protecting has been enacted. he knows that it means the surmised exit doors are taking his target away as he’s running towards more guards with their guns — there’s no flavor to it, but zero will take whatever thrill that he can obtain. his gunning them down only serves as a waste of time, but approximately, there are ten more minutes until he needs to reach the given rendezvous point. in this abrasive collision, there’s also this complexity that leaves zero’s persona a wish: to build an empire, to claim a crown. this is of his own accord, which is why he didn’t choose to join any of them. there must be a name carved for his glory, and he’s trying to get the message across by counting the bullets he’s clattered. all these butchered lives leave pungent elements of iron, invading his nose as he inhales. this is a true juxtaposition, placing gore alongside his satisfaction. it’s the malady speaking.

twenty-three, and twenty-four. the number of the now victims doesn’t fulfill his craving. he’s still in the season of desires even when he’s drenched in the blood of his enemies. their stench doesn’t differ them from anyone even when they were supposed to be the serpents twined around ankles. he watches their corpses with a blank expression under his full-face mask, giving them a once over to admire his work. he’s never prided himself in leaving the scene clean – it’s the trace that heads towards nowhere in general that proffers satisfaction for him. he’s named zero for something. the null for those who try chasing after him: they can always reach him, but they can never catch him. a reputation to uphold, he believes even his connection to ouroboros is something that the majority are unaware of, still. but now, it’s not about them, not about the men that sometimes still haunt his nightmares in poltergeists. but from them, he’s learned to speak sans tongue, like now. but it won’t remain for long. ensuring that everyone is dead within the establishment, he understands that a man like kang doyoon would know that he cannot run that far. and even if his suspicions are wrong, zero has too many ways to derail doyoon’s trip away from the designated rendezvous point. no, this hasn’t been a shock at the very least, to see that the target is waiting for him in the lane just beside the office. as if this was planned, when it’s anything but.

the meeting can be concise, but even the prideful can be scared for their lives. four men, holding zero at a gunpoint. but this is besides the message he wants to convey. can do the job within this moment, just right here, although that might compromise his own safety. but where’s the fun in staying within that comfort bubble? zero is always one to challenge that. he smirks when doyoon signals for the men to standby. he’s tall, almost as tall as zero, built infused with the weight of overflown conceit. a normal exposure for jongin, as it resembles those he would meet frequently within the social circles. but zero, he likes these men because they think they can take down the world with money. a risible belief, but sure, at least there’s willingness to fight a battle in there. the man who puts the stakes on zero, however; well, that man is already out of commission. doyoon is a fresh face whose ambitions would partake in this war. zero cocks his head to the side, wondering what about doyoon that is very… off… to the point where everything zero guessed came true. men like that, they always hang onto their askew point of view, grinning through their stalactite teeth. zero decides that he likes doyoon just fine, but doyoon can be one thing that his competitor cannot: a messenger to hydrus.

of course, doyoon would start with a wary countenance, but it doesn’t mean that he’s fully sure about his own demise. zero would give him an applause for that; trading lives has never been an easy task to accomplish. still, doyoon tries. “how much did he pay you?” he asks, voice barely wavers but it’s still there, the reek of fear. zero quirks his eyebrows, smiling. it’s incredible how the man fits such a mold zero conceived way prior. zero hums, and says the number as he raises his hands, ensuring that he’s harmless. no gun, no knife. nothing. he’s defenseless against the four hydrus men. “he’s the one stealing from me,” doyoon tries again, this time with more composure. not bad. zero’s distorted voice doesn’t bother him at all. if anything, doyoon is confident that he can win against the one hiring zero. there’s more conviction lining the tone as doyoon elaborates further, the man’s name a factor that’s pressed several times, as if trying to ensure zero that doyoon does understand the gravity of his own position. “i’ll pay you as much, and you can keep the half he’s given you,” he bargains at the end, now letting zero know that he, too, has comprehended the systematics of this business. “we’ll turn it around, hm, zero?”

zero tilts his head to the side, before scoffing. the muzzles of the guns still aimed at him, he’s already putting his hands down. to be very honest, he hates the way doyoon carries himself, all the derisive mannerism that makes jongin have to look at himself in the mirror. “sure,” zero eventually says, but that doesn’t make the bodyguards lower their defenses. doyoon walks closer, nevertheless, knowing that zero has nothing against the four men. zero chuckles. the meeting is over as soon as one of the men step into the trap zero has created under the shade. the small detonation is enough to set the man on fire, its sound redeemed by the scream of the man. it suffices as a way to distract them, with zero gunning the two men down at a time. the last one shoots last, and while he manages to avoid most of it, the bullet grazes his cheek. he retaliates with a determined murder, and when he turns around, it becomes the classic case of doyoon pressing his gun against zero’s temple. zero doesn’t have time to digest it, body already moving to kick doyoon away from his station. the trigger is pulled, aiming at nothing in general but the air above. the bullet lands on the asphalt in ricochet, and the gun skids towards the wall with a decisive ending.

it’s not like zero doesn’t relish in all this, sauntering towards doyoon to step on doyoon’s hand before doyoon can reach out for the closest weapon. now, doyoon trembles. zero basks in the sight, his shooting doyoon’s right thigh while locking his gaze on doyoon’s face obviously amuses him. there’s no pity as he presses one knee on doyoon’s chest to keep him grounded. there’s a mantra of apologies stuttered, but it doesn’t make differences for zero. he huffs in mockeries, shaking his head. “ah, where was i? oh, right. consider your order granted,” zero says after clacking his tongue against the palate of his mouth. “i’d kill both of you, but a wise man once told me i should leave one man alive to tell the tale. so be my messenger, would you?” he asks in an unreadable intonation. the distortion of his voice doesn’t help, and doyoon is in too much pain to pick apart zero’s disdain, that’s for sure. “you look good smiling, too,” zero adds, retrieving a knife. this time, he carves a permanent smile to doyoon’s face, cutting deep into the cheeks.

he leaves the crime scene filthy save for evidence leading to his dna, and the same goes to the second. the old man has been unsuspecting, but he dies fast with three slugs holing his office wall, and then body — zero would consider that mercy killing. the man was on the verge of losing everything anyway, and guilt never looks good on zero.

word count: two thousand six hundred and thirty nine words.

[kariachi]

New commissionwork for @thenixkat, this time a werewolfy, magicky Static Shock fic, with a side of Wonder Woman. Word count ~10k.

Warnings for gore, kidnapping, and technically mind control apply.

Stepping off the bus into the early autumn chill she could feel the state sink into her flesh like a million needles, feel it shifting beneath her feet, and her first instinct was to run. To turn around, climb back aboard, continue on to someplace more, hospitable.

That wasn’t an option.

Nothing had gone to plan thanks to that damn ‘hero’, breaking into her lair, ruining everything. She’d been so close and what did she have left? She’d been forced to burn through Louhi, the spellwork needed and her emergency teleport leaving her a literal husk of her former self, now nestled in her bag. She had no lair, and had only been able to fill one bag with supplies before she ran.

And now she was here, in the last place anyone would think to look for a magic user. The state was unforgiving, and wrong, but she wouldn’t be long, she swore. All she needed was to recreate and finish the ritual.

She might even be kind enough to make Dakota right when she was done.

~~

Two Months Later

~~

~~

There’s a person outside, circling the property line and eyeing up the house. He wants to say something, do something, but the way his mother’s bristled, the way she’s moved between him and the window… Something says to stay quiet.

~~

This is the third time the strange figure that isn’t right has shown up, and his father’s taken his gun with him to confront them. Something in him bristles, says to lay low.

~~

When has he ever been this hungry…

~~

~~

“Really, Virg, thanks for staying the night. Mom doesn’t want me home alone right now.”

“You’re doing me a favor, man. Gravitas saved the owner of one of those foreign groceries the other day and he gave her something called ‘seamu’? So I’m more than happy to hang out here and order a pizza.”

“You sure? Seamu’s actually pretty good.” The incredulous look that crossed Virgil’s face, like Richie’d just suggested he try flea stew, left the other teen shrugging as he plopped down on his bed. “Viking stuff. Grandma sometimes imports it from the old country.”

“Yeaaah.” Virgil shook his head, tossing his bag to a spot next to Richie’s desk and flopping down beside him. While his friend essentially half-lived at his house- the boy had his own shampoo there for fuck’s sake- Virgil was still working on building his own stock at the Foley home. It would never be the same ‘practically dual-custody’ arrangement, but fair was fair. “You guys can keep your weird Norse birds, thanks.” With another rolling shrug Richie fell back so they were laid side by side.

“Sharon’s probably messing it up anyway. It is good though.”

“Richie, I’ve seen you eat, your word means nothing here.” Ignoring the raspberry blown at him, Virgil lifted himself on his elbows and looked down at Richie quizzically. “Why’d you want to stay the night here, anyway?” Turning over onto his side, Richie’s eyes flicked to the window before he ducked his head conspiratorially.

“Someone’s been skulking around the house lately.”

“Wait what?!” Virgil tensed, instinctively tasting for the electricity that ran through the walls as Richie nodded.

“They don’t come onto the property or anything,” he said, “but they like, circle it, like they’re sizing it up.”

“So, what, you think they’re gonna try to break in?”

“I don’t know, things have been weird. Like, the security cameras and what we see don’t match up, and I think Dad might see something different from what me and Mom see.”

“That’s… that’s creepy, man.” Worrying his cheek, Virgil sat up properly. Richie mirrored him. “Can you be more specific?”

“Like, the other night, they went passed the house and Dad made a comment about them trying to pass themselves off as some random person walking their dog, but when I looked, there wasn’t any dog anywhere, and Mom looked as confused as me. He went out to confront them, but apparently they just, vanished.” As he spoke BackPack climbed onto the bed and nestled into his owner’s lap, laying his retractable ‘eye’ across Richie’s shoulder in what was either a comforting or protective manner. It was hard to tell when you weren’t Richie. “Dad’s cop buddies have been coming by the neighborhood periodically, but they haven’t seen anything.”

“I can see why your mom didn’t want you here alone,” Virgil said, absently patting Backpack as Richie stroked the machine.

“Yeah. She wanted me to stay at your place, since Dad’s on the night shift tonight and she’s working late, but…”

“But then she’d be here alone.” Virgil nodded, stomach knotting at the worry that was blossoming on Richie’s face. “A Bang Baby maybe?”

“Maybe.” With a tiny laugh Richie grinned. “That or a ghost.”

“The soul of a seamu,” Virgil added, with a chuckle of his own, “come to punish your family for eating them all these centuries.”

“I’ll ask Gran about dispelling dinner ghosts in my next letter.” A deep sigh. “I haven’t seen my parents this worried ever. Mom’s even been talking about sending me to Cousin Gina’s ‘early’ when they think I’m not listening, whatever that’s supposed to mean.” Leaning forward, Virgil put a hand by BackPack’s eye.

“And how are you holding up?” Richie’s next laugh was a little darker.

“After that Brainiac thing? It’s gonna take more than some creep to rattle me.” Virgil nodded, sighing himself.

“You should’ve told me ahead of time,” he said, pulling back. “You’re lucky I brought my Static stuff.” Snorting, Richie smirked and raised a brow at him teasingly.

“Dude, half the time you bring that stuff to the bathroom with you.”

“That, is beside the point.”

~~

It wasn’t the longest wait of their short lives, but it damn well felt like it as they sat there by Richie’s open window. There was no real guarantee that the unknown stranger would even show that night, but they had every night for nearly a week (a week, there were going to be Discussions about not telling teammates things) so the odds were in their favor, right? Right. As it was they were fully decked out, hoping Mrs. Foley didn’t come home before the stranger showed up. BackPack sat between them, recording everything he saw and showing it on Richie’s monitor.

If nothing else, they’d have further evidence of what was happening.

Showtime came somewhere around nine, with a hiss between Gear’s clenched teeth and repeated smacking of Static’s arm.

“Man, cool it-”

“That’s them!” Static followed Gear’s gaze, narrowing his eyes at the sight of a human shape walking through the neighbor’s yard, a mid-sized dog trotting along beside them, eyes straight ahead. His first instinct was to pat his partner on the shoulder, reassure him, joke about him being paranoid, but he bit back the impulse. What you saw wasn’t necessarily what was there, the tale of the other night proved as much. He turned to see what BackPack saw, the most reliable view they had.

No dog. Just a figure with a face like bleached bone walking much more slowly passed the house than they had first seemed, gaze locked solidly on the building until it passed their room and pale pink eyes flicked towards Gear and narrowed-

Before he could even form a thought he was out the open window, Saucer under his feet.

“Hey!” The figure didn’t look up that he could see, not even their ‘dog’ reacting to his presence as he flew straight at them, electricity gathering in one hand before everything went black, breath not even catching in his throat, more like it’d been yanked back down into his lungs.

“Static!” When the world came back into view the hero was hovering only a foot off the ground, greedily sucking in air. Gear’s hand on his arm was welcome, as was his worried checking of him. Behind them, he could hear BackPack pacing the roof, probably standing guard. “Are you okay? You just, dropped!” Slowly Static nodded, reaching out to clap a hand on Gear’s shoulder, eyes on the empty space the mysterious figure had occupied.

“We’re calling the girls.”

~~

“Richard Foley, we understand you’ve got your iffy moral stuff going on, and family crap you can’t talk about, but if you ever keep something like this a secret again I will dig a basement just to lock you in it for your own safety!”

“Yes ma’am.”

The rest of the night had passed without incident. Virgil had been woken up by a truly awful smell at one point, but that was all of note until they’d woken up the next morning and begun calling the rest of the team over a truly massive breakfast.

Turned out there wasn’t much that got everyone moving quite like the words ‘someone might be stalking Richie’. As it was they’d had the whole band together in the Abandoned Gas Station of Solitude by eight, and the past two hours had been spent grilling Richie for every detail ever and watching the security footage highlight reel on repeat.

The figure hadn’t even looked at Static until he was practically on top of them, and had waved their hand before he fell, just as Richie said, straight down out of the sky. After that they’d just, not been there. Nobody could really figure out how to describe it. All they knew was that they’d been there one frame and the next, nothing. Which certainly wasn’t helping the mood of a room that had, en masse, leaned protectively towards their blond when the figure’s eyes had locked on him. And when they’d done whatever it was they did to Static? Sharon had immediately all-but suction cupped herself to her brother in exactly the same manner he’d suctioned cupped himself to Richie.

It would’ve had to be a force of nature that dared try to bypass the sheer force of the Over My Dead Body emanating from that side of the room.

“Do we have any idea who that was?” Frieda asked, collapsing into a chair like she was made of putty. “Any clue at all?”

“I’ve never seen them outside of the whole, ya know, creeping around thing,” Richie said while the Hawkins siblings shook their heads.

“Haven’t found them on any databases yet,” Daisy said from her spot at one of the many, many computers that were- between her and the boys- beginning to take over their hideout. “Not even any maybes.”

“So, we have an unknown person stalking the Foley’s,” Sharon said, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she hovered- literally- behind the boys. “Well, I’m not risking it, who’s taking what guard shift?” For a moment it looked like Richie was going to argue that guard shifts were possibly overkill before Virgil placed a hand over his mouth.

“Rich, you have been kidnapped more than all the rest of us combined. And I’m counting the giant amoeba thing.” A ball of paper wafted across the room to collide with the back of his head.

“We’re not having it happen again when we have forewarning this time,” Frieda added, and BackPack whirred in agreement.

“Whose side are you on,” Richie muttered to the machine, but smiled at the others anyway. “Thanks guys.” Spinning her chair to face him, Daisy grinned reassuringly.

“We’ll figure out who this is and what they want,” she said, “don’t worry.” Her gaze swept the rest of the group. “I can take the ten to one shift.”

~~

Oh, she’d known this would happen eventually, with her targeting one of Dakota’s little ‘heroes’. A part of her that sounded suspiciously like Louhi had said she could still go back, change tack and grab one of those Bang Babies nobody wanted. There were a few that met her needs- Spaulding could’ve been brought to heel, and Stone, even the Hawkins boy from the night before, both would be grand for her purposes. But this one was perfect and soon the veils would part, it was better than she could dream, and she’d had every intention of having control before any of his little friends noticed anything afoot.

Damn Dakota, always making things difficult.

It poked and prodded at her, tendrils of it’s power sliding along the fibers of her magic. Plucking strings that sent a jot of fear down her spine. The longer she stayed the more it went from curious to passive-aggressive, the state miring her down like swamp mud and covering it’s citizens like the first snow. She had been upping and upping her game this past week and to her knowledge there had been no change beyond the boy eating more.

And now, now he had bodyguards.

She was done, this was happening tonight if she had to tear off his skin and force him to wear it.

Kicking over a carved pumpkin on her way passed a neighboring house (another thing this place wouldn’t let her do, her transportation spells flickered and died in her throat, refused to touch Dakota air, and this was as close as she could get in the layer below) she headed for the spot she’d taken last night. It wasn’t as close as those she’d used before, farther away to be harder to spot, but it was near enough and should work with what she had in mind.

No more careful portioning, no rationing, she had scaled the recipe up as far as she possibly could. Her entire supply of onyx powder was in the large container she pulled out of her satchel, already mixed with tomato seed oil and ready to go. Dried licorice and valerian soaking it up. A package of hay to act as kindling. The strike of a match.

Thick black smoke rose from the flames, fading into octarine as it drifted against the wind, settling over the Foley house. The girl on the roof slowly fell over sideways as it drifted in through open windows and cracks in doorframes. This would do it.

It had to.

~~

~~

He wakes up in the dead of night to growing fur and long, long limbs.

It itches. It feels right and weird and it itches, even after he’s brought up a foot to scratch at it. To scratch everywhere, because it is everywhere and seemingly endless. With a grumble he rolls off his back and onto his feet, yawning with a mouth that’s longer and longer and longer. He twists around with a quiet whine and uses it to snap and pull at the fabric covering his hindquarters- it was comfortable once, he remembers, but now is too tight too tight around his rump and he’s happy when it rips enough for his tail come through and continue to grow. So much better. Now he’s free to streeeeeetch as the itching slowly stops, shake free of the tatters left behind, and listen to the call coming along the frigid autumn air.

Come.

Be good.

Ignoring the little machine’s whirs of concern, he licks BackPack affectionately before loping out the open window.

~~

~~

The first thing Frieda was aware of was frantic poking and prodding at her shoulders, arms, face. Prodding that only disappeared after she called up a gust of wind to blow whatever it was away. It wasn’t gone for long though, quickly returning even more frantic than before, finally forcing her to blearily open her eyes.

She was still on the Foley’s roof, right where she was supposed to be, but BackPack was in front of her, all flashing lights and distressed whirring and chirps.

“BackPack. BackPack,” she reached out to push down on the machine, stopping his frantic scurry across the shingles, “what’s wrong?” With a whir that somehow managed to be even more distressed than those that came before, BackPack slipped out from under her hand and bolted for the edge of the roof near Richie’s room. Her gut twisted. Cautiously she called the wind to pick her up and carry her to the open window. She was tense and ready for a fight as she checked inside, but still her stomach dropped out of her and her heartrate skyrocketed.

“Fuck!”

~~

“Don’t tell Virgil, but I lost Richie.”

“You what?!” Frieda cringed as a voice that distinctly wasn’t Sharon’s came over the shockvox. Muffled at first, but clearer following the sounds of a brief scuffle. “What do you mean you lost Richie?!”

“He isn’t here!” She hissed, careful not to raise her voice, not to wake up Mr. and Mrs. Foley still inside. “I don’t know what happened!”

“You don’t know what-” Another scuffle and Sharon’s voice returned.

“Details, Frieda.” She almost stopped in her pacing back and forth on the Foley’s roof, but instead found herself pausing just long enough for a deep breath before falling back in step beside BackPack.

“I was standing guard, and there was this nasty smell, and then suddenly the next thing I know BackPack is shaking me awake and Richie is gone.” She still reeked. Virgil was struggling on the other end, she could hear it and practically see Sharon with a hand clamped over his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” Sharon’s voice was pinched, clearly panicking same as she and Virgil are, but age and experience were keeping her together. “It’s not your fault. We’ll find him.”

“We don’t even-”

“We’ll. Find. Him.”

 ~~

They had no leads was the problem. Every other time Richie had been kidnapped the whys and hows had been pretty fucking obvious. It was more a matter of actually tracking him down, which only ever took as long as it did because Dakota had more abandoned buildings than it did people. But this time… They didn’t know who they were dealing with. They didn’t know what they wanted Richie for. How much danger he was in.

At least if it was Ebon again they’d know he was bait, for all they knew right now he was being sold on the black market.

“I really doubt that,” Ultraviolet said somewhere around dawn, several hours into the team’s search for any clue at all. BackPack had recorded none of what happened in Richie’s room, if he’d even been active at the time. They didn’t even know when between two and three the boy had been stolen.

“It does happen,” Gravitas said. Ultraviolet shook her head.

“Not in Dakota though. Have you seen the statistics for that stuff? People’ll be kidnapped for trafficking, but they always escape one way or another. I once read that a few years back some guys were trying to take a girl across state lines and not only did their car break down, but then they were trampled by water buffalo.” The team froze and turned, as one, to stare at her slack-jawed. It was Static that spoke up.

“West end?”

“East, in the mountains.” Silence. Hurricane slowly shook her head and went to sit on a random porch, mindlessly throwing a breeze back and forth to move a jaunty skeleton decoration. Gravitas made a gesture of surrender.

“Only in this state.”

“Okay,” Static said, “so we know that’s not a problem. Doesn’t narrow much down though.”

“No.” Sighing, Ultraviolet worried her lip. No tracks, no signs of struggle, no sign of that mysterious figure. They were hitting a dead end. “We’re just going to have to keep looking. He has to be somewhere.”

~~

~~

The collar around his throat itches but it’s easy to ignore in favor of the smells and sounds of this city that is his. Smoke, oil, sweat, engines, music, yelling, meat meat meat sound and smell all around him and hunger thudding like a heartbeat through his veins-

He hunts. Leisurely, moving at an easy trot through the alleys and backstreets of the city, nose held high to track these many many scents. He’s so hungry, more than he’s ever been in his life, and all he needs, all he wants, is a good target…

There. A barking little beastie, chained to a fence and straining at him, teeth bared. At another time, in another shape, he may have backed away from sharp teeth and aggression he can smell in the air, but here and now all he sees is meat. A leap longer than the pit expected, jaws around its muzzle, a single good whip of his head, and there’s silence.

Breakfast.

~~

~~

Eventually, they’d been forced to split up. Ultraviolet and Gravitas had taken BackPack back to the Gas Station of Solitude with the goal of finding something, anything, to tie back to the mysterious figure they all knew was behind this, while Static and Hurricane continued the search of the city.

It was ten am, at least seven hours following Richie’s disappearance. They’d each of them fielded calls from a frantic Mrs. Foley. The police were getting involved.

There were still no damn leads.

“Well,” Hurricane said as soon as the door opened, “I had to stop Static dropping Kangor from a flagpole, so that was something.”

“Look,” said hero responded, following close behind her, “if he hadn’t tried being coy we wouldn’t have had problems!” It said something about how he was feeling about the whole situation that he immediately plopped down beside his sister, barely an inch between them.

“So,” she said, “ended up just interrogating everybody?”

“It’s not like we had anything else to go with,” Static said, “may as well ask around the Bang Baby scene.”

“We didn’t try everyone,” Hurricane added. “We figured if this person were involved with Ebon’s crew we’d have heard something by now, same with Puff and Onyx.”

“And Madelyn’s not this subtle,” Ultraviolet said. The others nodded.

“Exactly.” Sighing, Hurricane leaned against Ultraviolet’s desk. “But nobody knew anything, at least anything we could get out of them.”

“And we’ve found exactly jack shit,” Gravitas said with a groan, head falling back against the ratty couch she and her brother occupied. “Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“We just need one lead,” Static said, mirroring his sister and reaching up to pat BackPack when he climbed into his lap. “Just one, that’s all we’re asking!”

True to all rules of thematic timing, there came a knock.

The room went quiet as the heroes went tense, eyes darting between each other and the door. There weren’t exactly that many people who knew where to find them, and even fewer who bothered to knock. Under the best of circumstances they would’ve been on guard, and these were certainly not the best of circumstances. Patting Static’s shoulder, Gravitas stood slowly and made her way cautiously towards the door- probably for the best, given she was the oldest and along with Hurricane was the one most capable to turning the tide on a sudden attacker. The door opened with the loudest creak in the history of the world, Gravitas’s eyes blowing wide when she saw what was outside.

“Good morning,” Wonder Woman said, slipping into the doorway, “may I come in?”

~~

Nobody from the League had gotten the kind of welcome Wonder Woman got, which was all on the women. Static certainly hadn’t ever considered offering Batman a soda. But then, that was Batman, who probably didn’t even need to eat, thriving off sheer justice, and this was Wonder Woman, who’d gladly accepted not only his seat on the couch but also a coke and a handful of the fun size candies he and Gravitas kept sneaking from the community center. Because that’s what you did with free bowls of candy, no matter who you were. As it was, she had the full attention of the whole team, including the girls’ hearts from the looks of it- if there were any more stars in Gravitas’s eyes he’d have been calling Adam with a warning- leaving BackPack to do the fifth trawl of the many, many, many files they’d found and gotten into all on his lonesome.

“So,” Ultraviolet said, two fun-size snickers into the visit, “I’m going to guess this isn’t a social call?”

“Unfortunately,” Wonder Woman replied, “though I guess we probably ought to do those more often.” She sighed and scanned the group. “I was hoping to get your help with a, situation.” Yep, they’d known it was coming.

“What kind of situation?”

“There’s a witch somewhere in Dakota-”

“In late-October, yeah-”

“A real witch.” There wasn’t even a hint of humor in her tone or expression, but also no judgement for the comment. She took a sip of her soda before continuing. “Normally it wouldn’t be anything to worry about, the vast majority of magic users aren’t any trouble, even the ones from Dakota, but this one…” She shook her head, a sight that had the team all exchanging concerned looks. They didn’t even have information and this sounded bad. Again, it was Gravitas that stepped forward.

“We’d love to help,” she said, “but I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re down a teammate.” Wonder Woman nodded. “Gear vanished from his bed last night in what we’re sure is a kidnapping.”

“Well,” the older hero set her drink down, making solid eye contact with Gravitas, “I’m more than happy to help you find him. We’ll just have to handle more than one situation, perfectly doable.” Everyone was silent for a moment, up until Hurricane sighed, deep and heavy and blowing candy wrappers around the room, and dropped into the spot beside Wonder Woman.

“Fuck it,” she said, “not like we have any leads anyway. Gives us something to do while we figure this out besides worry.”

Well, it wasn’t like she was wrong.

“You first,” Ultraviolet said, leaning back against a desk with her eyes locked on Wonder Woman, “what are we dealing with, with this witch?” Nodding, Wonder Woman picked up her soda and settled back in her seat.

“She goes by Athame,” she began, “she’s, very ambitious. Too ambitious.” The young team, who had all heard that more than a time or two, raised their eyebrows in unison.

“Too am-”

“She wants to create a new source of magic.” Okay, that sounded, something.

“Alright,” Static said, “we may need some more background here.” Wonder Woman nodded again.

“All magic has a single source. There are plenty of items out there that contain magic, or run off of it, but there’s only one source of magic, and even just having it with you is enough to allow people with no magical talent to use difficult spells without issue.”

“Okay,” Ultraviolet nodded, “I can see where that might be dangerous if a skilled witch got a hold of it.” A hollow chuckle from the older hero.

“I wish she wanted to get a hold of it,” she said, “then it would be someone else’s business. What she wants is to make a second one, and she’s come up with a ritual she thinks will do it.”

“Will it?”

“Who knows.” She shrugged. “But we can’t take that risk. The best-case scenario is that the ritual does nothing, but if it fails violently then there’s too much risk of collateral damage with all the power it would need, and that’s not even taking into account it if works.”

“At which point we have someone running around with pretty much unlimited magical power,” Gravitas said, running a hand down her face. This was just, great.

“If the existence of two sources of magic doesn’t just tear reality apart.”

And that was even better.

A mass groan went around the room.

“What about your friend,” Wonder Woman asked, leaning forward probably as much to make sure they knew she was taking all of this seriously as out of actual interest, “what are the details there?” Static, being the first alerted to the situation, stepped forward.

“Some creep’s been stalking around his house the last week,” he said, “not that he bothered to tell anyone until the other day. Why the hell wouldn’t he tell us?”

“Because,” Hurricane butted in, “he’s the stupidest genius we know.” Beside her, Wonder Woman took on a thoughtful look, head bobbing slightly as she clearly tried to work out whether that actually was the stupidest thing she’d seen a supposed genius do. Gravitas, meanwhile, just looked at Static and wobbled her hand in a ‘that’s iffy’ gesture, earning herself a glare.

“Anyway,” Static continued pointedly, “he finally said something the other day and... They’ve clearly got powers of some sort, but this is Dakota, we had to deal with a dandelion with delusions of grandeur just last week, so that’s not really weird around here. What is weird is that we decided to take shifts to guard his house and he still disappeared right out from under us.”

“I’m still not sure what happened,” Hurricane said. “One minute everything was fine, then the next BackPack was waking me up and Gear was gone.” Eyes narrowed, Wonder Woman nodded.

“That is worrying…” Ultraviolet purposefully shoved away from the desk she was leaned against and half-turned towards where BackPack was working his not-quite-Gear-level magic.

“Come on,” she said, “we have video.”

The group moved as one, crowding in around her as she removed BackPack from the computer he was interfacing with. He found a comfortable spot in her lap as she sat down and went about pulling up the video from the night before last. Nothing was different from any other viewing- same too-pale face and eyes, creepy eyeballing of the house, looking directly at their now-missing friend. Same mysterious attack on Static and subsequent disappearance. But there weren’t many eyes for it this time. Instead everyone was focused on Wonder Woman, stood in pride of place directly behind Ultraviolet, watching her take in the event, her eyes going wide. When the screen cut to black, she reached out and put her hand on Ultraviolet’s shoulder.

“Well,” she said, “good news, we only have one situation.”

~

She ought to be happy, overjoyed with how things are going right now, but really she was kind of annoyed. Richie did whatever she commanded, which was perfect, just what she needed in a familiar, but… Well the problem was twofold. First off, Dakota let him wander around, through the layers of magic that made up the region, with ease. As if he was just walking through parting curtains. Meanwhile she had to struggle for every inch the state would give her, putting more and more power in to move around, to hold off the clash of ethereal jaws she could feel building.

Secondly, the child was a mess. It was bad enough that he’d slipped back into her lair covered in blood and back alley grime, reeking of death, but she couldn’t even wash him. To do so would risk clearing away the smoke that had settled into his fur, that even now filled the lair, and she would have to be mad to risk losing that control, even for an instant. The wool collar on his throat, the sheepskin he laid on, were enough to keep him in his shape, but for now that smoke was all that kept him in line.

Not for long though. With his help, soon everything would be ready. She would have a Source and then she could forgo the wool, forgo the licorice root, and keep him through power alone.

As soon as the veil opened…

~~

~~

He’s smart, and good, and now that he’s finally full his master has a job for him.

(something in his gut is screaming, it whines and hides when he smells her, sees her, hears her, says it isn’t right, she’s not right, but the call is true…)

It’s a big job too, very important. She wants peacocks, as many as he can find, and because the city is his he knows just where to look.

Seemingly out of nowhere he lopes into the center of the Dakota City Zoo, air crisp in his lungs and screams ringing out like the deep gong of church bells. The humans scatter around him, reeking of shock and fear, briefly flicking on his instinct to chase and play. Joyfully he twists, turns, leaps, nipping at heels and sending the guests scurrying with barking laughter. In their displays the animals bellow and shriek in time with the humans.

But eventually fun times have to end, there’s work to be done for his master, and so he shakes his head to clear it of ‘prey’ and ‘play’. Work. He’s here for work. Because he’s good.

Raising up on his hind legs, stretching out as far as he can, allows him to make a quick survey of the area. The humans make it difficult to see, but he doesn’t know the scent he’s looking for and he can just make out a few patches of blue among the greys and yellows that don’t look like clothes, that are moving on their own. With a heading in mind, he gives a howl that makes his heart pang (why call when his pack’s not there to hunt with him?) and drops back to the ground. Long legs make the journey quick, and the humans that come with guns drop them when he snaps at their arms, it’s easy easy easy to find the flock.

He runs forward and they scatter, but these aren’t humans, they don’t have long legs to take them far and can’t gain speed by dropping their tails. The tails that are so easy to grab with hand and tooth, to yank them out of the air so he can snap jaws around their long long necks and shake. The humans aren’t bothering him anymore, in the distance he can hear them fleeing en masse, working to get themselves and each other far far away. Not that he cares. He’s focused on the job, the fun fun job, and the pile of birds forming on the ground as he chases and grabs, snaps and shakes. A mass of blue and grey that only stops growing when he knows his mouth won’t hold any more.

With a carefree air he gathers up the bodies in his jaws, carrying them by their broken necks, and lopes, tail wagging, back the way he came.

His master, good (wrong) master, will be so proud.

~~

~~

When the reports of dead animals started coming in the police and animal control really hadn’t expected a handful of superheroes to show up to investigate, but given what had been going on lately there’d been no chance of them ignoring the cases. After all, it could have been the ‘normal’ tendency for sickos to start slaughtering black animals around Halloween, or it could have been tied into the actual witchcraft going on in the city. The fact it was happening the very day Richie had vanished from his bed only made the whole thing more suspicious.

What nobody had expected was to find all the animals eaten.

It was a gruesome sight, dogs, cats, a few birds all ripped to shreds. Soft, fleshy bits were all gone, as were a few of their heads, bodies held together with bits of remaining ligament and gristle. Bones gnawed, some cracked open to get at their marrow. The group hardly help it together until they’d seen all the damage, barely made it out of the room the corpses had been placed in before several of them where fighting over the nearest trashcan.

In a way, that made the call that there was a monster attacking the zoo a relief, even if the creature was gone by the time they arrived. As it was, the ladies hardly touched ground before an important looking zoo employee was running for them, his eyes wide and shoulders still trembling.

“Wonder Woman,” he called, because with her there the rest of them were chopped liver, “thank god you’re here!” A perfect professional- at least in the eyes of the younger set- she calmly placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“What happened here?” she asked in a gentle tone that soothed some of the frantic panic from the man’s face. “Is anyone hurt?” He shook his head.

“All the guests and workers are fine, shaken but no injuries. We’ve lost all but two of our peacocks though to that, that-” Ultraviolet stepped down off Static’s saucer, the electrokinetic hero following behind.

“Maybe you should sit down,” she said, “and then explain.” Nodding, he lead the group to the nearest bench and all but collapsed upon it, taking deep breaths to try to settle the shake in his limbs.

“Nobody is really sure where it came from,” he said, “just that it, appeared around the Asian Trail. Chased the guests around, snapped at people, then it just, killed our peacocks and disappeared.” The heroes looked at each other with eyes full of concern and fear.

“Are there any bodies we should take a look at?”

“No, just feathers left.”

Oh, thank fuck. Hurricane and Ultraviolet settled into the spots on either side of the man as Static stepped forward.

“What did it look like?” he asked.

“It was-” the man hesitated, beginning again to tremble, “it was just…” Another deep, steadying sigh. “There’s security footage.”

~~

It wasn’t a wolf. It looked like a wolf, kinda. Sorta. Maybe. If you’d never seen a wolf before. Or a dog. The colors were right and there was fur, how about that?

In reality, the creature trotting around in the footage looked more like someone had taken the important bits of a wolf- the eyes, ears, mouth, tail, fur- and stretched them out over a human form. Then they had clearly just, kept stretching from there. It’s back was so long to match up with the almost human limbs, limbs that kept it’s shoulders nearly level with those of the grown men it snapped and barked at. The lips were loose, constantly showing flashes of long, sharp teeth. They could easily make out the flat palms and soles of human hands and feet, stretched long and raised off the ground in favor of clawed fingers and toes too too long and flexible for anyone’s comfort.

There was no way, even in Dakota: Land of the Bang Babies and Weird-Ass Animals, that that was anything but

“There is a fucking werewolf in Dakota.”

Wonder Woman sighed, shutting her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. Dakota’s finest, meanwhile, chewed their lips and exchanged concerned looks. Nobody there was stupid, hell all of them were brilliant, and, well. Bit of a coincidence, a werewolf showing up in Dakota with a witch running around… Static was first to speak.

“Thirty bucks it’s Richie.” Hurricane shook her head.

“Sucker’s bet.”

“What,” Gravitas suddenly spun to face Wonder Woman, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed, “would she want to make him a werewolf for?”

“Cheaper feeding?” Static said on autopilot, immediately shying away from the girls’ glares. “Sorry.” Now it was Wonder Woman’s time to worry her lower lip, looking over the team.

“She probably needed a familiar.”

“For…?” There was, in that moment, the very real chance of a small riot breaking out in that room, and a higher one of Gravitas punching the first person to not give her answers. This was one of her brothers they were talking about. Wonder Woman was smart enough not to risk it.

“The last I saw Athame she was using her familiar as a conduit to use more powerful magic,” she said. “I have to assume a werewolf is the best conduit she can get her hands on right now.” This didn’t help the mood of anyone in the room.

“So,” Hurricane said, “she’s probably going to use him for that ritual then? Would it hurt him?” All eyes stayed on Wonder Woman, who sighed again.

“He’s young, fit, and a werewolf. In theory he should be able to handle most anything that gets thrown at him, but I don’t know exactly what the limits on them are.”

“And if he can’t?” The room went quiet. Muscles tensed all around, even worse than they already had been. Static stepped forward, footfalls heavy and purposeful, sparks arcing between his fingers.

“Wonder Woman, what happens if Richie can’t handle the ritual?” She stayed quiet for a moment more, eyes downcast, visibly struggling for words, before she sighed and sadly met the hero’s gaze.

“Sizzle.”

~~

“Okay, ‘repenting for your sins’ apparently works.”

“Maybe if you’re in human shape, but I don’t think a giant wolf-monster can repent for much.”

“‘Piercing the wolf’s hands with nails’, yeah that’s not happening.”

“No nails, no silver, no beating him upside the head with a pipe.”

“I was just repeating what the book said.” With a grunt Ultraviolet went limp in her seat, staring down at the book in her hands. The library had been raided, the internet was being raided, in their desperate bid to find something, anything, that could bring Richie back to normal. That they could use to save him.

“Swimming across a river in the full moon’s light?” Gravitas suggested, only for Wonder Woman to shake her head.

“I’m not willing to count on us having the two weeks to spare.”

“Agreed.”

“Oh here’s a fun one,” Hurricane said, scoffing, “‘not turning into a wolf’.”

“Handy,” Static commented, “wish we’d known that was all it took before.”

“‘Getting a god to remove the curse’?” Everyone looked at Wonder Woman hopefully, but she shook her head.

“Demi-god. It’s not the same.”

“Damnit.” Everyone groaned as one. Why was everything so… this? Nobody deserved this sort’ve stress.

“So, so far,” Static said, “our options are looking like poison, silver, blunt force trauma, and death. Joy.”

“I really don’t know what to do,” Wonder Woman admitted, staring down at the book in her hands. “Either we kill him, or do something that might kill him, or risk him dying at the hands of Athame.”

No one looked at each other, eyes only on pages and screens. It didn’t look good. It really didn’t look good. They wanted him alive damnit! Alive and unharmed other than maybe a stomach ache which really the way he ate even when he wasn’t a monster he probably deserved anyway!

What the fuck where they supposed to do if they couldn’t save him…?

“Guys,” eyes flicked up, just enough to see Gravitas take a deep breath and release it, “I think this is one time when we should probably forewarn the parents.”

~~

Mr. Foley wasn’t home, not that anyone but Wonder Woman could bring themselves to care. If anything it meant this discussion was going to be easier. Nobody could guess what his response to ‘your son is a werewolf and may not come out of this alive’ would be, and they kind of hoped they never had to learn. Better to just get his mother on her own.

Unfortunately, there was no saving themselves from the look on her face when a group of somber superheroes showed up on her porch.

“Your son is alive,” Wonder Woman clarified before anything else, watching Mrs. Foley heave a massive sigh of relief, “but we have to talk.”

“Of course, come in,” she said, nodding and moving aside. The door was shut behind them. “Have a seat, please, I’ll get you something to drink. Soda, coffee, tea?”

“We’re fine, Mrs. Foley,” Gravitas said, only for the other woman to shake her head.

“Please, I need the distraction right now.” The heroes exchanged glances, knowing full well they weren’t going to argue.

“Tea would be nice.”

“Coming right up.”

Nobody spoke while she worked. She said nothing and there was a silent agreement among the heroes that she should be sat down when she heard the news. For her own sake. So, the house stayed too too quiet, broken only by the whistle of a kettle and the series of quiet ‘thank you’s that came along with getting their individual mugs.

“Alright,” breathing deep, Mrs. Foley settled into a seat and squared her shoulders, “what’s going on? Superheroes don’t show up at your door unless they have to.” As one Dakota’s heroes turned to Wonder Woman. She was oldest, most experienced, and the only one there that didn’t already know the woman, and as such was the unofficial spokesperson of the moment.

“We’re only mostly certain-” Static, Hurricane, and Gravitas all gave her pointed looks. As if they were only ‘mostly’ certain of anything. “We know your son’s been kidnapped by a witch-” Mrs. Foley made a pained noise. “-and we’re mostly certain he is, at the moment, a werewolf.”

Groaning, the redhead let her head fall back against the couch and muttered something under her breath with what was almost a growl.

“Mrs-”

“Maggie, please.”

“Maggie, could you repeat that please?” She looked at Wonder Woman, then around at the others, before straightening with a sigh.

“The witch…” she groan-growled again, “I knew something like this was going to happen, I said we should send him out to Gina’s, but no, Sean had to be a stubborn-” Catching herself, she took a steadying breath. “The werewolf thing is normal. He shouldn’t be turning for at least another few months, but once you get witches involved everything can go to hell in a heartbeat…”

The room went silent. Wind didn’t blow outside. Jaws were slack, eyes were wide. Static gaped like a fish for twelve seconds before he finally found his voice.

“You’re all werewolves?” Maggie shook her head.

“Sean and I aren’t, but it runs in both sides of the family. Richie’s shown signs for ages.”

“Does he know about this?!” Because there were family secrets and then there were things you told your best friend of forever- though this would explain that crush on the Wolfman in middle school, and his refusal to watch Sleepwalkers ever. Maggie gave an empty chuckle.

“I love my son, but we were hoping to hold off on telling him until any random passerby couldn’t get his full pedigree out of him with a double cheeseburger.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

“Since you seem to be the one in the know,” Wonder Woman said, leaning forward, “maybe you could help us turn him back? We couldn’t find any methods we had time for that wouldn’t put him in danger.”

“Of course,” Maggie said with a nod, standing, “give me a minute and I’ll get you the recipe for my mother’s wolfsbane brew.”

“Wolfsbane…”

“It’s a family trick, for when the kids get too caught up in being the wolf.” Slipping back into the kitchen, she raised her voice to ensure she was heard as she went through an assortment of drawers. “I don’t have any of the ingredients, since we were counting on having a few more months at least and being able to send him back west, but a good scrub down with sapphire should get him back to normal. Ah.” Her waving hand, a yellowed piece of paper clutched in it, appeared around the corner before she did. “Just make sure to check him over for any wool first. A witch only grabs a wolf for a familiar or for parts and either way they need to secure them in wool. Could be anything from a collar to a piece of string, but as long as it’s there he won’t turn back.” Every other body in the room nodded as she handed the paper off to Gravitas, who raised her hand slightly.

“You wouldn’t happen to be able to tell us anything about magic, would you? Such as, I don’t know, what to look for if this witch is going to be doing a ritual?” Maggie looked at her, eyebrow raised, and nodded.

“If they’re going to perform a ritual any time soon it’ll probably be sometime tomorrow. Thematics are very important in magic, and Halloween is a very thematic day. It’d be better if there was a full moon, but a new one is nearly as good.” Gravitas nodded even while Hurricane narrowed her eyes curiously.

“How do you know this stuff?” she asked, and Maggie smiled.

“Witches run in the family too.”

“…of course.”

~~

“Frieda.” Hurricane froze on her way out the door, shiver running up her spine at the use of her real name in costume. When she turned, Maggie was stood behind her, a soft smile on, holding out a glasses case. “He’s going to need these once he’s turned back.” Slowly, reminding herself to breathe, she took the case.

“Thank you, Mrs. Foley.” The smile widened.

“Thank you. Just, you kids try to be safe, please?” It took a lot of effort not to hug her, to just nod and smile back.

“We’ll try.”

~~

“I’m sorry, why am I the one in charge of boiling water of all things?”

“Because you have fucking lasers, if anyone is going to be able to get and keep 80 gallons of water boiling without it taking a year it’ll be you.” Scowling, Ultraviolet huffed and glowered at the cast iron tub Gravitas and Static had found in the junkyard. It was rusty, but she could laser that off as easy as she could boil fucking water.

“Richie owes me a pizza after this is done.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

~~

“The good news is,” Wonder Woman said upon she and Gravitas’s return to base, “we have all the wolfsbane we could ever need. The bad news is I’m going to have to explain to Batman why I bought five pounds of poison on the League’s dime.”

“I'm amazed I didn’t just start screaming,” Gravitas grumbled, dropping a large box one had to assume contained said wolfsbane next to the tub. “A pair of superheroes show up talking about needing wolfsbane for an emergency and you not only charge them, but I swear that man upped the price, there is no way this shit costs that much.”

“Just be glad the League is footing the bill.” Wonder Woman nudged the box with her foot. “Still I think I’ll have Superman go talk to him about taking advantage of those in need. He may die of shame right there.” Ultraviolet chuffed, tearing open the box and beginning the process of dumping dried leaves into the boiling water.

“Fingers crossed.”

~~

Static turned the hunk of stone over in his hand, eyeing it carefully. Mrs. Foley had ended up giving them the address of one of the nearer packs in hopes they would have the stones they needed and it certainly seemed so.

“Ya know,” he said, “I never thought sapphire could look like…”

“Just a big blue rock?” Hurricane smiled and shrugged, holding up the small bag of the gems they’d been given so he could return his own to it. Once he had she tied it shut, tucking it away in the deerskin cloak they’d also been loaned. “They said they were rough stones. Guess they’re only as polished as they are through use.”

“Or because it’d really hurt to get scrubbed down with a pointy rock.” She chuckled.

“Or that, yeah.”

~~

It was late afternoon before the group was all together again, the sky just beginning to go dark, costumed children starting to gather on the sidewalks of Dakota.

“Alright,” Gravitas asked, stood at the head of the room, “everything set? Wolfsbane brew?”

“Ready and waiting,” Ultraviolet replied. “It’s getting cold, but I think he’ll live.”

“Great. Sapphires?”

“Enough for everyone,” Static said as Hurricane dumped the bag out beside the tub, “we can tag team him.”

“Now all we need to do is find them.” Scanning the room Wonder Woman put out her hands compellingly. “Any ideas?”

“We asked the pack Mrs. Foley sent us to,” Hurricane said, “and they said if they were just appearing places then they were probably in a different ‘layer’ of the city? And gave us this.” She held up the deerskin cloak. “Apparently it’ll let us move between the layers ourselves.”

“Our idea was that we could put it on BackPack,” Static added, the robot perking up from his rather despondent spot in a corner at the sound of his name. “He can find them, put a tracker down, then come back. Then we go in.”

“That,” Wonder Woman said, “is a better plan than half of Batman’s. Good work.”

~~

~~

He’s lonely. He wasn’t lonely before, when he’d first followed the call to his master, then he’d just been hungry. After, he’d been enthusiastic. But it’s been over a day, his belly is full again of dogs and cats and one man who ran at the wrong time, and as he lays curled tight on the single sheepskin his master has given him all he can do is watch her paint patterns on the floor in peacock blood and feel so so lonely.

He misses his pack.

His dam. His sisters. Brother. His sire he can do without, but the rest of them he feels the lack of deep in his chest. He can’t hear them call, can’t smell them through the smoke, on the whirling breeze. He whines and the sound makes his master snap at him, which in turn makes the thing in his gut scream and snap back. Lonely and cold(wrong) and yearning(she’s wrong).

His pup had come. Slipped inside with fur of his own, hidden in the shadows, long enough to be nuzzled and cleaned before vanishing again. It hadn’t helped anything, only made the ache worse. His pup he misses most, and he had come and then just left him alone again…

“Richie, come here.” The command is welcome, a distraction from the loneliness and the too-small sheepskin. His tongue lolls from his mouth as he stands, stretches, plods to her side. She shoves it back in and holds his jaw closed as she begins to paint him in the same blood as the floor. It’s been mixed with something, he knows, but he isn’t certain what. Something that feels gritty against his nose. The blood-paint goes in patterns over his face, his neck, his legs, his body, and he behaves, he’s good, as it’s applied. He is good, he is compliant as she leads him by the collar to a spot among the floor patterns. As he watches, she crosses them to take the spot opposite his own, the dried husk of something (a leech, something in his head tells him, a massive leech) sitting in a marked spot between them.

She begins to speak a language he can’t understand and something strange starts to seep into his bones, the patterns going hot along his form as

A bolt of lightning flashes past his master’s shoulder

And Richie stops being good

He knows in his soul what that means, and even though he can’t smell them through the licorice he can’t help but jump to his feet, twisting in midair to face his pack, tail wagging so fast it’s but a blur behind him.

“Oh for the love of,” his master says behind him, “heroes just can’t leave well enough alone.” His brother is stepping forward to meet him, sisters behind him, when he suddenly collapses, gasping for a breath that only comes when a slam sounds back in the lair. Richie whines deep in his throat, turning to see his master dragging herself back to the ground, gaze darting between her and his pack. She’s clearly angered.

“Richie, attack.” He doesn’t want to, of course he doesn’t want to this is his pack and the something in his gut is screaming louder, fighting and howling, but the command sinks into him and despite his own wishes he turns and lunges teeth first at the nearest target. It’s a relief and a horror when instead of his brother’s face his jaws lock around something hard and metallic and burning- searing his lips and tongue as the person attached to it flings him aside. The pain doesn’t stop his body from following orders though, it rises on its own, flings itself forward again.

“Don’t, you’ll hurt him!” The woman he hadn’t noticed through the smoke and excitement of pack has raised her arms again in preparation for his attack, only to be shoved aside by his brother. A whine tears from his throat as his teeth dig into the blue cloth over his arm, as he bowls him over. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, and Virgil is straining to hold his mouth open enough with one hand, struggling not to lose the arm entirely to his teeth.

“It’s okay, man,” he soothes, kicking at his limbs as he tries to claw at him, “it’s gonna be alright, I promise, it’s okay-” Distantly, he can hear struggling behind them, deeper in the lair. Feel magic flying, see and feel the light and wind off his sisters. His pup reappears, sans fur, whirring and chirping as he helps to pry him off his brother. It’s difficult, even with him fighting his hardest to stop, but eventually Virgil’s able to roll away and a shout brings one of his sister’s gusts of wind under and around him, holding him safely in the air where he can snap and swipe and whine without injuring anybody.

It’s from here he can see the fight with his master end. Not with a bang, or a flash of magic, but with merely a quick turn directly into one of his sisters’ fists. His body doesn’t stop struggling, doesn’t stop fighting, even as he whines in pain and distress, even as his pack tries to soothe him from below. Eventually the woman from before, with the silver gauntlets, simply pulls out a long rope and begins the arduous process of binding his mouth shut, tying his limbs to his body, actions that only make his whining louder, his struggling harder. Even being lowered into the reach of their hands doesn’t help, nor the removal of his collar, or the placing of his pup on his back.

He whines and struggles all the way back out of the lair.

~~

~~

Turns out getting Richie into the goddamn tub is the worst part of the whole affair. You’d think it would be easy to just drop the bound and gagged werewolf into the water, but no, apparently he was a cat in a past life. Somehow, against all odds, his struggling had gotten worse as soon as he’d seen the water and he’d begun thrashing so much they struggled to line him up with the tub in the first place. They’d ended up having to wrestle him in and then have Gravitas use her powers to make him all but unable to move at all.

Still, it meant they could move on to phase two, and all five heroes grabbed a chuck of rough sapphire, picked a region of wolf, and got to scrubbing him down. And, despite all odds, it seemed to work. With each scrub more and more fur fell away, and with it went the monstrous shape of him. A patch there and he had a shorter muzzle. One here gained him a more humanlike arm. Between Gravitas and Wonder Woman his tail may as well have come off in one big clump. They scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, tub filling with grey and brown fur, until their arms were sore and finally the rope binding him fell away from the smaller, bare form.

“Richie? How are you feeling?” His breathing was ragged, exhausted from fighting and transforming. He moved his head only enough to verify that Static, Ultraviolet, and Hurricane were right there before lifting himself up enough to lay his forehead against Static’s shoulder.

“I really need some cocoa,” he said, spitting out some blood from the since healed silver wounds, “and a fucking salad.” A small laugh came out of Gravitas, tired but relieved, and proved to be contagious, growing louder as the rest of the team caught it and crowded in close, clapping hands on shoulders, in his hair, even Backpack nearly climbing into the tub, as if to prove to themselves he was there and safe.

“Figures it’d take turning into a man-eating monster to get you anywhere near one.”

~~

Once it was clear Richie was going to be okay, suffering nothing more than some trauma that he insisted still wasn’t as bad as the Brainiac Incident, Wonder Woman was forced to leave. After all somebody had to head back in and get Athame- if Dakota had left anything of her- make sure she met justice, return all the magic items they’d borrowed, and she felt confident the others could manage things like getting him home alright and finding him something to wear on the way.

(“Of course your mom would think to hand us your glasses, but not a pair of pants.”)

So, the heroes of Dakota found themselves spending the late evening in a massive cuddlepile in the Foley living room, laden with cocoa and testing the weight limits of the couch.

“I just hope I can talk mom out of shipping me off to Cousin Gina’s,” Richie said, by now ignoring the way BackPack had latched onto the back of the couch and refused to stop rubbing against his head affectionately, “don’t wanna leave you guys down one again if I can help it, even if it is just once a month.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Frieda said, strewn across Richie’s legs with Daisy on top of her. “I mean, did anyone else see his face when we showed up?”

“May as well have been coming to get our dog out of the boarding kennel,” Sharon added. “You were like a puppy right up until you started trying to eat Virgil.”

“Which,” said other teen said before Richie could open his mouth, “you have never at any point been blamed for.”

“I’m sure we could keep you in line.” Daisy stretched out a kink and took a sip of her cocoa. “We just need to stay close and stock up on jerky.” Richie suddenly froze, Virgil and Sharon watching him warily from their positions directly at his sides, practically joining the other girls in his lap, as he narrowed his eyes at the half-eaten salad on the coffee table.

“I could be having jerky right now.”

[hudsonespie]

Veterans Day: Coast Guard Heroes of the Normandy Landings

[By BM1 William A. Bleyer]

“We were sitting ducks and the Germans clearly had us in their sights.“ - Steward’s Mate 2nd Class John Noble Roberts, U.S. Coast Guard Reserve

The most iconic photograph from D-Day is titled “Into the Jaws of Death,” and it was shot by Coast Guard combat photographer Chief Petty Officer Robert Sargent from a landing craft approaching the beaches of Normandy. The morning of June 6, 1944, found Steward’s Mate 2nd Class John Noble Roberts and the crew of USS LCI(L)-93 (a.k.a. LCI-93) running into that hotly-contested piece of French shoreline.

John Roberts (left) was born in Natchitoches Parish, Louisiana, on November 1, 1924. He was the oldest of 15 children whose parents were cotton farmers. He was working as a clerk at a grocery store and a waiter at the Silver Moon Night Club in Alexandria, Louisiana, when he was drafted into the Coast Guard.

Roberts attended Coast Guard basic training at Curtis Bay, Maryland, from June to July 1943, and then headed to St. Augustine, Florida, for Steward’s Mate training. In January 1944, he embarked a troop transport destined for the European Theater. On January 27th, he disembarked in England and was assigned to Coast Guard-manned LCI-91. He later transferred to Coast Guard-manned LCI-93 under the command of Lt.j.g. Budd Bornhoft.

As an African American, Roberts had experienced discrimination throughout his life. And, even though the United States military would not fully desegregate until 1948, cracks in its segregationist policies appeared during World War II. The Coast Guard led the way in having integrated crews on its ships, and Roberts got along well with his shipmates.

LCI-93 was a new kind of amphibious assault ship, one of many such vessels crewed by Coast Guardsmen in World War II. Commonly called “Elsie Items” after the first two letters and the letter “I” in the phonetic alphabet, LCIs were unusual-looking ships—only 158-foot long with a square conning tower jutting up from the after portion of the vessel. Essentially, they were small troop transports that could land troops on hostile beaches.

LCI-93 had seen action in the Allied invasions of the North Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Now, with Roberts on board, LCI-93 would sail with the joint U.S. Navy-Coast Guard Flotilla 10 for Operation Neptune, the naval operation supporting Operation Overlord–the Allied assault on Nazi-occupied France.

Awaiting LCI-93 at its sector of Omaha Beach, designated “Easy Red,” were layers of beach obstacles, mines, machine gun bunkers with interlocking fields of fire, and pre-registered enemy artillery. Manned by capable German troops, including some battle-tested men, these fortifications had escaped significant damage from Allied air and naval bombardment.

LCI-93 made its first D-Day run to shore at 9:45 a.m. with Roberts manning his battle station as an emergency messenger. When LCI-319 approached Easy Red beach, heavy German artillery and machine gun fire covered it with dead and wounded. The landing vessel ground over beach obstacles and the crew dropped ramps on either side of the bow sending into the fray 200 soldiers from the 1st Infantry Division (a.k.a. “Big Red One”). One soldier was caught shirking in the crew’s quarters and Roberts escorted him up to the bridge to face Lt.j.g. Bornhoft. Soon after, LCI-93 recovered wounded soldiers, backed off the beach, and steamed to the Coast Guard-manned transport USS Samuel B. Chase to embark more troops.

It was during LCI-93’s second run to Easy Red beach that everything went wrong. On final approach, the LCI hit a mine and the explosion damaged the engine room. German artillery and machine gun fire peppered the ship as soldiers scrambled to disembark. Survivors from LCI-487, beached 100 yards away and badly damaged, began running and swimming through the heavy fire to climb aboard. Observing that men were abandoning LCI-487, the Germans concentrated their fire on LCI-93.

On the bridge, Lt.j.g. Bornhoft realized he had to get his ship off the beach before it was blown to pieces. Communications with the engine room had been knocked out, so Bornhoft ordered Roberts to relay a message below. Roberts later described what happened next:

Watercolor by Navy Combat Artist Dwight Shepler titled “The Tough Beach” showing LCI-93 aground and holed on Omaha Beach. (U.S. Navy Art Collection)

LCI-93 aground on Omaha Beach after the Battle of D-Day still flying its flags and showing battle damage. (U.S. Coast Guard)

LCI-93 stripped and abandoned on Omaha Beach well after the D-Day landings. (navsource.org)

“I was taking a message from the skipper down to the engine room; he told me to go down and tell them to rev the engines up so we can try and get off. I didn’t make it down to the engine room; a shell came through the bulkhead and exploded right underneath me. I knew I’d lost my leg before the medic got to me. The foot was gone, all the muscle, just the skin and bone hanging from my knee down; and my other leg was burning like I was in a fire or something. I thought I wouldn’t make it.“

Coast Guard Pharmacist Mate Charles Midgett and Boatswain’s Mate 2nd Class Francis Abbott found Roberts severely wounded in both legs. They quickly applied a tourniquet to what was left of his right leg, saving his life. Abbott stayed with Roberts when he was evacuated by boat with other casualties to USS Doyle, a destroyer that had come keel-scrapingly close to the beach to blast German positions with pointblank gunfire.

Photo of Army troops in the troop compartment of an LCI crossing the English Channel from England to the Normandy beaches. (U.S. Coast Guard)

Coast Guard-manned Flotilla 10 LCIs crossing the English Channel to Normandy equipped with barrage balloons to protect against air attack. (U.S. Coast Guard)

Meanwhile, German guns continued to target LCI-93 with artillery shells blowing holes in the bow and wounding several more crewmembers. The tide had receded, leaving the ship high and dry. After hours of punishment, the survivors were evacuated by boat to the Doyle and destroyer USS Emmons. LCI-93 was a total loss, along with three other Coast Guard-manned LCIs from Flotilla 10.

Roberts was shipped back to England where he underwent surgery and was awarded the Purple Heart Medal for combat wounds. His right leg had to be amputated above the knee and he received further medical treatment at naval hospitals in Charleston and Philadelphia. In January 1945, after recovering his health and receiving a prosthetic leg, he was honorably discharged from the Coast Guard.

After his discharge, Roberts settled in Los Angeles, California. There, he started a business developing prosthetic limbs and orthotic devices to improve the quality of life for other amputees. In addition to his Purple Heart Medal, he received from the French government the prestigious Légion d’Honneur medal in 2010 for his role in liberating France from Nazi German occupation.

John Noble Roberts and Coast Guard Captain Roger Laferriere in May 2010 during a ceremony awarding Roberts the French Légion d’Honneur medal. (Photo by Marshall Metoyer)

John Noble Roberts was proud of his Coast Guard service. He passed away in November 2017 at the age of 93. He was one of many distinguished Coast Guard combat heroes of the long blue line.

[Editor’s note: This article was inspired by a story written by PAC Matthew R. Schofield for Coast Guard Magazine in 2010.]

This article appears courtesy of Coast Guard Compass and may be found in its original form here.

from Storage Containers https://www.maritime-executive.com/article/veterans-day-coast-guard-heroes-of-the-normandy-landings-2 via http://www.rssmix.com/

[houseofswords]

Mike Conner

Theme song / Theme Song / Moodboard

Divinity: Archaros, The King in Black, Father of Iron (primordial darkness, cosmic forces, death and rebirth, ingenuity, metal and machinery)

 

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Michael Alex Conner Gender: Male Age: 42 Birthday: 3rd September

Myers-Briggs: ESTP Zodiac: Virgo Tarot card: Knight of Swords

Nationality: British Birthplace: Doncaster, Yorkshire

Sexuality: Bisexual Relationship status: It’s complicated

Occupation: Classic car mechanic (previously: security guard, police officer, SWAT sniper.)

 

APPEARANCE

Height: 6’1” Weight: 210 lbs

Hair: Iron black, choppy, currently worn in a spiked undercut. Style can vary but it’s always rough because he cuts it himself. Eye colour: Dark grey

Physical characteristics: Physically fit and muscular build, with broad shoulders, tapered waist and large, strong hands. His face is long and angular, with high cheekbones and defined jaw, and dark, narrow eyes. Other traits: Two piercings in the cartilage of each ear, usually with silver rings in them. He used to have snakebites under his lip, but took the studs out and let them heal closed. He has an impressive collection of scars all over his body, especially his arms and hands. Tattoos: Smiley emoticon on his left wrist, later covered with a sparrow. Chains wrapped around his hips. Technically a scar, but his right arm is covered in ritual scarification in the form of arcane geometric shapes, all the way down to his wrist.

Clothes: He doesn’t vary his clothing much and typically wears a band shirt, ripped and scuffed old jeans, combat boots and his favourite black leather jacket on all but the hottest of days. He has a chest holster that he only takes off when he’s sleeping, and wears a diamond engagement ring on a cord around his neck.

 

TRAITS

Personality: Mike is short-tempered and prickly by nature, even in a good mood, and swift to pick a fight. He’s impatient, paranoid, easily frustrated and hates small talk. People see him as reclusive, erratic and difficult to handle—unaware that his thorns and anger hide a soft underbelly. He’s honest to a fault and completely selfless, willing to do whatever is necessary to protect those he cares about. He would take a bullet to save a life without hesitation. He’s surprisingly gentle and understanding towards his loved ones, though overbearingly protective.

Motives: He spent much of his life after Gael’s disappearance feeling lost and without purpose, a void which even his time in law enforcement couldn’t fill. Eventually he was pulled back to Holyhead in the wake of another disaster, and realised that his purpose was to protect others from its darkness—Ash most importantly of all. His goal is for Ash to live in a world where he won’t be hurt and afraid any more.

Values: Burning with righteous fury at a world he sees as unjust, Mike believes that heinous crimes should be appropriately punished. He has no qualms killing people who would just as readily kill him or someone else. He tends towards pessimism, seeing no reason to have faith in systems that are flawed and inefficient, preferring instead to rely on himself and him alone; it’s the duty of the strong to protect the weak, and he’ll carry the world on his shoulders if he has to.

Fears: Terrified of the thought of losing the few people he loves that he has left, and wary of forming new friendships and attachments for fear of losing them. He’s aware of his own anger, and the thought of becoming a worse monster than those he fights haunts him on those long, sleepless nights.

Weaknesses: Stubborn and hates showing weakness, preferring to tackle his problems alone. This combined with his aggressive, paranoid nature often means that when he does need help, he seldom gets it. He’s excessively self-critical and constantly berates himself for his perceived failures, even if they weren’t his fault.

Quirks: Bares his teeth a lot, rarely smiles, laughs even less. Impulsive when drunk. His strong Yorkshire accent hasn’t dulled at all over the many years he’s lived in Holyhead.

 

STRENGTHS AND SKILLS

Skills: Keen eye, excellent marksman, knows his way around tools and guns. Highly competent, handles stress and survival situations well. Also a seasoned close-quarters fighter and knows how to make various traps, tripwires and explosives. He’s good with machines and can fix most things that are broken on intuition alone, though he’s not formally trained. In his youth he dreamed of being in a famous band—that dream is dead, now, but he still plays the guitar regularly and he’s very good at it.

Hobbies: Playing his guitar, video games, putting things together and taking them apart again, going to the bar with Louise, metalwork, road trips, just going out in his car with no destination in mind just to see where he’ll end up.

Powers: — Abnormally resilient, doesn’t tire or injure easily and recovers quickly when he is. — Far stronger than a normal human of his fitness level, able to punch through walls, flip cars over and jump from the third floor without breaking any bones. — Empowered by his fury, growing faster and stronger the angrier he gets. — Power over darkness, shadows, machinery and metals, including summoning them, manipulating them, altering their properties, and changing one to another. — Reality warping, altering physics and gravity in particular. — Machines must obey his orders, regardless of programming or physical restraints. — Archaros is unstoppable when in control of his body. This won’t happen in RPs unless specifically planned for.

 

OTHER FACTS

Favourite music: Disturbed, Metallica, Lamb of God, Five Finger Death Punch, Devilskin Favourite films: Die Hard, Snatch, Inglorious Bastards, Transporter, Alien Favourite food: Tea, whiskey, bacon, pies, cake, chocolate, oranges and orange-flavoured things Favourite animals: Dogs, cats, if it’s cute and fluffy he’ll have a soft spot for it but dogs are his favourite. Favourite colour: Black. Likes: Swearing like a sailor, drinking scotch on the rocks, driving at night, fast cars, guns, British comedies Dislikes: Things that are obnoxiously American, Eric, people who drive slowly down the middle of the road, bright colours, incompetence, ERIC.

Misc. info: Eschews rules, dress codes, the establishment and wearing colours that aren’t black. He had an Irish wolfhound called Cujo.

 

ALTERNATE VERSES

Superhuman: Mike is a ruthless vigilante who goes by the name of Cage. Tired of watching other heroes let villains go, he uses his shadow powers to hunt them down and eliminate them—permanently. Victorian Gothic: Mike is as nocturnal as the monsters he hunts, and just as apt to sit and brood on top of gargoyles. It doesn’t dampen his ferocity and dedication to keeping the city streets flee of bloodsuckers and foul creatures. Dead in the Water: Death took Mike’s family, but it couldn’t take him. Now he seeks vengeance, a pirate who hunts other pirates, in his eyes the only force of justice on a lawless ocean. Swords and Sorcery: Michael was a paladin, once… but he broke his oath to pursue bloody vengeance after the death of his daughter. It’s a fine line between good and evil, and all that keeps him from crossing it is the sad eyes of the boy he swore to protect. Gotta Catch Em All: Mike is a Pokemon ranger, currently investigating the surge in poaching in the mountains he watches over. His partner is a Tyranitar he bonded with over their mutual understanding of what it’s like to lose a child. Blood and Wine: The people are thirsty, and someone has to get them their drink. But Mike’s reasons for diving into the criminal underbelly of the Prohibition are deeper than they first appear. Behind the Lines: Mike’s squad of paratroopers were slaughtered when they were dropped into the wrong position behind enemy lines. Now he fights his way across France alone, desperate to return home to his daughter. Apocalypse Now: Mike wakes from suspended animation with no memory of how he got there. Accompanied by his robotic dog, he heads out into the wasteland in search of survivors who can tell him what happened.

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue fic: Gift of the Magi (8/12)

Summary: Wash has already gone through too much, been broken too often. So when they get captured by Hargrove together, Tucker figures he has one job: until the cavalry shows up, keep Wash alive and (relatively) sane. No matter the cost.

Unfortunately, Wash is just as determined to protect him.

Parings: None. Warnings: Rated M. Canon-typical language, aftermath of canonical character death, psychological torture, hallucinations, hallucinated child harm, mentions of torture and suicide, fake-out character death.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

Wash wakes up back in his cell. He's stripped down to his undersuit—he feels raw and naked without his armor—and his whole body aches.

I disobeyed orders. Tucker will pay for it.

The thought drums through his head, over and over. All he's tried to do, ever since they got captured, is keep Tucker safe. It's the only mission he has left, now that Caboose is dead. And now, because he froze up, Tucker is going to be punished.

Just because he didn't want to kill Palomo.

Tucker wouldn't want him to kill Palomo.

Wash manages to get to his feet. Hargrove is probably going to come talk to him soon. And Wash has to have something to say to him, some way to keep him from punishing Tucker for Wash's disobedience.

Why the fuck couldn't he have killed Palomo?

It feels just like Alpha's memories. Locked up alone, knowing he fucked up, waiting to hear how bad the consequences are going to be. He can almost hear the Director's voice saying, I'm sorry to tell you, Lavernius Tucker is—

Wash slams his fist into the wall, but the pain is barely enough to ground him. He's on the edge of a panic attack, his skin crawling and his breath fluttering and his mind a swirl of I'm sorry to tell you I'm sorry simulation_011111 get me out get me out I'm sorry I'm so tired—

He takes a deep breath. Rolls his fingers into fists, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

He has to think. He need a plan.

Are they still on Chorus? Wash doesn't know how the raid at the tractor beam tower ended. Maybe they've already cleared orbit, maybe Carolina and the rest will never find them—

He flexes his fingers again. Focus.

Wherever they are, Hargrove still needs someone to work for him. Wash is sure of that. Otherwise, he'd dead already, after the stunt he pulled. Instead Tucker's going to pay for it, maybe die for it—

Unless. Unless.

Wash volunteered to work for Hargrove because otherwise, it was going to be Tucker. Because Tucker doesn't deserve to be strapped down on the medical bed, his implants pried open and an AI jammed into his skull to make him an obedient weapon.

But it's better than Tucker being dead.

If Wash can just convince Hargrove that he's useless now, that Tucker is the only one who's likely to work for him now—

Hargrove will probably use him for leverage against Tucker. Will certainly punish him. But Tucker will live, and that's all that matters, now.

It's all Wash can hope for, now.

So when the viewscreen in his cell flickers to life, Wash is ready. When Hargrove says, "Do you care to explain your behavior, Agent Washington?" he just squares his shoulders—

I'm sorry, did something about my actions indicate I expect to survive?

—and he says, "I'm not going to work for you anymore."

His heart is pounding wildly. He knows how risky this is. Hargrove could decide to have Tucker shot this minute, but the only way that Tucker gets out of here alive is if Hargrove decides to focus on breaking Wash instead.

Hargrove wants somebody to work for him who knows Chorus, who could be devastating when used against Chorus. Captain Tucker would be a better man for that job than Agent Washington.

(Tucker was a better man even before Wash turned into a murderer.)

"I thought we had an agreement," says Hargrove.

"That was before you sent me to kill my own men," says Wash. "Twice. Get Tucker to do your dirty work. I'm done."

Hargrove gives him a couple seconds of that soulless, lizard-like gaze. Then he says, "Perhaps it's time for me to teach you a lesson."

If he hadn't spent so long as Recovery One, Wash wouldn't be able to keep his voice calm as he says, "If you kill Tucker, you won't have anything left to use against me."

"I find that most people become obedient once they're sufficiently broken," says Hargrove. "Lavernius Tucker certainly did."

There's a roaring in Wash's ears. Tucker seemed okay last time they spoke—but he's not sure how long it's been, he's lost so much time—

"And I won't kill him," Hargrove continues. "You will. Command code one-one-foxtrot-five."

And the Mark IV drones, Initiating remote control mode.

Tucker doesn't throw the teleportation grenade fast enough, and the pirates shoot Carolina, rip Epsilon screaming out of her skull, and then kill Wash and Caboose.

Tucker dies alone at Sandtrap, bleeding out while squeezed between the wall and a fallen rock, knowing that no one is coming, no one is coming—

Tucker is extradited to Sanghelios, and they've spent years planning how to punish him.

None of it matters anymore. Because through all of it, Junior is dead and Tucker knows it, even when he can't remember.

None of it is real, and he knows that too.

At some point, he's sitting in his cell again. Is it a simulation? Fuck if he cares.

Church is there. It's nice, having him around. He's not real, but Tucker isn't picky at this point. He can see Church now, a little glowing blue figure floating by his knee, waving his hands as he rambles about something that Caboose once did.

If Tucker closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that they're back in Blood Gulch, just talking about pointless bullshit. He can pretend it's early days, before Chorus, before they met any Freelancers except Tex, before Junior—

He thinks the name, and shudders.

My kid he was my kid I killed my—

"Tucker! You're getting distracted, man."

His eyes open. Church floats in front of him, arms crossed.

"What?" asks Tucker. "It's not like we've got to keep watch on the Reds."

"No," says Church, "but you never know when— Uh-oh."

He vanishes, suddenly, like he's trying to hide. A second later, the door opens, and there are more guards.

"Wow, you guys cannot get enough of me," Tucker says as they drag him out into the hallway, but his heart is pounding and the world is starting to feel kind of blurry around him. He knows what's happening, what's going to happen, and he's afraid. Maybe he always kind of knows that everything is fake now, but it still fucking hurts getting shot in the gut and stabbed in the eye and strangled by people in power armor.

It hurts watching his friends die, too.

But it's cool. Tucker is totally cool with this. He's protecting Wash, right?

That's the only thing he's good for now.

They drag him into . . . he thinks it's a training room, maybe. Big and wide, with an observation deck overhead. Hargrove is up there, peering down.

Wash stands at the center of the room. He's out of his armor for once, wearing just his kevlar undersuit, and Tucker would make a joke about it except that Wash is holding a pistol, and his face is, his eyes are—

It's the same expression he had when they pulled him out of his armor on Sidewinder. That look of hurting so bad, he doesn't know who he is anymore.

The guards shove Tucker to his knees and step back.

"Tucker," says Wash, his voice sounding strange and choked, as his hands tighten on the gun.

Huh. Tucker doesn't remember the simulation starting. Maybe it was already running back in his cell. Maybe nothing's been real since they strapped him the first time. That would be nice.

"Pistol-whip him," says Hargrove over the loudspeaker, and Wash's eyes widen.

The next second, the blow slams into Tucker's forehead. Stars dance across his vision, and the pain rings on and on through his head. It takes him a little while to realize that he's on the ground, that Wash is talking.

"—sorry," Wash is saying quietly, desperately. But he isn't moving to give Tucker a hand; he's standing straight and still, the pistol clenched in his hands. "I'm sorry, Tucker, I can't stop—"

"I'd like to remind you, Agent Washington," says Hargrove, "that you're the reason for this situation."

"If you make me kill him," says Wash, biting out each word, "I will never stop fighting you."

Tucker manages to get back up on his knees. He feels dizzy, but he grins because this is cool, it's all cool. He's been killed by Wash like fifteen times before, he can absolutely take another shot.

"Nah, go ahead, man," he tells Wash. "It's fine."

You can’t make this any worse, motherfuckers, he thinks.

"What?" says Wash, his voice gone small and fragile.

And then Church appears in front of him, arms waving. "Tucker! Tucker, this is real!"

Tucker stares at him, baffled for a moment. "That's . . . what she said?"

"What did you do to him?" Wash demands, looking up at Hargrove.

Church winks out of sight, but he's still talking silently, in Tucker's head. Seriously, man, you're not in the machine, this is real and YOU'RE GOING TO DIE unless you do something!

How about you do something, Tucker thinks. You're Blue Team Captain.

Okay, one, Wash is Blue Team Captain now, and two, I'm dead.

The fuck? You're right here.

You decided you're hallucinating me, right?

Yeah, so why should I believe you?

Oh my GOD just get yourself out of here.

There's a cold weight against Tucker's forehead.

He blinks, realizes what's happening. Wash has the gun pressed to Tucker's forehead, and shit, Tucker's trying to be cool, but he can't help the way he starts shaking because—

This is such fucking bullshit.

But he has to keep Wash safe.

"Tucker," Wash chokes out. "I'm sorry, they put an A.I. in me, I can't—I can't—"

And he sounds so fucking broken, like he did the time he had to leave Tucker pinned under a crashed Warthog and bleeding out, because Caboose was wounded but could still be saved. Tucker thought that simulation was real when it happened, and he remembers trying to tell Wash it was okay while he choked on his own blood. He knows this isn't real now, but he still can't help wanting to comfort Wash.

"It's okay, dude," he says. "I know you don't want to hurt me."

Wash has never wanted to hurt him. Make him miserable, sure. Drive him up the fucking wall, almost every day. Break him and train him into being a good soldier, absolutely. But Tucker has total faith that Wash has never, ever wanted to hurt him. Ever since Sidewinder, all Wash has ever tried to do is keep Blue Team safe.

All Tucker wants to do now is measure up to that. He can still hope for that much, right?

He knows this is just a simulation, but he lets himself pretend that he isn't alone, that he's talking to the real Wash.

"As long as you're safe," he says, "it's okay."

Wash stares at him. Tucker closes his eyes and waits for the gunshot.

He's done this before. It's going to be fine.

The shot is so loud, it's like a punch to the head. Tucker flinches—

—he flinches and he hears Church says OH FUCK—

—and he realizes, I'm alive.

He opens his eyes, and meets Wash's eyes for one instant.

Then Wash topples over. Other people are shouting, but they sound incredibly far away. Tucker is staring at Wash, at the blood seeping out from the hole in his chest, at the way his face is draining of color and his eyes are glazing over.

"No," says Tucker. "No—Wash—"

This isn't right, it never goes like this—he's had to see Wash die a lot of times, but the simulations never have Wash put a gun to Tucker's head and then not kill him—

It's not real. He's going to wake up.

But he doesn't.

The adrenaline's crashing through his veins, is making his heart pound and his hands shake, and Tucker isn't waking up. The blood's spreading out in a pool around Wash, his face is so pale the freckles look almost black, and Tucker isn't waking up.

Wash's eyes close, and Tucker can't wake up.

Shit, he thinks, as the guards push past him, and somebody yells for a medic.

Shit. This is real.

[uss-edsall]

Pope raced on, delaying the inevitable by hiding in an occasional rain squall, but float planes always sniffed her out. Shortly after noon, she was repeatedly bombed by carrier aircraft. Lieutenant Commander W. C. Blinn fought a magnificent fight for survival against hopeless odds, twisting and turning skillfully, hiding in rain and smoke. The 3-inch antiaircraft gun fired until it jammed after the seventy-fifth shot, then there was nothing left against the swarm of bombers but two 50-caliber and three 30-caliber machine guns. Earlier, the ship had fired 345 rounds from her four-inch battery. The concussions, plus near misses by bombs, wrecked her boiler brickwork. Speed dropped and water poured in. There was nothing left to do but throw the code books overboard, set demolition charges and abandon ship. But miraculously, only one man died, killed accidentally in setting off the demolition charges. Adrift in rafts and one boat, the crew still showed fight, albeit unwisely, one man popping away with a 22-caliber pistol at low-flying enemy planes who rewarded these efforts with prolonged and worrisome, but ineffectual, strafing. The next three days were a major test of Blinn’s ability and the crew’s determination. Foodless, waterless, they rotated from the rafts to the boat and back again to give each sun-broiled, watersoaked man a short respite. They sang songs, towed the rafts toward Java until fuel ran out—anything to maintain spirit and the will to live. On the third day of this waterborne hell, a Japanese destroyer dragged them aboard. Not a single man of the 151 was missing. Pope and her crew had fought in three prior engagements: Balikpapan, Badung Strait, and this last, final one—brave ship, brave men. Pope was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation, and her skipper, Lieutenant Commander W. C. Blinn, three Navy Crosses. Later, in prison camp, where 27 of the original 151 succumbed to malnutrition and other abuse, Pope’s spirit lived on. Her executive officer, Lieutenant Richard N. Antrim, watched in horror as the Japanese continued to beat one of Pope’s men, to the point it was apparent he could not survive further punishment. Antrim demanded of the dumbfounded Japanese that he be allowed to take the remaining punishment in the man’s place. His Medal of Honor citation reads in part: “. . . he not only saved the life of a fellow officer and stunned the Japanese into sparing his own life but also brought about a new respect for American officers and men. . . .” Thus died the last Allied surface ship in the Java Sea.

Cruise of the Lanikai, by Kemp Tolley

[doombox82]

MONSTA X THE CLAN FULL THEORY - ALL 3 VIDEOS.

I’ve been wanting to write this since Beautiful came out. There are a lot of fan theories, but this one is mine! :3 If you’re able to read through it, please feel free to discuss it with me. There are some parts I’m still shaky on. But here we go anyway. 

In a nutshell I feel the three videos are representative of MX coming together, finding their roles, and overcoming their own weaknesses. And here’s why:

All In: The story of 7 kids who want to change their stations in life. I won’t go into who seems like family and what label relationships fall under (but I know I am all for the THE ship *wink*) but I do think the associations are important. In this video we get 2 very solid stories with Shownu and Jooheon, then again with Hyungwon and Minhyuk. 

Shownu - His story seems to be one of loss and failure, well a few of them are to me, but Shownu’s especially. He make’s the choice to gain his money by illegal means and in the end it didn’t even save the elderly man. It was all for nothing. I associate this with Shownu’s trainee days where he took things for granted only to get dropped from his previous company. Mistakes were made, so to speak. 

Jooheon -  Jooheon seems to be the instigator of things happening, The group approaches the men in uniforms and Jooheon immediately jumps in first. Shownu needs money to help a sick family member and Jooheon is the one to give him a weapon to do it. Jooheon seems to be the overseeing shamanistic character while the mysterious blue serum is created. Jooheon’s role through the entire series seems to be this type. I associate this with Jooheon feeling like the master of his own destiny. He doesn’t need those big companies to make him famous, he’s going to do it his own way. 

Hyungwon - We meet Hyungwon as young rebel, harassing the police, afterwards a man who seems like his father punishes him in front of everyone for it. We get the feeling Hyungwon’s father is an unapproving, strict and likely pious man given the imagery of his own crew and their cross/plus sign imagery associated with them. This alone already has a strong imagery for “old regime” that we see get overthrown by the MX gang. Hyungwon’s punishment was getting hit, specifically in the face, which we later see him try to hide from Minhyuk. And while his friends are fighting for him later on in the video we see Hyungwon has given up (looking pretty much dead in the bathtub) once he was left alone. I associate this with Hyungwon feeling he has little value as a team member outside of his face/visuals and relies too much on the rest of the group in other areas. 

Minhyuk - The friend, the protector, the vengeful spirit. Minhyuk is known for being a person who looks after MX, his looking after Hyungwon in this is definitely representative of that to me. He also pushes to storyline farther by burning down cross/plus sign HQ (with possibly Hyungwon’s father and followers inside?) effectively taking down the “old regime” to let MX Clan have their freedom from previous expectations and standards. 

The others - Wonho, Kihyun, and I.M don’t have strong presences in this story arc, but we do see a moment near the end where Kihyun throws down his crutches and begins to run in the same direction as the rest of the boys, late is better than never, right? This may represent Kihyun not having he same closeness as some of the other members in the trainee and early MX days. Wonho and IM could be in the background here for other reasons, if you watched No Mercy you know IM came in late and took a bit of time before he was accepted by the other trainees. Wonho has some confidence issues and he may look at himself as more of a supporting role from this period. With him it’s hard to say. 

WTF IS THE BLUE FLOWER BREW??? It took me a long time to think on this, seriously, months... but I’ve come to the assumption the blue serum is the culmination of Monsta X. It’s X serum! All of the strength and happiness they feel when they are together is what makes this serum. The blue flowers are symbolically Monsta X before Monsta X knew they were Monsta X. Monsta X-ception? Yes. This is why it is only made when they are together, they drink it and start painting Xs all over themselves, they exorcise their inner demons, they are cleansed. This is why when Shownu burns all of his money he only has one thing left, his blue vial, and he drinks it to give himself strength (this makes more sense as we continue on to Fighter). This is also why when Minhyuk doesn’t know what else to do he pours the serum in the water and gets in the tub with almost-dead Hyungwon. And just then, we see Hyungwon flinch in reaction. 

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE. I haven’t even touched the part where MX are in the white uniforms with white guns! This entire part of the video is their united dream for the future. It’s not reality yet, but the boys picture a world where they are not victims, they are -ta-da~- FIGHTERS. Only in this series of scenes do we see them all together, all marching towards a common direction with a giant BLUE heart at the end of it. The heart of Monsta X. They want to discover it together. This is also why Minhyuk feeds the blue flower to Hyungwon in the beginning, when the team is weak, it’s the power of X (flower) that keeps them going. 

Fighter: One of the main things to remember about these videos is they are all very stylistically different, but they are still the same story. All In showed us the dream of Monsta X, now Fighter shows the hard work it took to get everyone working together smoothly. I’ve seen people think there is a time jump, but I don’t think there is much of one at all actually, because the entire thing is figurative to begin with. 

Shownu - We find Shownu in jail, serving his sentence, and he gets this wonderful dance sequence where the blue (remember blue symbolizes Monsta X) light appears and practices dancing until he dances his way right out of those bars and atone/learn from his mistakes. We’ll just say he got out early for good behavior if that helps at all. As soon as he’s out we see him with his ol’ buddy Jooheon waiting for him, ready to knight him. Bears represent Shownu, we see them come up again repeatedly in this video. Hyungwon and Minhyuk are given gummy bears, I.M jumps to action after seeing the bear “power up” in his game, and there are two bear-headed figures next to Jooheon who I think represent Wonho and Kihyun. The knighthood here represents Shownu accepting his leadership role. He ain’t wearing those gold laurels for nothin’.

Wonho - He finally gets a much stronger presence here. Wonho has accepted his role as the studio engineer! You engineer machines, but you also engineer sounds in a music studio, coincidence? I think not. We now know Wonho works on a lot of music from his time as a trainee until now, but it wasn’t until Monsta X that his confidence has grown. He creates an X machine powered by X serum and controlled by the members themselves. The fact that the machine suspiciously looks like television set is probably also not a coincidence since the group debuted on a television show. 

Kihyun - At first I was really confused by Kihyun dragging a body around in a back alley. I still feel this represents being somewhat lost, alone and angry/violent (this will connect to Beautiful later) until he meets someone who shows him a new direction to take (Jooheon is that you?), and not long after he’s joined I.M and Wonho on their bicycles heading to the X machine. [Note: When I say Kihyun has a “violent” tendency, I don’t mean physically. I think it has to do with him having a sharp tongue and a quick mind that he sometimes uses against other people to get what he wants. But it’s harder to find something that symbolizes that as succinctly, ya know. The body Kihyun is dragging could also be symbolic for him killing/leaving behind his ‘old ways/old self’ before he becomes an MX member too.]

Hyungwon & Minhyuk - Together again. Looking like they are having forced psychiatric treatment for attempting suicide which we know they both looked like they did in the end of the last video. However, straight jackets also have symbolic meaning for simply feeling restrained and wanting to lose your mind over the frustration. Hyungwon and Minhyuk were struggling, not where they wanted to be (remember they were fighting against gaining a better status in life and finding where they belong), so the asylum really fit both of those aspects. and with a blue flash of light at the door we have fabulous, doctor-in-disguise, Jooheon handing out gummy bears before he breaks them out. Again, the bears represent Shownu and by eating them Minhyuk and Hyungwon accept the hierarchy of Monsta X and -poof- they are outta there.

Jooheon - A mysterious hooded figure out to anoint a leader and collect his members. The mastermind overseer is back at it again. Jooheon is the one filling Wonho’s X machine with X serum, since he made it in the previous video that hasn’t changed. He’s still the same man on a mission to show the world Monsta X.

I.M - He’s off on his own, “playing” which I feel represents him working on his craft until he sees Shownu’s bear power up and jumps to action joining the others. As if he was ready and waiting for the signal literally and symbolically. I.M also handles the controller of the X Machine as if it were the game he had been practicing this entire time. We see the screen flicker back and forth until it is blue, X flower blue. This seems to say I.M was born ready to show off his skills, all he wanted was the chance to show itself. 

Blue flower blooms and the ending -  “I need to wait for the right moment... right NOW!” I feel like this part of the video is referencing their debut specifically. The blue flower blooms at the ‘right moment’, the boys break out into a white hallway (blue and white are reoccurring themes), prior to this all of the surroundings had been dark and ominous. Now things are bright, the way is clear and boys are running to freedom. And it’s fleeting, but for a split second we see Jooheon also smiling and running alongside everyone else releasing his overseer position for a moment and joining in the brotherhood of it all. We see a giant blue heart floating again, this time instead of blue dimly showing through blackness, we have blue “blood’ running through a white heart. The power of Monsta X runs through their veins now. 

Beautiful:  We’ve seen the boys meet, work hard, debut, but that’s not all there is to it. The house is built but it needs fortification. Only as a team do you see your own weaknesses magnified. This video is about each member finding what they need to improve for the betterment of the entire group. This video seems to the most straight forward but there’s still a little bit of it I’m not 100% sure on when it comes to Hyungwon but I’m doing my best. ^^; We see each member locked in a room with the exception of Jooheon who has taken back his instigator/overseer role again. We have a white hallway which connects directly with where Fighter left off. Jooheon watches each member and at the right moment gives them a tool they need to overcome a weakness.

Shownu - Shownu’s room is blue (yes -that blue-) full of plants with one special one in a terrarium in the center of the room. We see he’s given his object: a vial of X serum, which could represent either he needs the power of Monsta X to help him grow, or the flower in the terrarium represents Monsta X and he needs to help them continue to grow. Probably a combination of both in more Monsta X-ception. It hurts my head a little bit at this point lol. 

Wonho - It looks like he’s in a room full of post office boxes, he opens one to read a letter and seems to have a wave of emotion. He is given a pen so he can reply to his letter. It seems simple, but I think this has to to with claims that Wonho isn’t good about asking for help, he puts a lot on himself. He’s also known for having a rather emotional personality so I think communication was his obstacle and learning how to reach out to his team when he needs to.

Minhyuk - His is tricky because it seems to be a room with pendulums that don’t move and balls on pedestals. It immediately makes me think that pendulums should be swinging and balls should be rolling (but if someone else has a better interpretation of this or I’m missing something please share!) so Minhyuk’s weakness would be a lack of action (which seems opposite his previous themes, but this is also after debut so possibly now he feels he’s not taking advantage of his situation as much as he could). He is given a pocket watch/clock which I think is to remind him time is limited and precious. 

Kihyun - Back to sharp tongued “pointed” personality Kihyun. His room is basically an armory. He’s surrounded himself with weapons, and is given a hammer to shatter those swords. Again, I read this as Kihyun learning to soften his edges for the sake of getting along with everyone. 

Hyungwon - And the one I’m the most unsure on, but we see Hyungwon in a beautiful room, watching the sand pass through his fingers, then beating at his door in anger. He is given a mirror, but he is the only one who seems like it could have been a trick question? He looks at himself then drops the mirror. He’s also seen looking at himself in the sculpture in his room. It’s the only time a tool given doesn’t seem to have an actual use. And I think this is why, previously I drew some symbolism from All In focusing on Hyungwon’s face and him possibly feeling like that is all he has to offer are his visuals, but with him looking into the mirror and then discarding it it’s like he knows he’s got the face but he has also learned he’s worth more than that. You can see a huge confidence arc with him through all 3 videos and I think it’s intentional. 

Jooheon - Watching. Waiting. Sitting on some rope. What? Jooheon has also been locked away in his little hallway with his own dilemma. There is something he also needs from the members, themselves! Rope would easily symbolize binding, as in Jooheon needs his bond with the members to push him forward. And it’s actually been that way since the beginning of the videos. Only when they are all together are they Monsta X. 

I.M - I.M is in a room full of gold and money. He gets angry and starts throwing gold bars like they were tic tacs (lol) and is given matches.This is the second time we see a member burning money. I think this may be I.M learning money doesn’t solve your problems and possibly to be less materialistic. I don’t have anything to back this particular one up but it just seems like burning money can only have so many meanings. If you have any help on this one I’m all ears.

In the end we see them all leave their rooms when they’ve overcome their issues and join Jooheon before continuing their journey down the white hallway. This is the only video with a dance sequence so one could guess the white hallway leads to the stage they’re dancing on. And that ties things up pretty nicely tbh.