#it's all very intentional and thoughtfully executed

[that-was-anticlimactic]

wha... whats mob psycho 100 about

the only thing i know about the window is when the ginger lost to sans

*deep inhale*

okay! so mp100 is about this fourteen year old named shigeo kageyama (aka, mob) and he is an esper and a SUPER powerful one at that!!! he works at spirits and such which is reigen's psychic business. here's the thing, tho, reigen arataka (ginger who lost to sans) is Not a psychic - he pretends to be one because he got bored one day.

mob is scared of his powers and doesn't like using them due to an incident from his childhood involving his younger brother, ritsu kageyama (aka best character baby boy my favorite my blorbo my skrunkly my silly little guy i have feeligngs). i won't spoil that tho! anyways, he has ✨trauma✨ because of it (so does ritsu) and reigen actually helped him out with it, even tho he was kind of just making stuff up, he actually really helps mob and is like a mentor to him!

along the way, mob meets dimple - an evil spirit who started a cult and then follows mob around everywhere!

teruki hanazawa (aka, teru) (today is his birthday!) - a fellow middle schooler esper except this boy is so very cocky and beats up thugs! he gets in a big fight with mob but the fight is very one-sided! they become besties <3

the plot really thickens in s1 at the bg clean up arc! ritsu is just a normal middle schooler - he's on the student council, he's *popular* (lol not really but he Is but he Isn't), he's good at sports, his grades are amazing... he's everything mob wishes he was. and yet... mob is everything ritsu wishes he was. all ritsu wants is psychic powers. he has a MAJOR inferiority complex.

luckily, he gets so stressed out about framing a middle schooler for stealing girls' recorder mouthpieces to lick them that he develops psychic powers! dimple manipulates him for a bit, ritsu has a breakdown, someone tries conning mob into giving them five million yen, ritsu starts becoming like teru was...

anyways, he ends up going to a facility that's trying to like... learn how to develop psychic powers and meets other kids with powers there (he goes under mob's name because he was mistaken for mob - he starts before he develops his powers) and that facility is how this organization called "CLAW" finds him.

CLAW is made up of *mostly* adult espers and they like... want to take over the world lol

also mob is in love with tsubomi but is a wuss (affectionate), he joins the body improvement club instead of the telepathy club because he just wants muscles and that pisses tome off (tome is the telepathy club president and she just wants to meet aliens <3), reiegn is conning people, teru gets a wig... it's a lovely show <3

[the-bar-sinister]

Slip the Hangman's Noose and Run (2628 words) by thesavagesabretooth Summary: What if there was one thing the Phantom was more afraid of than dying? What if instead of following orders, he had thrown everything away for Simon Blackquill? What if they ran?

part 1 here

-

In the end, the Phantom had been a coward yet again. He had lied, yet again. As was his habit.

He hadn't wanted to spoil the last few hours he'd get to have with Simon with Simon's anger upon knowing the truth.

Instead he'd told him a kind lie. A fun lie. The kind of lie he knew Simon would like.

Bobby Fulbright wasn't actually a police detective at all, but rather an interpol investigator on the trail of the Phantom. He'd been installed in the police department specifically to monitor Simon, in case the prosecutor's reappearance drew him out. Like Simon, this had been Fulbright's last chance to catch the Phantom before the case would be thrown into the garbage. But now, with the assignment ending with Simon's execution, he'd gotten too close. He couldn't let go. Not of Simon, and not of the Phantom.

It was almost close to the truth.

He could tell Simon liked his lie, from the way that his smile sliced his face like the curve of a blade.

"An interpol investigator," he purred, giving Bobby an appraising look from the passenger seat. "I never would have guessed. So you're a rogue agent now?"

"That's right, sir."

"Then we can't count on any aid from your department."

"I'm afraid not, sir. They'd have you executed, and I'd be thrown out for this, if not jailed myself."

"Brave, stupid man," Simon grumbled. He tented his fingers thoughtfully. "It's just my luck that they didn't assign a more intelligent agent to this case."

He hung his head performatively as he drove. "Sorry, sir."

Simon laughed sharply. "No apology necessary, Fool Bright. A smart man wouldn't be here right now. Alright, give me five minutes."

Bobby raised an eyebrow as he watched Simon stare intently at the tips of his fingers. "What for, sir?"

"I'm planning our next move. Interpol agent or not, we both know that you aren't a master of forward planning. Or intelligent thought in general."

The Phantom found he couldn't argue with that on any level. Well, even if planning ahead was pointless since they'd be caught almost immediately, Simon looked like he was having fun, so there was no need to stop him.

He laughed loudly. "You've got me there, sir! Please, I put myself in your hands."

"Good man. Do we have any access to funds?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "I took a large sum of money out of my savings in cash before I got you out of prison, sir."

That was a lie. The cash in his briefcase in the back was part of the money furnished by his organization for facilitating his job. He hadn't touched the Bobby Fulbright account in days. Doing so would have only painted a target on him– and besides, the man didn't get paid much anyway.

"Good man, Fool Bright," Simon repeated. "Very well. Give me a moment."

Bobby nodded, and concentrated on driving, sneaking glances at Simon in the rearview mirror.

After a moment, Simon said, "You seem very anxious, Fool Bright. You may put your arm around me, if you like."

The Phantom made a show of being amusingly flustered, and he slipped his arm around Simon's shoulders, since that was what the prosecutor wanted from him. 

Simon wasn't stupid. Bobby was lying to him. 

He wasn't sure exactly what the truth was, but the idea that Bobby Fulbright had anywhere the capability to be an international investigator seemed like it was a laughably obvious falsehood. Perhaps he'd made up the story just so Simon would be impressed with him, or would somehow be less worried about him losing his job at the department.

It didn't really matter why Bobby was lying though. Only two things mattered.

First– Bobby had cared enough about him to throw everything away and break him out of jail to save him from execution. 

This first fact Simon believed with unshakable conviction. It was the entire foundation upon which he was currently reforming his unexpectedly long life. He was here because Bobby wanted him to be here. As a samurai, Simon understood that this meant that he owed the man his whole life, whatever remained of it. No matter what else was the case, this was true. This was the bedrock of Simon's new life.

Second– Bobby said that he had been following the Phantom case, and was in possession of some details which might constitute a lead on hunting him down.

This fact Simon was less sure of. Since he didn't fully believe that Fulbright was an international investigator of any kind, he had no idea how much faith to stake on his supposed lead.

Well, he'd stake all of it on it anyway. 

It's not like he had anything better to do. If that was what the man who saved his life wanted, that was what they were going to do.

"South Asia, you said," Simon murmured, as he leaned into Fulbright's arm around his shoulders. The weight of it was comforting, and he hoped it comforted whatever dire thoughts were circling the fool's as well. "Cauli, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. That's the best information we have as to where the organization might be located."

"Well then, the first step is to get there, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well, ah, obviously, sir, but that will be a little tricky you know, with airport security and everything? I mean, travel papers alone."

"Worry not, Fool Bright," Simon said with a grin. "You may not have the brains for this sort of thing, but I've been among criminals for the past near decade of my life. I can get us out of the country."

Simon enjoyed the expression of supreme surprise on the man's face. "You can?"

"Without a doubt. I had a friend in the clink who was acquainted of a master forger. Point us at Sacremento, Fool Bright, and we'll stop in the first second hand clothes shop we see before we go see the men I have in mind."

"Second hand clothes?"

"Indeed," Simon smiled broadly. This was almost fun. "We can't go around looking like a cop and a prosecutor, now can we? And brand new clothes will tip off any criminals we meet just as much as our current ones."

"Oh! I see!" Fulbright beamed. "You're talking about going undercover! With disguises!"

He chuckled. "Well spotted, Fool Bright. I am indeed. It appears as though to catch our criminal we'll have to become criminals. Well. I have quite the head start. But you, you'll need a lot of work."

As the Phantom dug with Simon through racks of used clothes in a dingy second hand store in some ugly town south of Sacramento, the big smile written on his face was almost genuine. It was as close to actual pleasure as he ever got.

Simon had given the Phantom a role. His first new role in a whole year, and Simon had invented it for him.

As they drove the several hours between Los Angeles and their destination, Simon had spent the time improvising a backstory for the pair of them as criminals. Simon was Taka, a no-good, disowned son of a branch of the Kitaki crime family, who had gotten into selling narcotics and was fleeing the country for a while due to heat from the cops.

Bobby was to be Watchdog, or just Dog, Taka's personal enforcer and bodyguard. At first, Simon had said that all he had to do was stand there and look tough, but the Phantom had asked him for a little more.

Simon had raised his eyebrow. "Method actor, eh, Fool Bright? Very well, then."

Dog was an orphan who had been raised as a bodyguard for the favored sons of the Kitaki family, but his loud, obnoxious ways– drinking and gambling, and especially getting casual and friendly with his charges– had angered the head of the family and Dog was going to be executed over it. Young Taka, however, had used the last his sway with the family to have Dog's life spared, and the two of them were instead exiled in disgrace to manage low-rent Kitaki dealings far from the core of the family.

The two of them were in a torrid love affair, though Taka was a spoiled brat, disgusted and embarrassed to be seen with such a low level and obnoxious thug of a lover and he was forbidden to touch him in public. Despite this, and despite his vices, Dog was completely loyal to his master.

It was an interesting role. A variation in some ways on Bobby Fulbright, and the Phantom thought it gave him some insight on what Simon liked about Bobby– or maybe just about the range Simon thought that Bobby would be able to act.

It wasn't completely different, but it was different enough that the Phantom was almost excited to change faces, even in a subtle way, and perhaps interested in seeing if he impressed Simon with his abilities.

"You're sure you want to go by Taka?" Bobby asked as Simon came out of the dressing room in black jeans, a black hoodie, and some old blue t-shirt with an unidentifiable band logo. "I'm sorry that I couldn't bring him with us."

"It's a fitting tribute," Simon said, raising his chin. "And don't trouble yourself. I wouldn't have seen him again after today in any case. I– will believe he'll be well treated."

Bobby should be very touched and moved by such a statement. His face screwed up with deliberate emotion, his eyes welling with overflowing tears as he grabbed Simon's hand tightly. "It's a fitting tribute, sir. I'll call you Taka, then."

"Good. Dog." Simon smiled slyly at him, as he took his own armful of clothes in to get changed.

There it was again. Something like pleasure, or pride in his chest.

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Dreamling Ficlet #1

I used to be able to just post little fics here and there, without worrying about making them a big thing or editing them 6 times. I miss it so I’m gonna start trying to do it again. I spent no more than two hours on this, most of that making my mad messy first draft a bit prettier. 1.5k, sweet and soft.

Enjoy <3

(The song playing over this scene is Across The Great Divide by Frank Solivan. It’s one of my Hob songs <3)

[Read on AO3]

*

“Are you the king of songs, then?”

“Hm?” it takes a moment for Dream to become fully cognizant of the query; immersed as he had been in the gentle flow of music through his ears, of the warmth of Hob Gadling where he stands pressed close, swaying in time. “What makes you ask that?”

Hob shrugs, a bare shift of his shoulders against Dream’s. Somehow, in the time they’ve been dancing, they’ve migrated closer, closer. Drawn inexorably together, almost to the Platonian ideal; a single creature reunited, boyd and soul. There is no place more fitting for Hob to lay his head, Dream decides, than the welcoming crook of Dream’s own throat. “Well. You’re the king of stories,” Hob explains, soothing his palms where they rest upon Dream’s upper arms, their elbows touching, crossing, a bridge between where Hob clings high, and Dream low. “A song’s a kind of story, isn’t it? When you think about it. Some more than others, perhaps.”

It’s an interesting thought, and one to which Dream’s never given much consideration. He considers it now, turning the question over, pondering it while his hands ponder the slight dip of Hob’s strong waist. While his soul ponders the quietude this position brings. He thinks, and Hob lets him do so uninterrupted. Content, it seems, to enjoy a similar peace; to slide his hands across Dream’s back, grounded in the press of palm to spine. Content as he has been all this time, though how much time that is Dream cannot possibly say. Hob is quite adept at making Dream lose track of it. However long it has been, they’ve been dancing for much of it. Though the slow, subtle sway and shuffle they’ve subsided into could hardly be called ‘dancing’ by any formal definition.

But now is not the time for formality; and dancing, in Dream’s admittedly limited experience, lies in intent as well as execution.

“I do not think I can claim sovereignty over songs, no,” Dream eventually concludes, the truth seeming rather apparent when he alights upon it. “At least not solely. They belong to all of us.”

“All of the Endless, you mean?”

“Yes.” He balances his chin against Hob’s shoulder, for they are almost of a perfect height to do so—a little twist of serendipity, that his chosen form should prove such an easy match for Hob. Dream looks thoughtfully into the dwindling crowd that dances alongside them. Older humans, silver hair shining in the multicoloured light, the lines of weathered faces deepening with their smiles. Dream had dropped in on the New Inn, as he is wont to do, unaware that the back room had been hired or for a bi-monthly seniors dance social. Unaware that Hob would gleefully grab his hand and haul him onto the floor, their youthful appearances be damned, because they were older than the combined age of all these people and it is, after all, his pub, thank you very much.

They had been met with no resistance, though Dream has spotted a handful of the elderly attendees sneaking glances over at them, occasionally smiling, waving. Cooing amongst themselves about those ‘nice young men’. How young they would all feel, Dream thinks, if they knew what manner of creatures really danced amongst them. How young they appear in his eyes, not even a century to their names; with lively eyes and vital hearts as they seek one another, twine their weathered fingers, indulge in the simple joy of touch, of music.

Dream’s hand slides up, presses to Hob’s back. He can feel, dulled through muscle and bone, the quiet thrum of his heart, beating in perpetuity. “A song may be a story, that is true enough,” Dream elaborates, voice pitched low for Hob’s ears alone. “But there are unnumbered reasons for why a song may come into being. Some spring forth from delight—and indeed, Delirium. Innumerable compositions originate in the contemplation of Death. Songs of mourning and remembrance, fear of what lies beyond, hope for where the soul may come to rest. Since the first human mouth opened to speak, songs have been song from the bloody, howling beast of Despair that bares every beating heart raw at one point or another. And.” He purses his lips around the reluctant concession. “I suppose Desire also holds their fair share.”

“More than that, I reckon,” chuckles Hob, quite correctly.

Dream rolls his eyes. There can simply be no accounting for taste. “Destiny, as well. Even Destruction, I’m sure; tragedies on a large scale have served as artistic inspiration for centuries. All have their share of music composed in their name. If ever a feeling was felt, it was likewise put to music; it is in the nature of humans to attempt to describe the indescribable. Music bonds us, my siblings and I. We each receive our offerings.

“I suppose songs are rather like stories in the sense that I can’t imagine humanity will ever cease in their composition, or their refrain.”

He closes his eyes, lets the music of this present moment bleed into him. Soft strings, a pleasant voice. The earthbound musings of a rambling heart. “I have always been… fond. Of the music of humans. I hear it often, in your dreams. I hear masterful compositions, orchestrations experienced once in person and subsequently never forgotten. I hear the rhythm that pounds so loud it reverberates in your lungs, the cacophonous chorus of a thousand voices crying out as one. I hear those short, repetitive refrains; the disjointed lines of verse you simply cannot get out of your head.” His fingers find Hob’s long, soft hair, and probe wonderingly at the base of his skull. “They follow you as surely as sleeping as in waking; your minds sing to me, even deep in slumber. The strains of the subconscious.”

Hob swallows, a dry sound in Dream’s ear. “Yeah. Always loved music. I like the stuff that feels alive, the stuff you’re meant to holler; reckon there’s not a drinking song in this country from the last half dozen centuries I couldn’t at least belt out the chorus to.” He tugs on the back of Dream’s coat. “Got a favourite?”

“I have many.” He tucks his nose into Hob’s hair, adding the clean, slightly salt-tinged scent of his scalp to the symphony of his sense. “This one is beginning to grow on me,” he adds with a slight smile.

He feels himself lovingly caged as Hob’s arms lift, draping around Dream’s neck. The suede of his jacket rubs at the bolt of Dream’s jaw, a pleasant irritation. “We’ll have to write a song,” says Hob, a matching smile in his voice. “About us.”

“About us?”

“Yeah, don’t you think? Got plenty of material. C’mon, I’ll start.” He taps a lilting rhythm on Dream’s back as he clearly enunciates. “There once was a young man named Hob.”

Dream casts a withering look into Hob’s hair. “I believe what you have there is a limerick.”

“Go on; add a line!”

“The song of my love will not be a limerick, Hob Gadling.”

“Fine, I’ll keep going,” Hob sniffs, tugging Dream’s earlobe. “Who fell in love with an inveterate snob.”

To his utter mortification, Dream honks out a short, inelegant laugh. “Hob,” he admonishes, a less-than-pleasant feeling of warmth rising in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Hob’s laugh is not nearly so undignified; although it comes on the tail end of snorting snigger. Coarse though it may be, it slides on the wings of the waning song and lingers in Dream’s head and his heart as its own small, subtle melody; sung low and loving into Dream’s skin as Hob’s smile presses into his neck.

“Alright, alright, we’ll do it properly” Hob concedes, with a discreet kiss beneath Dream’s ear. “Later.”

There is a quiet vulnerability in the way that Hob makes him feel. In the dryness that rises in Dream’s throat, in the way his hardened heart begins to race rabbit-fast at Hob’s mere proximity. It is a feeling of smallness, too vast to contain. It is an exultant embrace of the terror of truly living. It is seeing, and being seen.

Dream wraps Hob tight in his arms, and reminds himself, barely, not to handle him with too crushing a grip. “Ours will be a lengthy song.”

“Yep,” Hob agrees easily, setting them once more to swaying. Dream hadn’t realised they’d stopped. “And it’s going to get longer, and longer, and longer—”

“Will this song ever be finished?”

Thanks for reading <3 Reblogs and comments always appreciated ^^

Hob kisses him once more, and his voice whispers across his ear, a simple strain that sets the universe in tune. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

*

[gojocatboy]

The Bride of Sukuna, ch. 2

Angel eyed the stuffed creature wearily. To the fluffy things credit, it looked lifelessly back.

“And you brought them back here,” the principal stated, for what felt like the umpteenth time.

“‘Course. I’m meeting with the higher ups about Itadori, might as well see if the ‘bride of Sukuna’ will give them a heart attack to finish em off,” Satoru said brightly, adding air quotes to his speech.

“They don’t have any cursed energy, which is interesting. But how do we know they won’t immediately go to Sukuna?” Yaga continued.

“‘They’ are right here. And I have no intention of being anywhere near that four-armed beast,” Angel stated, wrinkling their nose in disgust. Their mouth flooded with the memory of that creatures vile blood.

“Ahh, the angel does have attitude!” Satoru jumped in. Angel shot him a withering glare.

“I don’t know how long I’ve slept, or been dead, or…whatever happened for me to be encased in stone, but I am not his bride, or promised one, whatever this age calls me now,” Angel stated firmly.

I hope this is the right move. Angel thought to themself.

“The point still stands that your power amplifies Sukuna’s. It would be wise to limit what energy he has while the vessel is so new,” Yaga stated.

“Vessel?” Angel asked, heart dropping. Satoru turned his head in her general direction, a questioning look passing over his features.

“Either way, I suspect that the elders will want to execute our angel here, the best thing being that they can act as bait for Sukuna if itadori does fail at handling him,” Satoru said. He grinned at Angel. “Really, the elders’ first mode of action is just to—“ he ran a finger across his throat, sticking his tongue out dramatically as he made dying noises.

“They’re not very smart,” Angel observed.

“Nope! See Yaga? Even a person who’s been here for all of an hour sees how shortsighted our higher ups are,” he said brightly.

“We will have to measure Angel’s abilities, given you’re able to persuade the elders to keep them alive,” Yaga said.

“Aw, don’t be so pessimistic, they love me!” Satoru said cheerfully as he sidled out of the room, grinning from ear to ear.

“So, can your friend stop staring me down?” Angel asked, gently nudging the stuffed creature away.

“No can do. You’re under guard until Gojo returns,” Yaga replied, waving a hand. A massive lumbering beast approached, tongue lolling out lazily. Angel grimaced, sitting down.

“I get it,” they grumbled.

~~~

Angel had dozed off in the hours that they waited. They awoke, head tucked against one wing as the other enveloped them in a feathery blanket. The two stuffed animals remained on guard, casting barely a glance at them as they sat up, rubbing a palm into their eye.

“They awaken,” satoru said brightly. Angel jumped, drawing their wings around them defensively.

“Sorry, sorry, Shoko has been telling me to stop scaring people like this,” Satoru said, squatting down in front of them.

“So am I dying?” Angel asked.

“Well! Good news, not right now. Bad news, probably in the future,” satoru said.

“And why must I die?” Angel sighed.

“You don’t know the legend, huh? Suppose you’ve been sleeping for centuries, so you wouldn’t know how convoluted it’s become,” Satoru said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“The official Sorcerer stance is that the ‘bride’ of Sukuna made it so that he was unkillable from the lovebite that they administered him. The golden poison you have supposedly made it so that he would be able to return when the time was right, and so the two cursed lovebirds would return once more, to rule an age of demons,” Satoru said.

“What do you believe?” Angel asked.

“Me? I think there’s a bit of truth to it. I don’t think you’re as loyal to Sukuna as the stories make you out to be, given that you weren’t exactly excited about his reappearance,” Satoru said.

This one is dangerous. He was dropping information to see my reactions Angel couldn’t help but feel a little impressed with him.

“No, what I did was…not in his favor,” Angel said. They knew that much at least.

“Interesting. Not so romantic yeah?” Satoru sighed dramatically.

“Don’t tell me you believed in that,” Angel said, feathers ruffling in alarm. Satoru burst into laughter.

“No, no! You should see your face! You look like a startled chicken!” Satoru cackled, pointing a finger at them.

“Hmmph,” Angel pouted, crossing their arms over their chest. They focused on smoothing down their feathers, waiting indignantly for the man to stop laughing at their misfortune.

The truth was, they did have a soft spot for Sukuna once upon a time. But that was long ago, further before either of them even knew their special abilities. Had grown into their true selves.

Angel studied the man in front of her. Did he know what it was like, to have to betray the one he loved?

[divorceblogger]

+10000 to your long post about the power dynamics in this episode. i would add to the conversation imo the show also hasn't reckoned with the full implications of the lanfear-rand dynamic they created (not what they explicitly showed onscreen and much less all the even worse stuff they strongly implied). added to other the mess in this episode, it's not giving me confidence in the writers' ability to thoughtfully address nuanced issues of consent, agency, manipulation and assault.

I thought long and hard about this ask but ultimately it's not something that I'm entirely capable of answering because I'm not certain that I have any strong feelings on the subject.

It’s very patently dubious consent, but for me it’s also important that it reads as an examination of the baggages and trauma that rand is incapable of shaking off because lews therin was a proud and arrogant man who made a lot of enemies; so lanfear isn’t technically even intent on *hurting* rand, she’s obsessive and pathologically possessive of him - and rand is caught in the crossfires, as usual, and now really personally involved after her identity reveal. and at least to the degree we witness, I was personally still very comfortable with their back-and-forth struggles for power in the relationship because rand is still fairly holding his own and manipulating lanfear in kind. that works for me, and I do think it's one of the better executed dynamics on the show along with moiraine's relationship with rand! she really, really cares for lews therin; she nearly destroyed the world because lews therin refused to love her; and rand weaponising her affection for him kind of evens the odds for me and effectively gives lanfear a taste of her own medicine. if we start having conversations about women using soft power and sexuality to extract things from powerful men then we’re going to talk ourselves around in circles because the discourse around women seducing men is never-ending.

but mostly in classic rj style I do think we should skip the therapy part and make people suffer a bit because all the insistence on fixing people this season has been very difficult to endure for me. I did make multiple posts about how I wish they'd let be moiraine horrible without having exposition #23 on how she needs fixing and also how I wish they'd really commit to rand/lanfear because I thought it was very unimpressive. it's probably just a matter of personally preference tbh, because when I say I enjoy gothic romances I really meant it.

[just-another-fic-blog]

Not Your Enemy

He had done it. He’d had his suspicions on that Guard Commander for awhile. Something about his demeanor made it seem like he was hiding something, and it turned out he was. An enemy spy…oh, his commander would be a very happy mammal indeed. So it was he found himself getting ready to sneak out, back to the rebel base, with the roll of film negatives in hand.

At least, he would have, had the roll of film not gone mysteriously missing. And now he probably looked insane, going through the barracks trying to find the damn thing.

Where could it have gone?! I could’ve sworn it was on me this morning…

“Looking for something?”

He turned. Standing in the doorway was none other than the Guard Commander himself, holding a roll of film. He chuckled, stepping forward with a smirk while taking the time to adjust his glasses. “Thought something was off about the camera you gave me,” he said simply, walking forward. “And when I go in to inspect your items, well, I find this.”

He swallowed, stepping back as the Guard Commander continued to step forward towards him.

“Quite incriminating, what you have here,” he said, continuing forward. “Undeniable proof I’m an enemy spy. I mean, if I had this, I would have gone to the General Commander right away. But I haven’t been executed yet, which makes me think you haven’t gone to anyone else about this, and if you haven’t gone to anyone else yet, well…”

He was against the wall. The Guard Commander placed an arm above his head, and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Then I’m not the only spy here. Am I, Geumsaegi?”

Geumsaegi swallowed. He looked back up at the Guard Commander, the so-called “grey squirrel” who’d climbed his way to being in charge of the General Commander’s protection. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please. You think I wasn’t able to figure it out?” He held up the film again. “You were going to turn this over to whoever you really work for and use it to blackmail me into working with your little group. Weren’t you?” He pulled away. “What are you, really? A rebel? An assistant to some hopeful coup? Who is it that you’re working for?”

Geumsaegi looked away.

“Not talking? Hm.”

Then, to his surprise, the Guard Commander slipped the roll of film into his jacket pocket.

“Well. You go ahead.”

Geumsaegi blinked. “I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Whoever you’re here for,” the Guard Commander grabbed his chin. “I want you to tell them.”

“…huh?” That was all Geumsaegi could say in his shock.

“Tell them who I am. Show them the proof.”

“B-but you’re a Black Rock spy!”

“And, one way or another, you are a rebel working against Flower Hill.” The Guard Commander lifted Geumsaegi’s chin so their eyes met. “The way I see it, that means we have a common enemy. Regardless of what your intentions are, the outcome we want is the same, is it not?” A smile. “Why use me only once when we can use each other over and over?”

“I…”

“Go ahead. Tell them. Your group gets resources, Black Rock gets an ally, we win and Flower Hill loses. Isn’t that what we both want?”

Geumsaegi swallowed. The Guard Commander chuckled.

“Well, think about it, anyway.” He paused. Then he let go, saying something thoughtfully. “You know? You can also tell them my name.”

“Your…name?”

He nodded. “Mulmangcho.”

“Like…the flower?”

He nodded again. “Yes. Mulmangcho, just like the flower.” A pause. “You know, in Wolf’s Den, they call it the forget-me-not.”

“O…kay…?”

“I always liked that,” he said. “It sounds poetic. A small little flower that means ‘don’t forget me’.”

And just like that, Mulmangcho leaned forward and gave Geumsaegi a kiss. He startled, slightly, but he found himself closing his eyes and kissing back. Wrapping his arms around the Guard Commander, getting as close as he possibly could, wanting nothing more than to continue this embrace. This moment of connection.

All too quickly though, Mulmangcho pulled away, leaving Geumsaegi panting. Wanting more. “Don’t forget what I told you. I’m not your enemy, Geumsaegi. Not if you let me help you. Okay?”

Geumsaegi nodded as the Guard Commander left. Staring after him.

Don’t forget…

Geumsaegi doubted he could.

[amberduan-ual]

Poster Design (14/3/23)

Designing my A2 poster for the final critique was a challenging task, since I had to consider how to thoughtfully present all the different types of information I had to our Art in Site professionals in a clear and concise manner. I had a large amount of research that I knew would be impossible to present in its entirety, the ideation and actual creation process, and my final prototypes; all very different kinds of information.

My priority was to communicate the intention and concept behind my idea, even if the curtains themselves didn’t reflect the scope and entirety of that. I knew that my project was a little bit different from the majority of the Art in Site projects other people would be presenting, since in essence my concept was the designing of an experience, not necessarily a single piece of art.

I used colors from my weave curtain in the design of the poster, and to reflect the multifaceted approach that one could take the concept, since I feel that my project was more of a jumping off point and less of a final guide for how to execute the idea.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Lena walks into the Tower, her thoughts still with the book she left locked in the safe of her home office. All heads turn to face her, and her eyes go straight to Kara, whose shoulders sag slightly at the sight of her.

"Lena..."

Kara envelops her in a hug. Lena squeezes her back, unable to keep the smile from tugging at her lips. "I came as soon as I saw the news," she says quickly. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah," Kara murmurs.  "But let's just say it's been a crazy couple of weeks."

Nia greets her as well, but Alex is withdrawn, and when Lena eventually follows Kara out onto the balcony, she presses a little harder.

"Everyone seems... quiet. Is everything really okay? Tell me the truth."

Kara sighs. "A lot has happened since you've been gone. And today Kelly reminded us that we'd lost sight of something important."

"Oh." Come to think of it, Kelly was the only one not at the Tower. "Where is Kelly?"

"At home?" Kara guesses with a shrug. A moment passes, as Kara gazes thoughtfully at the skyline. "Maybe... you should go see her."

"Me?" Lena doesn't dislike Kelly, but they aren't the closest. "Why me?"

"I get the feeling she isn't ready to see the rest of us yet. And I think..."

"Think what?"

"You two might be able to find some common ground."

Lena scoffs. "No offense, Kara, but me dating her brother doesn't mean I know what she's going through."

"No," Kara agrees. "But-- once upon a time, you took over your family's company. Reclaiming the Luthor legacy as your own, as a force for good..."

Brow furrowing, Lena frowns. "I don't follow..."

Kara smiles. "It was a thankless, insurmountable task... and you took it on anyway."

----

And so Lena finds herself knocking on Kelly's door. She hears a rustle on the far side, and then a pause as Kelly looks through the peephole. When the door opens, Lena offers a smile.

"Lena, hi! You're back!"

"I am," Lena affirms. She steps inside when Kelly opens the door wider.

"How was your trip?"

Lena pauses, searching for the right words. "Enlightening," she settles on. "But I hear things have gotten exciting since I left."

Closing the door, Kelly's features settle in a grim line. "So, they sent you, huh?"

"Neutral party?" Lena means it as a joke, but it falls flat. She sighs, letting her shoulders relax. "Kara told me a little about what happened."

"So you're the Kelly whisperer now?"

Kelly's gaze cuts through the air, sharp as a razor. Lena can only shake her head. "No. I won't pretend to know what you've lived through. James-- James shared some of his experience with me, and I can't even imagine what it must be like. But..."

Kelly's entire body tenses, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Lena takes a moment to gather herself, to choose the right words before she made an already tenuous situation worse.

"I can't deny my privilege, and I have no intention of doing so. We come from two very different backgrounds. But I've been on the outside of Kara's decisions before...  decisions that made me wonder if they even saw me at all."

Kelly doesn't snap, but she doesn't soften, either. Lena continues.

"I can only imagine that they've already offered all the support you can probably stand by now," she smiles, "but I want you to know that you have me too. You know... if you ever need someone a little less super."

Finally Kelly relents, just a little. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

Lena nods. Quiet stretches between them, until Lena sense she's overstayed her welcome. "I should get going," she says.

Kelly opens the door for her, not protesting her departure. It's the least congenial Lena's ever seen her, and Lena wonders if maybe she's seeing a new layer of Kelly. She wonders if this makes them closer, or more distant than before.

On her way out, Kelly catches one of Lena's wrists. "Thank you," she says. "Really."

Lena nods. She gives Kelly's hand a squeeze, then moves to pull away, only to turn back at the last moment.

"You know, Kara reminded me of something tonight," she blurts. Her cheeks heat with a slight flush when Kelly's brow arches. "Once upon a time, I wanted to do good."

An idea starts forming in her mind, miniscule at first, but quickly snowballing as her thoughts connected into a cohesive, executable plan. She could do it.

She would.

"I think I'm going to start a charity foundation," Lena continues, her lips pulling into a smile. "Maybe at some point I could get this new Guardian's input on where we could be the most help."

This time, Kelly rewards her with a warm smile.

"Oh, I'm sure she's got some ideas."

[lacedspine]

uhh @nachosforfree here’s techno’s arrest and “execution” for the kids au thing

please ignore that it’s bad writing/pacing/whatever i wrote this in like 20 minutes

.

.

.

“I like it here,” says Techno leaning his chin on the windowsill. “They can get heatstroke if they want to, but I’m great here. It’s like bein’ retired. More people should retire young.”

“If you say so, mate,” says Phil from the other side of the window. He’s sitting in one of the few unbroken lawn chairs they have, with Fundy’s head plopped in his lap, securing him in place. “I think I’m practically on house arrest, though. Or outside-arrest.”

Techno nods thoughtfully and goes back to the table to resume eating the apple he’s stolen from the fridge. They sit in silence like that for a few minutes, until Phil sits up, looking intently in the direction of the garden, which Techno can’t see from his position.

“Mate, I think you better get ready.” 

Techno slides out of his chair and patters over the window to peer out of it, just as Fundy jumps off of Phil’s lap and bounds around the house in the direction of the front door.

“Them,” murmurs Techno darkly, as the door bursts open and Quackity, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Fundy enter.

“Techno,” announces Quackity, putting his hands on his hips. “You are to return with us immediately to stand trial for...” he glances at the other two, trailing off uncertainly. 

“Leaving,” whispers Ranboo loudly.

“And knocking down L’manburg with Wilbur,” adds Tubbo.

“That was an accident,” says Techno with all the righteous indignation an eleven year-old can possibly muster. “And it was mostly knocked down already! Why can’t you get Wilbur to stand trial?”

“Wilbur’s dead,” says Quackity firmly. “But you’re here.”

Right on cue, Wilbur appears at the foot of the stairs with an empty glass in his hand. “Hi guys,” he says conversationally, walking past Techno to put it into the sink. “What’s up?”

“We’re arresting Techno,” informs Quackity with far too much sadistic glee. “We could arrest you too, if you want.”

“Nah,” says Wilbur, already drifting back towards the stairs. “I think revivals should wait for another day.”

Quackity nods and turns back to face Techno, his hand tightening on the broom handle he’s holding. “We’ll get you to come back with us, willing or not.”

Techno casts around for the nearest throwable objects. “You’ll never take me alive,” he shoots back.

Ranboo rubs Fundy’s ears in a mildly worried kind of way as Tubbo and Quackity lunge.

Outside, Phil sips his coffee and listens. From the sound of things, Techno isn’t going down without a fight. There also seems to be quite a bit of hair-pulling involved, mostly between Techno and Quackity. Eventually though, the little procession emerges from the house, with Techno being marched in between Tubbo and Ranboo, and Quackity holding a furry little bundle that seems to be Carl as Fundy weaves through his legs, yapping excitedly. 

“Be careful with the kitten!” calls Phil. 

“I was in retirement! I was being peaceful!” yells Techno to nobody in particular.

As Techno is marched back to the front lawn, Quackity hangs back to talk to Phil.

“We’re going to execute him,” he says confidingly, eyes glimmering with excitement. “Wanna come watch?”

Well, Phil’s coffee was getting cold, anyway. “Sure mate,” he agrees easily. 

Quackity nods seriously and produces a thick plastic bracelet. “We’ll have to restrain you.”

Phil agrees, although he refuses to let the thing go around his neck (he values his share of oxygen, thank you very much) like Quackity wants. Eventually they settle for it going around his ankle (“like a house arrest bracelet, Mr. Phil!”) and together, they make their way to where the others are.

They’ve got Techno sitting underneath the trampoline with his legs crossed and an annoyed expression on his face. Tubbo is balanced on the trampoline with what seems to be an entire box of legos, and seems to be currently preparing to drop it on Techno’s head. 

“Tubbo,” says Phil warningly.

“Dad,” gasps Techno despairingly, catching sight of the ‘house-arrest’ bracelet. “Dad, what did they do to you?!”

“Maybe don’t drop that on his head,” offers Phil.

“This is the end,” says Techno flatly, seeming to accept his fate in the span of a few seconds.

“This isn’t a trial,” says Quackity with far too much melodrama for the current stakes. “It’s an execution!”

What happens next is… well, Dream’s little brother (Phil thinks his name is Ponk? Or Punz, maybe?) hops over the fence, and tears through the yard, sending legos scattering and nearly overturning the trampoline entirely. He’s over the other side of the fence before any of them can react, but in the ensuing confusion, Tubbo drops the box. 

Techno rolls neatly to the side to avoid getting hit on the head, springs to his feet, snatches Carl up from where he’s lounging in the grass, and flees back into the house. 

“Escaped,” says Quackity darkly, before turning to Philza. “You know, you did kill Wilbur. Would you like to stand trial next?”

Tubbo’s already got most of the legos back in the box, and both of them have a distinctly bloodthirsty look in their eyes. 

“I’m alright, thanks mate,” says Phil, and heads after Techno before either of them attempts to execute him either. 

When he gets back to the kitchen, he discovers Techno sitting up on the counter with an ice cream sandwich, and Tommy rooting through the freezer. 

“We were too hot,” says Techno, a bit guiltily. “I’ll share if you like.” 

Phil shakes his head at the outstretched ice cream, but does lean over Tommy to grab one for himself. “Long day, huh?” he asks once all of them have ice cream in some form or another. “Attacked, nearly executed…”

Techno nods seriously, scratching lightly at the top of Carl’s head with a slightly sticky hand. “Very long,” he agrees. “I’m starting to think there can be no peaceful revolution. Do you have the texts?”

“The what?”

Techno rolls his eyes. “The texts. The ancient texts. Battle strategy.”

“You mean the Art of War?”

Techno and Tommy both nod vigorously, although Phil seriously doubts Tommy knows what either of them are talking about. 

Phil shakes his head, but gets up to go fetch it from the bookshelf anyway. 

“You should put it on a lower shelf,” suggests Techno with his best shot at puppy-dog eyes. “So I can reach it better. Much more convenient.”

Phil doesn’t even dignify that with a response, because Techno and easy access to battle strategy is a bad combination, as they’d all discovered three days ago when he had apparently launched an attack against poor Dream and Schlatt with the rest of Pogtopia. 

“Put the hat on,” encourages Tommy when Phil sits back down at the table. “You need the hat, big man.”

With a sigh, Phil grabs the striped bucket hat off of the hook where it lives and patiently waits for Tommy’s shrieking laughter to die down. Oh, the things he does for his kids. 

[ziracona]

Why do you like dirty dancing? I have never watched the movie.

It’s really good! I totally recommend it. For a lot of reasons.

Cinematically, it’s really good! It’s also written by a woman, and an academy award winner and extremely successful film from the 1980s, so it’s significant in film and I am a film person. It’s beautifully shot, and the choreography is amazing. Both of the protagonists are played by actors who were dancers first, so they do a great job. It’s kind of like a musical for dancers? Like it’s not a musical, but in the same way musical people connect to the way stories are executed in a musical, Dirty Dancing is very much a dancer’s love letter, and it was amazing to watch it with my little cousin, who is a professional dancer. 100/10. Its artful even the way they translate everything from rage to trust to intimacy into dance, like, the MCs have a really intimate dance scene before sex instead of a sex scene. It’s very artful and well planned and executed. I really like well written things and works that really know their research and audience, and there’s so much that is put into it. You don’t have to be a dancer to really love it though.

Beyond being beautiful, it’s an extremely progressive film. Usually when people talk about income inequality, and they focus at all on sexual exploitation due to poverty, it’s about girls. Dirty Dancing is one of only two films I can think of offhand (the other being Sunset Blvd) that give weight to men facing the same. And I really hate it when media acts like sexual exploitation, abuse, or assault is somehow less bad when it happens to men, and conversely love media that /does/ give weight to it. It also talks about the reality faced by people who can’t afford procedures or to raise a child or not to work when it comes to pregnancy and abortion, and I really appreciate that they’re thoughtful in trying to honestly explain the reality and intense despair of situations.

Johnny and Baby are both great characters. I like Patrick Swayze quite a lot. He plays very soft masculine characters, and I get tired of obnoxious portrayals that feel like they have something to prove 24/7 real fast, so I like actors like that a lot. He’s best friends with a girl he has no romantic relationship with and just loves like a sister (how you can tell irl men are worth it be the same way haha). He’s a very well written character, and the weight of what he’s going through both just in life, and because of the events of the film, and even the power dynamics and innate fear of being used that come with Baby despite her best intentions? *cheff’s kiss*. Similarly, Baby is great. She is a very good and progressive “I want to help others!” Girl, but she’s also a rich girl and extremely privileged, and the reality of that is entirely present and discussed, as well as her failings, without it like, voiding any of the truth of her being a good person trying hard to do good. Which is very real. It’s a film about income inequality at heart, and trying to do the right thing, and kind of coming of age, and about reality and identity. The scene when Baby talks to her dad about her letting him down and him letting her down too? I cry. I think anyone who grows up with even slightly different sociopolitical ideals than their parents can relate.

I also like that the film, despite having one of the most upbeat finales, doesn’t actually have a happy ending. You have no idea if the main characters will be okay, only that they’re proud of what they’ve fought and lost and sacrificed for. That’s also very real, and I think sometimes a too happy ending loses some weight, when about serious topics. Some things you have to acknowledge won’t be perfect, and if you do the right thing you will lose something, and human rights very upsettingly is often one of those things.

Anyway! It’s a thoughtfully written, fun, beautiful film about income inequality with great dance numbers and a boppin sound track, and it’s just. It’s an extremely well and like, devotedly crafted work. I 100% recommend it.

[systlinsideblog]

Part 7

The fall of the great walled city of Turia came on a day shimmering with heat, but with storm clouds building on the horizion, looming heavy as they built into great mounds over the prairies. The air smelled of the promise of rain; that was good, Systlin thought. A good heavy rain later would wash the blood off the streets.

Turia’s towers glittered white in the sun. The walls were high and proud and in excellent repair; the warriors manning the top of it were said to be skilled. Everyone she’d spoken to had told her the same; Turia was home to a million and a half people. Turia was the jewel of the prairies, the Ar of the South. Turia was home to marvelous markets and one could find any luxury one wished there. The people of Turia were grand and wealthy and proud, and though they loved luxury their fighting men were excellent.

Its walls were high and thick. Its wells were deep and never ran dry. There were food stores to outlast the greatest of sieges. The nine gates were thick and strong and guarded zealously; while attackers died at the walls, the people of Turia would relax in their bath houses and dine on delicacies and laugh.

Turia was splendid. Turia was rich. Turia had been sieged many times, but never once had Turia fallen.

Systlin rolled her neck and shoulders, cracking any tension out.

She remembered Myr. Turia reminded her strongly of it. Myr too had been rich, and strong, and undefeated. Myr as well had thought itself safe behind tall, thick walls and strong gates, guarded by skilled fighters. Myr as well had laughed at the army camped on the plains before it. The walls of Myr had famously been bound in Power, power laid so deeply and thickly by generation after generation of Myrish earth witches that there had been more power than stone to the walls. Breakers before her, born to the desert, had tested those walls. Breakers before her had exhausted themselves against them and failed and died.

She had tried herself against them anyway. She had not failed. There was a hundred foot gap in the walls of Myr now, named for her. “The Mitraka’s Gate,” they called it. The legend of how she’d brought down the famously unbreakable walls of Myr had spread north to the Skyfire reaches and south to Sielauk before she’d even left the deserts.

Turia’s walls were not as high or thick as Myr’s, and they were not spelled for protection. Against a Breaker of the least power they’d be useless, and Systlin was the strongest Breaker ever to live. She eyed the warriors on top of them, still out of bowshot, and for a moment felt a flash of pity for them.

It was gone quickly. She wondered how many of those proud men had women chained to their beds. A million and a half people, but that number did not, she knew, count slaves. Counting slaves, it was said that the number was at least twice that, and likely higher.

Foicatch was watching her. He had not been at Myr when it fell, but he had been there since. He’d ridden through the Mitraka’s Gate. He knew, of course, that she was remembering.

“Been a bit,” He said at last, as they waited for Myr to send out its famous tharlarion cavalry, and honestly though she found herself growing fond of the kaiila the Wagon Peoples rode and could admit that the vicious reptilian tharlarion were impressive, she wished she had a good, normal horse. “Since we had a real battle before us.”

“Hmmm.” She agreed. The last time, indeed, they’d been fighting a mad god and his creatures. She’d killed a god, in that battle. Killed one god and threatened another. “Do try not to die. I’d hate to have to find a new royal consort.”

A snort. “I’ve no intention of dying today. I want to see you on the throne of that city.” A pause. “I’ve always had rather a fantasy, actually, of you on the throne of freshly conquered city, and me on my knees…”

Oh. Well. That did sound interesting. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you? You could have said something.”

“Well. It’s always been so busy when we’re breaching a stronghold, and things were all happening so fast at the time. You were so intent; I wasn’t sure you’d take it well.” A shrug. “Early days of us and all. By the time I knew better, you had the North in line again, and when we fought the Fallen One there weren’t many strongholds to breach or thrones to make use of.”

That was fair. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She said thoughtfully, even as the great gates ground slowly open and ranks of fighting men on those two-legged sharp-toothed reptilian beasts began to file out. She eyed the gleaming lances they carried disapprovingly; those were, of course, going to be the first thing she did away with once things got going.

Using her power in pitched battles was risky; she did not like doing it to kill. Not more than needed. But shattering some lances was no issue at all.

He grinned, that familiar and beloved flash of white teeth against that dark beard. “Oh, excellent.” He shot the enemy cavalry a look, and then looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. She nodded once. He leaned over, and she leaned to meet him; they exchanged a kiss, brief but sweet, and he peeled his kaiila away and headed to take command of the left flank.

She looked back over the prairie. There were several thousand riders now, forming ranks. A few men wearing particularly gleaming armor with extra gold leaf seemed to be conferring in a huddle; she waited.

“Ubara?” Dina said softly, from her side. “Ubara, should we…” There was nervousness in her voice.

“Not yet.” Systlin was the veteran of many battles of this scale; Myr was much larger than Turia, and that had been only the first city she’d taken. Dina was not. Even in a seasoned warrior, nerves before battle were normal, but Dina had taken up a spear only a year and a half past. She’d fought and killed, but the other tribes and towns and cities they’d taken were nothing on the scale of Turia. “They’ll send someone to talk, like all the others have. I’ll either kill him or send him back, like all the other times. I’ll break their lances; that will be the signal to charge.”

She looked to her side. Dina’s face was drawn tight. Systlin remembered that Dina, before slave chains, had once been a free woman, and had been born in Turia.

“You have a father, don’t you?” Systlin said, more softly.

“I do.” She whispered. “He never took a slave. He loved my mother, a Free Companion, and never took a slave; he has mourned her since her death. He is of the baker’s caste, as was my mother. He makes sweet rolls and gives them to children, and the best bread and pastries. I do not brag; he was famous in the city, and rich women and men came to buy from us. He and my brothers and I worked hard and were proud of our work.” She paused a moment. “I do not know if my brothers have taken slaves. And if they have…” Another, longer pause, and she looked away. “If they have, I will not beg mercy for them, but I will mourn what they might have been had their minds not been poisoned.”

Systlin thought of her own brother, dead so young. Of laughing and competing and playing with him, of the friendly fighting between close siblings. Of his smile and his laugh, and his sharp wit. She wondered, if her place and Dina’s had been switched, if she could have watched him killed for slaving and rape.

She probably could have. She knew it in the deepest place in her heart, where she worried sometimes at her own coldness. She probably would have done it with her own hands, at that. She’d executed her uncle and aunt with her own hands, in that battle to bring the warring lords tearing the North to bloody scraps to heel. But she was a famously hard and coldhearted bitch when it came to matters of justice, as any noble in the North of Ellinon would tell. “The Iron Bitch”, she knew they called her behind her back. “The Iron Bitch with the frozen heart.”

She’d have done it, yes. But she’d have mourned intensely after, for what might have been.

Dina was loyal and dear to her, a good friend. But if her brothers were rapists and slavers, Systlin knew that even if Dina begged, she would not grant mercy unless the offended girls asked it. It ran counter to everything in her to do so.

Goddess of Justice. The Lady’s voice whispered in her head.

Fuck off, she thought in return. I’ve shit to do.

“We can hope,” she said. “That they take after your father. And we’re not here to loot; if your father is in his shop and not with the fighting men, he’s quite safe.”

That seemed to ease Dina slightly. The woman was still used to the Gorean idea of war, where taking a city meant sacking it utterly, looting and burning and slaving. No army under Systlin’s command would ever fight so, though. She’d kill the soldiers responsible with her bare hands.

“Baker’s caste,” Dina said. “Do not fight, not unless they must. They will not be on the walls. Those on the walls and on the field here are warrior caste.”

Systlin would have to investigate this caste system more thoroughly. She did not like the idea on principle, but it seemed a force of social stability that most Goreans were very attached to. From what she’d gathered there were provisions for moving through castes if one wished. However, she’d heard that some, such as weavers and spinners, were considered ‘low caste’.

Systlin had attempted such tasks before; her mother was fond of spinning and weaving, though she was Queen Mother and needed never touch a spindle if she didn’t wish. After fifteen minutes spent at it, Systlin had come to the conclusion that the work that went into cloth was absurdly complicated and skilled, and had never touched a spindle since. She did, however, have a reputation for never haggling when it came to buying cloth or paying her seamstresses.

Low caste her arse. The idea of any of the most essential tasks…potters, farmers, fishermen, herders…being lower than any others raised her hackles. Perhaps the idea of low or high caste could go…

Across the grassland, a small party of men, led by one of the men in gleaming gold-chased armor began to ride towards them. Systlin put aside other concerns and nodded once to Dina, who nodded back and went to lead the right flank.

Her kaiila could sense that battle was coming, and shifted under her, tossing her head in eagerness. Systlin held her steady, and waited.

They headed, of course, for Foicatch. Systlin sighed and rolled her eyes, and nudged her kaiila forward. The creature sprang forward in that long, loping predator stride, and she headed them off in moments. They glared at her, all hostile intent. She regarded them in what was probably a dismissive manner, but so far as she was concerned these men were already dead. They were nothing that she had not seen on this world already, in the smaller towns that lay outside Turia. She’d killed a thousand like them since coming here.

“You know full well that I lead this army.” She said bluntly. “You’ve heard the stories.” She sighed. “It makes me curious…”

“Stories of trickery and nonsense about sorcery.” The man with the glittering armor said loftily. “A few villages might fall to some unnatural woman, but this is Turia. We will not be afraid of a tribe of women who think themselves the equals of men.”

“…As I was saying,” Systlin raised her voice slightly. “It makes me curious as to the full degree which you, meaning men on this world, are capable of deluding yourselves. I’ve been halfway through conquering towns and tribes and the men would still be telling me that I couldn’t hope to carry through, because I was but a woman.” She shook her head. “Almost sad, really. I’ve an army of  twenty five thousand camped before your gates. I know you have heard the stories of how I’ve conquered cities across the prairies and brought all the tribes of the Wagon People under my rule. I am Ubara-Sana of the plains, by my own hand, and I’ve crushed every force sent against me. And yet here you are, still claiming the same old tired thing.”

She looked him in the eyes. “This is the part where, if you are smart, you will confer with your people and you will open the gates, lay down your arms, and have a chance to survive this.”

He scoffed. Entirely predictably. “This is Turia, woman. The plainsfolk may not have been able to humble you, but Turia will. We’ve ten thousand cavalry, and that is not counting the fighting men on foot. You and your slave girls with swords can batter yourselves to ribbons against us, and we’ll put collars on those of you not killed.” A slow, lewd smile, because apparently he felt he hadn’t dug his own grave deep enough. “Maybe I’ll put mine on you, woman, and teach you to obey a master’s word.”

“Well.” Systlin shrugged. “I did give you a chance.”

She’d learned knife throwing from Stellead, but the Arms Master of the Bloodguard had been dubious of its effectiveness and the instruction had only been basic. It was at the Iron Mountain, under the tutelage of the master assassins of the Master of Knives, that she’d learned how to properly throw a knife.

She’d killed the Master of Knives, of course. He’d taken the contract on her father, and sent out one of his Shadow Hands to kill a king. She’d killed the Brother of Shadow who’d wielded the knife, as well, and many others besides. The Iron Mountain stood empty now, the bones of those she’d killed gathering dust in the halls.

Her knife took the golden-armored warrior through the eye. He looked quite shocked as he slid from the saddle and fell. His men started in rage, and went for their lances.

Systlin smiled at them. Her power rose, a cold sweep through her bones, tingling under her skin. She raised her hand, and flicked her fingers negligently at them, mostly for show.

Their lances shattered into splinters. So did at least five thousand other lances of the leading ranks of the famed thalarion cavalry of Turia.

A great confused sound went up, and thalarion shied at the strange scent of Power in the air, sharp as ozone. And as fighting men scrambled for their secondary weapons, Systlin’s forces charged.

Ice took the first man before her just under the chin. She didn’t quite behead him as her coal-black kaiila shot past, but slashed the big artery on his neck open. Blood pumped, and the sound he made as he fell was a terrible gurgle.

She wheeled her mount and ducked the frantic sweep of a sword. The riders were startled, off balance, and that was death when facing a warrior of her caliber. Her kaiila darted in and took the throat of one of the slower High Thalarions, tearing it open. The beast went down, and its rider with it. Systlin kneed the sides of her kaiila and it leapt; the final warrior managed to parry her first blow, a slicing cut at his neck.

She twisted her wrist, reversed the grip on Ice’s hilt with a little twist and clever movement of her fingers that Stellead had made her practice ten thousand times, and drove it into his chest under his ribs. Drew it back with a sharp jerk as she wheeled her kaiila again, and flipped it back around in her hand. She did not have to think about the motion; she had not missed the catch on the twist since she had been a child training under Arms Master Stellead.

Then her kaiila was running, and she pushed it hard for a few paces until she regained her place leading the center. Lances glittered to either side of her, and she felt a fierce pride in the women she’d trained.

She eyed the gates of Turia, behind the regrouping lines of thalarion cavalry. Arrows arched from behind, as her mounted archers began picking off the front ranks of the Turian forces as they came into range.

Arrows returned, from on top of the walls, and one bounced off of her wraithen-scale armor. She lashed out with her power, still simmering under her skin, and five hundred bows shattered. Cries of dismay went up a second time.

She eyed the great gates of Turia, even as her kaiila gathered itself to leap and the first of her lance-fighters neared the front lines of the Turian cavalry. She eyed them for a half a second before she hit the front lines of the Turians, and she Broke them.

The great gates of Turia, and fifty feet of the wall to either side, crumbled into splinters and sand. There was a great cry of horror and dismay from the city, and cries of “UBARA! UBARA!” from her own warriors, delighted.

And then her front line was smashing into the Turian cavalry, and there was no more time for thought.

The Turians were skilled, but they were off balance, had lost the advantage of their long lances, and had not truly been expecting a proper fight. Systlin and her best lancers hit them like a hammer, and pierced deep into the ranks before the Turians quite knew it was happening. The Turians were down to swords now, and only a few of the rear ranks still had lances. Systlin’s riders had long lances with reach, and their kaiila were faster and more nimble than the high thalarion the Turians rode.

And, of course, they had her.

Systlin was no stranger to mounted combat. She’d ridden with the tribes of the desert at Sura’s side for years, and was as deft a hand at mounted combat as any Rider. She’d never have been accepted, otherwise.

It felt, she had to admit, as she turned a sword aside with Ice and flicked the sword around, down, and up, taking off the man’s sword hand at the wrist, very good to be at it again. The man screamed, but she was past him. A lance glanced off of her armor, and she wheeled her kaiila. The beast snapped, catching a leg, and tore the man off of his mount. His thalarion turned and went for her mount, but her kaiila shook its head and was leaping away before it could do any damage.

Systlin fought with all the skill and speed and cunning she had. She fought viciously, the whole time willing that her army would not fail now, would not quail because this battle was larger and closer-fought than any before. She willed it, imagining that she could throw wide her arms and take under her shadow all of her proud free mounted warriors, and through sheer will alone keep them fighting.

And she did what she had always done, in battle. She led on the front line, and fought like nothing the Turians had ever seen before. Men rose before her and men fell; she was past Power now, and killed with pure hard-won skill and naked steel. She cut faces, necks, torsos, limbs. Ice’s blue-tinged blade was purple with blood, and blood spattered her all over. She killed, and killed, with all the skill of those long hours of training and decades more of fighting for her life. She fought, and killed, her blood sang with it.

You were never made for peace. The Lady’s words. It was true; she knew it was true. She loved battle, though she knew it spoke of her basically coldhearted and vicious nature that she did. She was a warrior born and trained and blooded, and she was at home on the killing field.

She’d fought three wars, leading from the front. She’d won each, and the sight of her at the forefront of her warriors, in her element, bloody and screaming and bringing death with her, was absolute horror to the men of Gor.

The sight that horrified the men of Turia stiffened the spines of her warriors, and to the endless horror of the men of Turia, the former slave girls, now screaming warriors with lances and swords, cut into them with a fury they’d never seen.

With her at their front, her mounted warriors smashed the Turian lines apart, just as the left flank led by Foicatch drove hard at the gap left at the rear, pushing the cavalry of Turia away from the broken gates and cutting them off from retreat into the city. Foicatch himself set himself in the middle of the smashed gate, and Systlin caught glimpses of him engaged in fierce close fighting now and then as foot soldiers pressed forward from the city to try and relieve the cavalry she was driving like a herd of sheep across the prairies before Turia.

But the fighting men of Turia were skilled, and proud, and they began to regroup. Men were shouting orders, and the remaining lances managed to form up defensive lines. The fighting grew vicious, even after Systlin Broke more lances, and their advance ground to a crawl. Their armies were nearly matched; Systlin’s warrior women had better armor and better reach, but the Turian fighting men had more experience, and it began to show as they got their feet under them. Systlin’s troops fought like mad wildcats, and she was so proud; they were still winning forward, inch by inch, but she was not about to spend more lives than she had to.

The Turians began to press back, and her advance ground to a halt. Systlin smiled, because she heard the galloping of the kaiila, and knew.

Dina’s mounted archers swept past, and the women turned on their kaiilas with those short but powerful recurve bows of wood and bosk horn. Strings slid from thumb rings, and three thousand arrows hammered home through that light leather armor that the men of this world favored. The kaiilas wheeled, and the women turned again, as they’d practiced a thousand times, sitting backwards on their mounts. Strings sang again, and arrows flew as thick as rain.

Turians died. Systlin yelled and plunged forward again, and to shouts of “UBARA! UBARA! WHIP-BURNER! CHAIN-STRIKER!” her warriors followed.

The Turians had nowhere to retreat from Dina’s archers, except back onto the lances of Systlin’s mounted spear-women. No rescue came from Turia; Foicatch was stacking the bodies of fighting men four deep in the ruin of the shattered gates.

The fighting outside the city drug out a big longer; it took time to slaughter ten thousand cavalry and their mounts. But caught between Dina’s wheeling mounted archers and their storm of arrows and the lances of Systlin’s cavalry and Systlin’s own sword, they were cut to bits.

It was then that Systlin regrouped her lancers and led them to the shattered gates, where the foot soldiers of Turia were approaching more cautiously than before. The shattered gates themselves were a charnel house; fighting men and women both lay dead alongside wounded and dead and shrieking kaiila, and blood was red over the stones of the road and the rubble of the gates and walls. Foicatch and his warriors held, and the fighting men of Turia seemed reluctant to approach within reach of Foicatch’s sword.

They parted to let Systlin through, and her lancers flowed around to guard the sides of the ranks of warriors.

Systlin joined Foicatch at the front lines. She must look a terrible sight; she was head to toe blood and mud, the colors of her wraithen armor dulled under the coating. Foicatch’s own set of wraithen scale armor was similarly filthy. There was a cut high on his temple, a glancing blow that was not serious but bleeding freely. Even as she joined him she felt a trickle of Power as he flicked droplets of blood away from his eyes.

A lull in the fighting; the soldiers of Turia drew back, appalled at the sight. Foicatch eyed her, gaze flicking head to toe to check her for injuries. She gave him a slight reassuring shake of her head, doing the same to him. The cut on his temple seemed to be the worst of it. She turned to eye the soldiers before them.

“Your cavalry,” Systlin informed the fighting men before them. “Are dead. My throat slitters are making short work of any survivors this very moment. You did not hear the offer I made before, I think, so I will make it one more time. Lay your weapons down now, and you may find mercy. I will not give you another chance.”

Not one fighting man moved, save for the one who yelled in defiance, pulled a knife from his boot, and hurled it at her head.

It was a good throw, she thought, as she twisted her head to the side even as his hand swept up with the blade. It was a good throw. Had she not been taught by Stellead and the Shadow Hands of the Iron Mountain, it might have struck home. As it was, it simply scraped her cheekbone in passing; a shallow cut that would heal quickly and cleanly.

Answer enough, she supposed. Foicatch was already moving, and fell on the knife-thrower with a single-minded viciousness that was poetry to see. Systlin was moving almost as quickly, and that was where the battle in the city began.

It was nasty work. Street by street, driving the fighting men before them. Many of the freed slaves in Systlin’s forces had been from Turia, and as planned they now took the lead. As Systlin had suspected, their knowledge of the city was invaluable; meeting places and baths where warriors gathered were found out. Attacks from small alleys were anticipated. Cobbles went slick with blood. A nasty dagger opened a long cut into Systlin’s left forearm, and some of the slick blood under their boots and the kaiila’s paws was her own. She bound it with a strip torn from her own shirt, cinching the knot tight with her teeth, and pressed on.

Turia was a city of millions; it took hours to work their way through, even with the size of her army. It was late afternoon when at last she realized that any warriors found out were fleeing rather than fighting, and being quickly ridden down by archers. Systlin stopped, at last, sitting high on her kaiila, and knew that she was Ubara of Turia, and by extension all of the plains in truth, by right of conquest.

Dina was staying close now, guiding them through the streets. She saw the same realization dawn on Dina’s face; Foicatch was already smiling that grim satisfied smile she remembered well.

“Take me to the throne of Turia.” Systlin said, and Dina did.

The first drops of the storm hit the bloody dust and thunder growled low when the reached the great palace of Turia. It was in a vast central building, half law chambers and half a throne hall. It was all in the same white stone that the city seemed to favor, with a great dome over the hall where the Thrones of Turia sat. They were very fine; there was, Systlin was sure, wood somewhere under the silver and inlaid semiprecious stones, but it was difficult to make out. She left footprints of blood and mud across the spotless tiled floors.

She’d made instructions clear before the first spear was lifted; her warriors knew what to do. One part of being a leader, her father had said long ago. Is finding competent people that you trust, and then trusting them to do their jobs without your having to hang over their shoulder.

He’d been right. Her people were competent, and she did trust them. So while she waited for her warriors to ferret out the various guild and caste leaders and other important persons, Systlin ascended the nine steps to the dais…it was gorgeously carpeted, and inlaid with ivory and gold…and sat herself down in the larger throne, the throne of the Ubar of Turia.

Foicatch eyed her. There was an answering warm pulse that went down her spine and pooled insistently between her legs; there was nothing like battle to get the blood up. But…She raised her eyebrows back at him. “Not yet.” She said, somewhat reluctantly, and motioned with her chin at the smaller throne, the throne where traditionally the Ubara sat. “Not quite yet. It’s not properly conquered until I explain things to the important people, is it?”

“I suppose not.” But his eyes were lingering on her lips, and slid down over the length of her legs and the curve of her hip even so. She could feel the heat of it, and dearly wished to answer it.

But it was about at that point that people…some of them bedraggled, some begging and pleading, some silent and apparently numbly shocked into silence, all led by her fierce and triumphant warrior women, began to file into the great throne chamber. All were drenched; Systlin could hear rain rattling against the roof now, and thunder rumbling quite often.

They stared. Systlin knew what she must look like. She sat, and waited. Her shoulder ached; she’d been slammed into a wall at one point, and probably had a spectacular bruise. Her arm where she’d been cut stung. Her muscles burned from exertion; she’d been fighting on and off for hours. The cut on her cheek had scabbed, and pulled when she moved or spoke.

None of it mattered. Victory was pounding in her veins along the adrenaline. Even now, she knew, her warriors were removing chains from slaves; she could taste it on the air, and it was as sweet as honeyed wine.  

Goddess of justice and war.

She ignored the voice of the Lady whispering.

Dina was conferring with the other women native to Turia. They looked fearsome; all were armored and armed and bloody. Most of the blood, to Systlin’s immense pride, was not their own. They had wounds, true, but most were not serious, and every warrior will earn scars. They were standing and moving and speaking with a new edge of confidence that had not been there even this morning, and Systlin knew why.

Stories would be told of this, she knew. Stories would be told, and the warriors who’d fought with her to take Turia would be legend in their own right. And they knew it as well; had proved something to themselves that could never be taken away.

Yes, these warrior women would say, years from now. Yes, of course I know of the Fall of Turia. I was there. I fought at the Ubara’s side. There would be looks then, as awed as any Systlin herself had ever received, and she knew in her bones how the legends would be told in decades to come.

Dina of Turia, who led the Ubara’s archers and broke the Turian cavalry with the Ubara.

Sabra of Turia, the first of all who had her chains struck off, who rode with her lance at the Ubara’s side, in her honor guard, and who fought so fiercely that none could stand before her. Never in the battle for the city did she leave the Ubara’s side, and she walked through blood ankle-deep that day.

Hula of Turia, Doreen of Turia, Hireena of the Tuchuks. Tamra of Ar…

The list went on and on, and pride was a bright warmth in her chest.

Dina said something to Sabra, who nodded and turned to cross the hall and climb the steps. Systlin remembered that first day; Sabra clutching, terrified, at her sleeve. There was little trace of the frightened and beaten slave girl now; Sabra was one of her best with a spear, and she wore thick bosk-hide armor sewn with metal plates. Her arms and shoulders were strong, and her blonde hair braided tightly back. There was blood and mud crusted in it, and a vicious bruise showing around one eye. Her nose had been broken at some point, and hastily reset,. The dried blood from it was still on her chin. She was smiling a smile of victory.

“Ubara sana.” She said. “The guild leaders, councilors, and other important leaders of the city are assembled.”

“Thank you, Sabra.” Systlin smiled back, just as fierce. “And well fought. Fierce as a she-panther.”

The grin widened. “Thank you, Ubara-sana!”

“I told you,” Systlin said, still smiling. “You doubted me, but here you stand. When I secure the treasury, you are to take as much as you can carry, as a mark of my esteem. I name you now to my personal guard, for as long as you desire the post, but you must promise to tell me if you ever wish to leave. You were the first to have her chains thrown off, and I’ve no wish to ever bind you with others.”

Sabra blinked rapidly, and Systlin realized that she was blinking back tears. “I will, Ubara sana.” She said. “But I do not think that day will come.”

“Well. If it does, let me know. And I’ve another duty for you; you were the first to take up weapons, even before Dina. If you will, once things settle more in a few days, go among the women of Turia and tell them your story. And if any of them wish it, bring them to me, and help me train them as warriors, as you trained yourself.”

A light like fever lit in Sabra’s eyes. “Ubara sana,” she whispered. “You honor me, and I will do this.”

“You won your honor yourself, with your own hands and by your own actions.” Systlin said. “I merely handed you the tools to do so. Bring them all forward, then.”

Foicatch, she realized, was staring at her with an intensity that was scorching.

“You will never have any idea,” he breathed, very quietly, as her warriors herded the frightened rich and powerful of the city to the base of the raised dais the thrones sat upon, “the effect you have on people. What it’s like to see, from the outside.”

“Hush.” She murmured back, just as softly. “You’re biased.”

“I am. But I’m also right. Every woman in your forces would have followed you to the death this morning, but after this they’d follow you past it as well.”

“Hmm.” She allowed, but it was a pleased sound. “I try only to be what they deserve.”

“Yes.” He said. “Yes, and that’s why.”

She eyed the small crowd at the foot of the dais. They were frightened and soaked from the storm, bedraggled and sullen.

“Foicatch, darling.” She said. “Our guests appear to be soaked. Could you give them a hand?”

He made an agreeable sound and lifted a hand. She tasted Power on the back of her tounge, ozone and burnt cinnamon.

There were gasps and screams as the water streamed and spiraled off of the huddled leaders of Turia. Foicatch pulled it into a hovering globe above his hand, and then rather negligently flicked it aside. It splashed to the tiles, leaving the people in the crowd quite dry.

Dina clicked her tounge against her teeth. “Are you all sorcerers, on your world?” A year and a half of following Systlin, one of the strongest fire witches and the strongest Breaker ever to live, had rubbed the novelty off of seeing Power worked.

“Not all of us.” Systlin lifted a shoulder. “But a good many.”

“My mother’s a stronger water witch than me,” Foicatch said absently. “I’ve only half her gift.”

“Wait until you see him really angry,” Systlin said. “And see him tear the water from a man’s blood.”

“I have.” That was Hireena, herding the Turians forward. Her voice was low, and she looked at Foicatch with deep respect. “At the gates, as we fought.”

“Did you?” She said, with interest. Systlin had seen it done before. It had been….compelling. Hmmmm.

Later. Later. More important things first.

“Turia.” She said, her voice clear. “I greet you.”

Furious, frightened faces looked up at her. Mutters went around. Systlin remembered well what she’d been told.

“I greet you,” she said. “As Ubara Sana of the plains, won by my own hand. But of course, you are Turian, and the power in Turia lies with the merchants.”

“It is so.” One veiled woman said. She was looking up curiously; her robes were of exquisitely fine silks, and embroidered with gold. Pearls hung from the edges of her sleeves, and crystal beads glittered across her gown.

“That,” said Systlin. “May change. I understand, of course, that you’ve already well established trade routes, and I’ve no wish to interfere with them. But I am Ubara Sana now, and the old laws will change. You may have heard that, on the plains, slave chains have been outlawed, and all slaves freed. It is true, and as of this moment by my decree every slave in Turia is freed.”

There was a roar of arguments and shouting and disapproving noises.

“…cannot simply…”

“…My business is slaves! How am I to…”

“…an outrage!...”

Systlin waited them out, patient. As she did, another of the Turian women jogged in through the great door; the rain had washed away most of the mud and blood, but she was limping, a strip of cloth bound around one thigh. She murmured something to Dina, who nodded once and took the nine steps up to the dais two at a time.

“There is a problem.” Dina said. “Saphrar, a wealthy merchant, one of the leaders of the Merchant’s Caste in the city. He’s a fortified compound, and has walled himself up with his mercenary forces.”

“Tell everyone to pull back.” Systlin said at once. “Keep an eye on the compound; let no one escape. After I finish here, I’ll come and tend to his gates myself.”

Dina smiled thinly, and went back down, murmured this to the other woman. The other woman grinned like a wolf, and hurried out, swift despite her wounded leg.

“Have you all finished?” Systlin raised her voice above the crowd.

“I will contract with the Guild of Assassins for this!” A man with thick dark hair and wearing gold and white robes said furiously. He had a hand raised and was shaking a finger at the sky. “I’ll have your head in my vault. I swear it on the Priest-Kings! “

“I take it that you deal in slaves,” Systlin said dryly.

“I do! It is an honorable trade, and I have been dealing in slave meat for…”

Systlin nodded at Dina, who moved quickly. Her knife gleamed, and the man’s throat opened ear to ear. A gurgle, and a red rush of blood, and utter shocked silence.

“Slavery,” Systlin said mildly. “Is one of the greatest crimes, and slavers are condemned to death. Those who procure and deal in slaves for their own wealth are doubly damned. Throw his body to the kaiila; they must be hungry after the fight. What was his name?”

Silence.

“I asked,” Systlin said, voice going cold. “For his name. I expect an answer.”

Another moment of silence dragged out, and then…“Kazrak.” The veiled woman who’d spoken before said. “Kazrak of the Merchant Caste. His mansion is next to mine, and his warehouse is in the low streets, near the slave market.”

“Did he have a Free Companion, any children?”

“Both.”

“Then half of his estate shall go to them, and they shall maintain their home. The other half of his assets are forfeit, and will be redistributed between his slaves, who are now free.” Systlin raised an eyebrow. “Might I have your name?”

“Aphris.” Said the woman. “Of the Merchant Caste. I deal in silks and wine, not people.” She shot a somewhat vicious look at the dead Kazrak, as he was dragged off, leaving a smear of red on the tiles. “And he was cruel, and it does my heart good to see justice done him. I take it then that we, the free women of Turia, are not to be put in slave chains?”

“Bloody pits, no.” Systlin said, repulsed.

“I did not think so.” Aphris said, cool and collected, a point of calm in the angry and terrified crowd. “But many freewomen feared the worst. It is, after all, how war has been done on Gor for a very long time. You can understand the worry.”

It was a reasonable worry, Systlin supposed. “Of course. But have no fear, no hand will be raised against you. You are free, and will remain free. Aside from that, by my laws it will be punishable by death if anyone, from anywhere, ever attempted to enslave you, and I would hunt that man down and kill him for daring to put chains on one of my subjects.”

There were many free women in the crowd, and at the words there was sort of a sigh that ran through them, and a sense of some great tension lifted. The men looked startled. Systlin gestured, taking in the concealing robes all of the free women wore.

“It is no longer required,” she continued. “That you wear full Robes of Concealment in public. A free woman may dress as she likes and go where she likes. If you feel more comfortable in your robes, of course, then you are welcome to wear them, but it is not required. If you choose to set them aside and experience difficulty from anyone, you may make a formal complaint and the matter will be dealt with. I will make people and resources available to deal with such matters.”

A murmur. More looks of outrage from the men.

“Many,” Aphris said. “Will welcome this. But for myself, Ubara, I think I will choose to wear the robes, at least for some time longer.”

“Of course.” Systlin inclined her head. “And I am afraid, of course, that Turia will be judged.”

“Judged?” One man snapped. “Like you judged Kazrak?”

“Yes. Precisely how I judged Kazrak.” Systlin smiled unpleasantly. “There are three great crimes; the murder of an innocent who has done no harm, the rape of another, and enslaving another. The penalty for all three is death.”

Silence. Dead, horrified silence. And then,

“You cannot mean,” another man said, carefully. “That every man who held a slave will be killed.”

“No.” Systlin shook her head. Sighs of relief, but she continued. “Because some slaves, for whatever reason, beg mercy for those who held them. It will be up to any slaves you hold what your fate is. But,” and she grinned again, more horribly. “If a single slave you’ve held and raped chooses death for you, I will put a knife in her hand and hold you down myself for the sentence.”

“What.”

“You cannot mean…”

“Not all…”

“All.” Systlin said, merciless. “Every man in Turia. If a freewoman held male slaves…I’m told it happens…then her life is forfeit as well. I will not abide it. Have no fear; I will establish many courts to see to it. It will take us months to work through the city, but it will be done. And those of you who are guilty, I will hang your bones from the white walls as a warning.”

“You,” Said one man, who had until then been silent, staring angry daggers at her from the front of the crowd. His robes, she noted, were the finest in the room, and edged in purple. “Are mad.”

“Not the first time I’ve been called that.” Systlin said easily. She looked him over, matching up features with descriptions. “Phanius Turmus, I presume?”

“Ubar of Turia.” He confirmed, chin high. “You are defiling my throne, woman.”

“You were.” She shook her head. “But you lost. You’re simply Phanius now, and you’ll be judged with the rest.”

“I think that perhaps I shall contract with the Assassin’s Caste for your head.” He didn’t flinch or break eye contact. “Your head would look well in my vaults, I agree with Kazrak.”

“Oh, please do. I ought to make their acquaintance. It’s been some time since I trained with the assassins of my own world, and tore their master’s throat out with my knife. So yes please, do. It would be an exciting challenge.”

Foicatch sighed resignedly. “Really, love?”

Phanius was giving her a stare of pure and utter horror. “What are you?” He almost whispered. “What terrible hell did you crawl from, to plague us? Have you no respect for those of high caste?”

“My mother would be terribly offended by calling her a ‘terrible hell’.” She made steady eye contact with each person in her horrified and enraptured audience. “The terrible hell is her sister, who taught me to fight. And no. Every caste. From low to high. All will be judged the same. If any have offended in these ways, I will see justice done upon them. No one is exempt.”

“You’ll kill thousands!” One man cried. “Tens of thousands!”

“Oh,” Systlin said, cold as steel in winter. “Hundreds of thousands, I expect.”

“You cannot…”

“Poor choice of words.” Foicatch sighed again. “I could have warned you; there’s no better way to get her to do something than to tell her, earnestly, that she can’t.”

Systlin stood, and let Power rise. Not the terrible cold of Breaking, but her other gift, hot and furious and wild. Fire bloomed around her for a moment, and was gone too quickly to set fire to her clothes. But it had the desired effect. Silence fell. Horrified silence.

“I am not bargaining with you.” She said softly. “I am not suggesting. I am not your old Ubar. I stand here by right of conquest. I breached your walls and killed my way to this throne, and I am going to kill a great deal many more before I am through. The merchants and caste-masters are not ruling Turia any longer; I am.”

She moved a step down, drawing closer to them. “To put this in terms you understand, which I gathered from women you had kidnapped from a world not yours and forced into slavery; you had best get used to this new way, or you will die. I am telling you how things now are. You can flee the city, if you wish, but I will not stop here and I will find you. Be it when I take Ar, or Ko-Ro-Ba, or any other city, I will come. I am going to end slavery on this world, and I fully expect to do it at the point of a sword. I am Ubara Sana of the plains. I rule this city now. These are the great crimes that will be punished, and how they will be punished. This matter is not open for negotiation. If you dislike these words, you are free to take them up with any of the twenty thousand of my soldiers in your city. They’ll be thrilled to discuss them, I am sure.” She descended another step. “Until the courts are established and judging begins, no one is to leave the city. I control the entirety of the plains and other bands of my warriors have seized trade routes. I have the wealth of Turia at my disposal; you will not go hungry. And now, you are free to return to your homes; I have things yet to do tonight. One of you has decided to fight tooth and nail; I’m off to crack him out of his nutshell. Dismissed.”

She swept past, not looking back, and felt their eyes on her back as she went.

[drawlfoy]

4 a.m

masterlist request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: no but this is dedicated to @socontagiousimagines :) thank you for the inspiration. 

summary: y/n seeks tutoring help from her acquaintance and housemate, draco malfoy. 

warnings: language, and the teensiest bit of actual fluff

a/n: so this is NOT the oneshot i was talking about. this is a short little tidbit i’ve been just sitting on for a while! i will not be continuing this :( but i wanted to get the practice of writing more physical scenes and thought that this was a good idea lol

tags! @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop

word count: 1.2k

“So, you carry that over to the other side of the equation...perform the executive function of rin...plug in the constant...and then we can set that number equal to 4 times the magical coefficient of levitation…”

Y/N was trying her best to listen as her fellow Slytherin patiently went over the last Arithmancy problem set. She really was. But it was so hard, especially when she was sitting just a few feet away from the prettiest boy she’d ever seen. Especially when they were on his bed. In dim lighting. At 4am.

It wasn’t on purpose. It was honestly a last minute panicked request--Y/N, well known for her tragic Arithmancy skills, found out that there was a surprise exam the next day in that very class and had to track down the only person she knew. Draco Malfoy wasn’t her friend, not by any sense of the term, but they tolerated each other. She’d go as far as to say that they were friendly, even. He smiled at her once in the hallway. She would’ve returned the favor if she had remembered how to breathe.

So imagine her surprise, upon rushing up to him at 11 that night and desperately asking him for help as he was leaving the common room, that he simply smirked down at her. “What are you waiting for?” he’d asked, his eyebrow cocking. “Put your arms around my neck. I have to carry you over the wards.”

She’d been at such a loss for words--something that almost never happened, mind you--that she’d nearly lost consciousness when, instead of waiting for her to jump up, he just plucked her off the ground. Before she knew it, she was sitting cross legged on his fluffy comforter as he picked apart the practice sheet in front of her.

The quill had no idea how lucky it was to be lodged in the elegant hand that it was. His fingers curled around the base strangely close to the parchment, occasionally smudging the numbers and symbols that he helpfully copied down onto her paper in his impeccable print. Y/N found herself quite smug at the fact that she was one of the few that got to witness him study something so intently up close. 

“Does that make sense?” 

His voice, accompanied by a clear shift in tone, shook her out of her soliloquy. 

“Er, yeah,” said Y/N. Very convincing.

“Why don’t you explain it to me like I’m the student and you’re the tutor,” he offered, turning to rest on his side. His infuriatingly perfect face was propped up on his palm as he watched her.

“I, erm, have to find a way to solve for G naught, which is the relationship between magical forces and naturally occurring gravity...so I do that by plugging -9.81 in for g and then the given velocity and, er, rin…”

Her words trailed off as her attention turned to the slow smile stretching across Draco’s face.

“What?”

“You’re a question ahead. I was talking about the one I just explained to you.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose and looked away. “Sorry. It’s late. I always have trouble paying attention when I’m tired.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Draco, moving to sit up. “You were right, you know. I think you’ll be fine tomorrow. You’re not even bad.”

“Thanks.”

He offered her another smile, this time one that looked more genuine than the rest, much less cat-got-the-canary and more wholesome. “If you’re not thinking about this--” He gestured dramatically to the parchment littered with Arithmancy practice questions, “--then what are you thinking about?”

“Oh,” Y/N said dumbly. No matter how many words she conjured to rest on her tongue, the blush growing on her cheeks gave it all away. There was no point in trying to fib, a point that became abundantly clear as Draco’s eyes began to glimmer.

“What was that?” he pried, an impish tone creeping into his voice. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Don’t be a fucking arse,” she responded. If she didn’t look him in the eyes then she didn’t feel quite as obvious. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

He tutted, shifting to rest his back against the headboard. It once again occurred to her how intimate the whole set up was. “Hm.”

Y/N decided to drop it and gather up the scrolls of half rolled parchment that littered his bedding. As much as she hated to admit it, his bed was soft. Really soft. 

“Thanks for all of your help,” she said once all of her belongings were secured away in her satchel. 

He said nothing in return, instead tilting his head to the side and meeting her eyes with a cool gaze full of amusement. 

“I really appreciate it,” she continued, hoping to pull out something as trivial as a “you’re welcome” from his surprisingly petal-like pink lips. “I know it’s late.”

“Not a problem,” he finally said. “Plus, how could I say no to you?”

Y/N fought the urge to melt into a puddle right that instant. “Erm, thanks. You didn’t need to help me this much. I hate to keep you up.”

His smile widened. “You don’t have to go yet, you know.”

“What--what?”

“I said,” drawled Draco as he sat up again to look her more directly in her eyes, “You don’t have to go.”

She decided that he wasn’t the only one who could play coy. “Oh? So what would you suggest?”

“Come here and find out.”

In seconds she was back to her seat on his plush comforter, her knees tucked neatly under the rest of her as he reached out to gently tug her tie in his direction. 

When he finally kissed her, it felt like her soul had left her body. His lips were warmer than she would’ve thought, and he cupped the side of her cheek with so much tenderness that she thought she was dreaming.

“Draco,” she said, pulling away from him for just a moment, “It’s 4am. I have to sleep.”

“I know.” 

He leaned in again, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his lap. “You’ll be fine,” he assured her between kisses, “You had the best tutor.”

She pulled away again to smack him on the shoulder. “Don’t be vain.”

“Fine, fine.” She was still seated on top of him as he shifted to grab a piece of parchment that he scribbled something onto in swooping, elegant motions. “Here.”

“What is it?” 

“You said it yourself, love, you’ve got to get to bed,” he teased. “Open it up when you get back to your dorm. Now off you go.”

Y/N was torn between the sting of rejection and the butterflies at his use of the casual pet name while he carried her over the wards, feelings that refused to fade even when she was back in her room.

The soft sound of the lake water hitting the glass was just beginning to lull her to sleep as she jolted forward, just remembering the piece of parchment Draco had so thoughtfully folded into a paper crane for her. 

“Y/N:” It read, “Since you have such trouble paying attention when it’s late, I thought I’d write this down so you wouldn’t forget. Meet me tomorrow night at the tapestry by Snape’s classroom. 9pm. I promise I’ll have you back by your bedtime.”

[thr-333]

Drastic Measures- Part 5

@daminette-december2019-2020

~Sweater~

Shoves romance to the side and shoves friendship in your face!!!

Ao3

First< Previous > Next

----------

“Marinette,” Adrien whines as she opens the curtain the second they get back, “Sleep,”

“Just a minute, I want to design Damian something,” Marinette takes up residence at the desk, throwing open her sketchbook, “I will be friends with him!”

“Wasn't he kind of a jerk to you?” Adrien flops onto the bed, Plagg rig after him, "I think we should go back to that point, maybe sleep on it,"

“You were a jerk too~” Marinette sing-songs finishing up a rough sketch of a sweater.

“I was trying to get the gum off your seat!” Adrien slams his hands down.

“Sure you were~”

“Mariiiiiii,” Adrien collapses back into the bed covers, muffling his whining.

“Come on you,” Marinette collects her sketchbook, “Come get material with me,”

“No, it’s time to sleep,”

“It’s midday,”

“Your point?”

"Ok, Plagg 2.0 should I get you some camembert while I'm out too?"

"I'm up!" Adrien sits bolt upright, "Never call me that again,"

Marinette ends up dragging Adrien out of the mansion he pouts as Alfred delivers them into the city she thanks him profusely.

“We were just in the city why didn’t you pick up fabric then?” Adrien walks by her side down the street.

“Because I’m stuck between 2 concepts and I need to see the fabric before going forward,” Marinette bounces along looking through the windows there are quite a few craft shops in the area which suits her just fine.

“Please don’t run off,” Adrien gently holds her sleeve, “Marinette this city…”

“It’s filled with a dark energy,” Marinette agrees, even in this nicer area had something ominous hanging over it, “It’s like it’s seeped into the city’s very bones,”

“And the Akuma aren’t helping things,” A child across the street starts crying and they both instinctively lookout.

“On the plus side at least hawkmoth doesn't send Akuma after every little thing,” Marinette forces herself to relax, moving on as the kids parents comfort them.

“On the downside, he sends them after emotions that are a lot worse,” Adrien follows along into a store as Marinette filters through the shelves.

“Maybe but we can handle this,” Marinette absent-mindedly raises her fist, meeting Adreins, “Do you think I should make something for everyone, you know as a thank you?”

“I haven't gotten them anything,” Adrien takes the armful of fabric Marinette passes him as she brings out her sketchbook to select old designs.

“I’ll handle the making,” Marinette ticks off a vest she thinks with be perfect for Bruce, “And you handle the finances,”

“I stole my father's credit card,” Adrien says with a grin, “He’ll probably find out where I am soon anyway so might as well start using it,”

“In that case,” Marinette pulls out a roll of incredibly expensive fabric, “We also need new phones,”

“And we should go out for lunch,”

“Get our hair done?” Marinette adds, looking at her half hacked off hair “I still need to fix mine from this,”

“I was thinking our room could use a chair?”

“And the bookshelf is looking a bit empty,”

“A nice expensive rug would really liven up the room,”

“Would it be completely inappropriate to get a motorcycle?”

“Yes,” Adrien agrees, “Let's do it,”

They stop to get new phones first, having destroyed their old ones when they ran away. Adrien finds the most expensive restaurant in town, but it's on the far end so they stop to get a motorcycle first.

“I didn’t know you could ride,” Adrien gestures for the waiter in their private room, “Yes can I please have the duck?”

“My Nona taught me,” Marinette sips at the most expensive drink she can legally buy, “I thought you hated duck?”

“Oh I do,” Adrien grins, which drops when his phone starts ringing, “How did he even get this number?”

Marinette looks over his shoulder to see Gabriel trying to call. Adrien purposefully hangs up rolling his eyes.

“We should go do our hair next,” Adrien leans over the table with a manic grin, ”I was thinking of dying it hot pink,”

“Love the concept,” Marinette cringes at the very thought, “But the execution is flawed, you need to dye it a color you actually like not one just to spite your father otherwise he's still just controlling your life, just in a different way,”

“You're right,” Adrien sighs leaning back examining his blonde locks, “What do you think?”

“A nice pastel or cherry blossom pink would look amazing,” Adrien perks up at the suggestion he can still keep the pink, “Actually I might do that too- oh wait! Will that affect our transformation?”

“Not unless you really want to deep down,” Tikki explains, her and Plagg gorging themselves on expensive cheese and treats.

“Well deep down I really don't want to give away our identities like this,”

“It’s a plan then,” Adrien smiles, “Now do you want to order anything else?”

“Thanks but I’m full,”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

 ---

 “Looks great Nette,” Adrien gives her a side hug, the hairdresser shooing him away while he does the final touch-ups.

“Are you talking to me or yourself?” Marinette smiles at the new and improved shock of pink hair.

“Well obviously I look fabulous, but you look great too,” Marinette rolls her eyes at him looking back in the mirror. Instead of evening out her hair, they had made it look like her little episode was actually intentional giving it nice layers and even doing an undercut on the other side. Unlike Adrien, she didn't go all pink, instead the tips being white ombre up to pink and then her natural hair color.

“Thanks, you have to send a picture of your hair to Nino he's more invested in your teenage rebellion than you are, he’s probably also hurt you left him out of the running away part,”

“He has suggested, more than once, running away together,”

“Why what's wrong with Nino's family?”

“Nothing at all,” Adrien quickly covers, “I think he just really wanted me to run away, his mum offered to pack us lunches,”

“Well, maybe we could have used the turtle,” Marinette sighs, “But I could do that to Nino, you already had to leave Kagami behind, have you given her a call yet?”

“Oh um, about that-" Adrien points at her tapping his chin thoughtfully, "Never mention it again,”

“Adrien,” Marinette scowls, “Call your girlfriend,”

“She’ll kill me,” Adrien hides partly behind a seat looking meek, “Also you don't get to lecture me, you haven't called your parents,”

“That's different,” Marinette groans sinking into the seat, only to get told off for moving, “They’ll want me to come home, how am I supposed to explain that I can’t,”

“They’re your parents,” Adrien stresses, “I’m sure they’ll be happy enough to know your ok,”

“Maybe,” Marinette hums, the cloth being removed from her shoulders letting her get up, “I just feel so bad for putting them through this,”

“Maybe one day they’ll understand,” Adrien walks with her to the front to pay.

“Maybe,” Marinette looks down at the bill, “Wow this is a lot more expensive than the usual dye job,”

Made sense because they were in the higher income distinct of the city.

“Why Marinette,” Adrien grins swiping the card, “That's the point,”

Ten minutes later they were laughing as calls kept pouring in one after the other. They are only interrupted when they get the distinct feeling of an Akuma.

“Duty calls,” Adrien sighs putting his phone on silent.

“Seems so, at least we can call out skills multiple times," Marinette walks casually into an alley with him, “What are you up to?”

“About three,” Adrien shrugs transforming, “It takes about double the time for the transformation to drop now,”

“Same, wish I could say that gives us the edge but really it only keeps us from falling off the cliff,” Marinette also transforms, her new costume bringing a smile to her face.

“How eloquent my lady,” Marinette playfully pushes him, Chat catches himself catapulting over the building, she quickly follows behind.

The Akuma is standard, Marinette guesses the akumatized item is the wrist watch. The problem comes with their recurring thorn in her side.

“Ladybug-”

“Get out of the city,” She cuts Batman off, “Yeah, yeah let us handle this first,”

Marinette throws her yoyo out just in time to deflect an attack headed at Chat.

“Do you need any help?” Robin asks, Marinette smiles, partly at the aghast face Batman makes.

“Do you think you could tag-team it with me?” She asks formulating a plan, with the extra help she might not need the lucky charm, “Make your attacks big and draw his attention, grab the wristwatch if you can,”

“On it,” Robin gives her a nod jumping into the fray, Ladybug doesn't give batman a chance to object running after.

Robin does a good job they work in perfect sync falling back when the other moves to make an attack. When the Akuma focuses on them too much Chat swoops in and gets their attention giving them the chance to swipe at the wristwatch. It goes on she sees Robin get thrown back after another failed swipe at the wristwatch. Ladybug takes the chance to move forward grabbing for the wrist, she isn't watching out for the other arm, the impact hitting and sending her flying back.

“I got you,” Her momentum is stopped by a hand bracing at her back, saving her from crashing into the adjacent building.

“Thanks, Robin,” He helps steady her as she finds her footing again, “I’ll move in you follow me up,”

“No need,” He smirks brandishing the watch.

“You did it,” Ladybug beams, taking the watch and smashing it to the ground, “Great job!”

“Ah, thanks,” Ladybug doesn't pay attention to how Robin brushes, focusing on purifying the Akuma and fixing the damage.

“We made a pretty good team,” Ladybug turns to Robin when everything is settled, “Pound it,”

Robin meets her fist with some hesitance, which disappears when she smiles at him again.

“Ladybug!” Batman yells heading their way.

“Ops sorry,” Ladybug cringes, “Sorry! Cant stop gotta go, bye bye!”

They run from the scene faster than Batman can hope to catch them. They end up back at her newly brought bike stacked with fabric and protected by a bit of luck. Marinette races home to make everyone's gifts, knowing just who she wanted to start with.

 ---

 “There you are!” Marinette exclaims, having spent the past half hour searching the manor for him.

“What do you want?” Damian snaps as if he wasn't just playing with the cat on the floor half a second ago.

“Nothing, I made something for you~” He continues to scowl but Marinette doesn't let it discourage her, “Here, I didn’t know your size so I made a baggier style, do you like it?”

Damian takes the sweater holding it up to where she put it on him looking down a little shocked. Marinette almost wants to laugh at the expressions trying to shift back from awe to disinterest, it’s cute. She smiles wondering what his face would look like if she made a matching one for the cat, and maybe Titus too.

“.... It’s well made,” Damian eventually allows, folding it over his arm, Marinette notices how his fingers linger on the soft fabric.

“Good to know,” She smiles, bidding him goodbye before the moment can be ruined. She bounces down the hall humming to herself.

“Someone's happy,” Tikki flies out of her bag.

“He liked it, why wouldn't I be happy?”

“Someones really happy,”

“Stop it Tikki,” Marinette giggles, making the kwami laugh in turn.

“Just like adrien~” Tikki sing songs floating down the hall ahead of her.

“Well then, keep Kagami far away from this one,”

“Don’t turn into a stuttering mess and we have a deal,” Tikki agrees.

“Please Tikki I’m not thirteen anymore,” Marinette brushes her off, ready to go make the others gifts, if she spent the whole time humming to herself Tikki wasn't going to explain why to Adrien.

---------

Taglist? nope don’t have one, horrible at keeping track of them sorry~

[the-last-kenobi]

angst bingo prompt idea for "came back wrong": rex tries to rescue one of his brothers post order 66 but something goes wrong after the surgery to remove the chip

I love this. Let’s see what I’ve got in me today, shall we?

Tw for mental manipulation, non-consensual drugging, trauma, abuse, conscription/enslavement, murder, and VERY MORALLY AMBIGUOUS BEHAVIOR that I will not spoil here. Just be careful. It’s fairly sad.

What struck Rex most was how familiar his face was.

Of course, he was one of the brothers - the Clones - and all their faces were familiar.

But somehow he had expected him to look different, changed somehow, damaged, from his life under the iron grip of the control chip.

Instead he looked the same as he always had.

The twisted scar down the left side of his face, the jaw that was slightly blunter than Rex’s own, the extra stress line between his eyebrows that had somehow been there since birth.

Sleeping as he was right now, he looked more relaxed than he had ever seemed while conscious.

Rex rubbed his face in exhaustion as he finally stopped stumping about the recovery room and took the chair beside the bed, groaning a little as his knees protested at the movement.

“We’re getting old, Cody,” he said aloud, staring at the sleeping face. “We were always gonna get old before normal humans, but this... all this... I feel old before my time, that’s for damn sure.”

Cody, of course, did not reply.

Still, Rex felt better. He settled as comfortably as possible in the chair and closed his eyes, content to wait until his vod finally woke up — a free man for the first time in ten years.

][][][][][

Rex woke suddenly, inhaling sharply and jolting in his seat, feeling weirdly as if his consciousness had just been dropped unceremoniously back into his body. He’d really been sleeping.

Then he saw Cody, and his breath caught in his throat.

Cody was looking right at him, sitting up in bed — just sitting there, staring, no cold glare in his eyes, no clipped Imperial arrest declaration coming from his lips. His hair had gone more salt than pepper these days, but he was Cody, through and through.

“Hey—Cody!” Rex said, gasping. He leaned forward in his seat and grabbed Cody’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

Cody just blinked at him.

“It’s gonna be okay, vod,” Rex assured him, feeling a stupid grin spreading over his face. “I know it’s overwhelming right now. It happens to all the guys. But I promise this is real.”

The familiar scarred face tilted slightly to the side as Cody studied him intently with those mirror-image dark eyes. His hand remained limp in Rex’s.

“Some... memories will start coming back soon,” Rex continued. “But I’ll help you. It’s not your fault. Anything you can remember, I swear, it’s not your—”

“My fault,” Cody said hoarsely.

His grip suddenly turned to steel; he squeezed Rex’s hand so tightly that it hurt.

“No,” Rex said hastily. “No it’s not. Cody, it was a—”

“It’s my fault,” the former Marshal Commander of the 212th said firmly, his eyes roving around the room, taking it all in. “I need to get out of here. I need to fix this.”

Cody was not panicking as all the other dechipped brothers had, but he was still gripping Rex so hard that it was bringing tears to the other man’s eyes. “Cody...”

“I need to fix this. I failed,” Cody repeated. “Let me out.”

“I can’t do that, Cody, you’re not well...”

“Let me out. Now.”

“Cody—”

“Let me out. That’s an order.”

“No, Cody—”

“Let me out. I have to go.”

Feeling like he had no choice, Rex used his free hand to reach across and trigger a switch next to the bed. They always had to do this for newbies, although normally they were crying and screaming instead of just issuing orders.

In less than ten seconds Cody was unconscious again.

Rex peeled his hand away, wincing.

The door opened cautiously and a figure stepped inside, a cloak raised high to help conceal the magnificent montrals she was now sporting.

“I wonder how much he remembered,” Ahsoka said thoughtfully. “I feel like he would have been more distressed if he fully recalled... well, Utupau.”

“And everything after,” Rex sighed, rubbing his sore hand.”

Ahsoka nodded, still studying the man on the bed.

Rex looked at him too.

“He’ll pull through,” the former Captain of the 501st muttered. “Fine.”

][][][][][

The next day Cody woke for only minutes at a time, sleeping off sedatives and enduring scans.

Rex was away most of the day, but his friend was on his mind all the time, distracting him.

Cody’s solemn confusion hadn’t been as jarring as the screaming and anguished guilt he was used to seeing in his freed brothers, but there was still something so...

Unbearably sad about it.

Rex decided to spend the night on a cot in Cody’s room.

So he wouldn’t be alone.

He fell to sleep quickly, as he had been trained to do a thousand years ago in a world where everything had seemed simpler — even war.

Sometime in the night he woke to see Cody blinking blearily at him, saying: “...I... I failed... Do you know that Rex? I did.”

Before Rex could reply, Cody was asleep again.

][][][][][

The next morning before dawn, Rex was woken by the sound of Cody attempting to climb out of bed. He was unbalanced and clearly in some form of pain, his forehead deeply lined, but he persisted.

“Woah!” Rex stepped up and tried to take his old friend by the wrist. Cody batted his hand away without even looking at him. “Cody, hey, you can’t go yet. You’re not fully healed.”

“I have a duty,” Cody said. “I have to fix my failure.”

Rex bit the inside of his mouth, a sudden fear crossing his mind. “Cody... this can’t be... fixed. He’s... they’re all...” he swallowed hard, his throat so tight that it hurt. “He’s dead. You can’t—”

Cody’s head jerked up sharply.

Rex blinked in the fixed stare those dark eyes were giving him, a penetrating and cold look.

“Dead?” Cody questioned. “...Did someone kill General Kenobi?”

Rex’s heart plummeted.

He doesn’t remember...

“I... yeah, vod. Someone did. But...”

If Rex had thought his heart had stopped before, it was nothing, nothing to what it did when Cody shook his head and said, so very calmly, “I shot him off the cliffside, but I’m sure he survived. It was a controlled fall. The Jedi survived. I failed in my duty. I have to fix it.”

“No,” Rex croaked out. “No... that’s not...”

The door opened again, and Ahsoka stood framed there. She must have overheard, because she was looking at Cody with pity.

Cody locked his gaze on her, drawing himself up to his full height. “Jedi,” he addressed her. “Duty. Have to fulfill.”

“He’s dechipped!” Rex shouted desperately. “I don’t understand!”

“I have to go,” Cody said placidly. “Excuse me. Don’t worry vod. I’ll come home when I’m done.”

“You can’t!” Rex shouldered his way between his brother and his only remaining Jedi, terrified of the serenity of both of them; Ahsoka’s quiet sympathy, Cody’s placid desire to murder a man that was already dead, a man he had loved— “You have to snap out of it, Cody!” Rex bellowed, and shook the man by the shoulders. “Please!”

“But I’m fine, Rex,” Cody said, sounding surprised. “I just have one more thing to do. You saved me from the Empire. But Kenobi must die. It’s my job.”

“It’s not!” Rex screamed. “He’s dead, Cody! Dead! You already killed him, he’s dead, he’s been dead for over a decade! You already killed him!”

He was crying now.

For Cody.

For Obi-Wan.

For himself.

For Ahsoka.

For everyone.

Everyone.

“Excuse me,” Cody said politely, addressing Ahsoka over Rex’s shoulder. “I need to go kill Kenobi. Do you know where he is?”

“You have to fix him,” Rex begged her, struggling to keep Cody in the room. “Please. The Force. Something!”

Ahsoka glanced at him. Then she stepped forward and carefully pressed two fingertips to Cody’s forehead. She closed her eyes.

Cody closed his too, and for a moment there was silence.

Then he slumped in Rex’s arms.

“What - what happened?” Rex demanded, clutching his unconscious friend and looking around at Ahsoka in panic. “Wha—did you fix him?”

She shook her head. “No, Rex. There’s nothing to be done.”

“That’s not true,” argued Rex. “That can’t — don’t be — Ahsoka, we just have to help him!”

“Cody wasn’t ever fully under the chip’s sway,” she whispered. There was an apology in her blue eyes that he did not want, did not want to see. “Like you were - but he - he wasn’t able to resist it like you did. But he was... conscious... beneath the surface.”

No.

“Always beneath the surface.”

An Imperial trooper. Treated like garbage, like something disposable, barely worth keeping. Barely even worth using.

“He knew what was going on. He didn’t know why, but he learned over time. Overheard things.”

Forced to follow orders. Wage war on innocents. Execute innocents.

Cody felt so heavy. Like Rex was holding the weight of all his friend’s trauma instead of just his physical form.

Forced to issue despicable orders. Forced to be a cog in a machine that served the people and ideals he had so hated.

“He was constantly at war with himself. When we removed the chip from Cody’s head...” Ahsoka’s eyes were grieved. One slim hand came to rest against Rex’s shoulder. “His mind wasn’t prepared to cease battle so quickly. It... it broke him, Rex. The two sides of his mind clashed so violently out of nowhere with nothing to control which one was winning, and...”

“No,” Rex repeated. “No.”

“I’m so, so sorry Rex,” whispered Ahsoka. “We tried to bring him back, but he just... came back wrong. There’s nothing that can be done to fix him.”

Rex’s shoulders shook; he stumbled and slipped to the floor, Cody unconscious in his arms and Ahsoka kneeling beside him, her face painted with pain and concern.

Cody. Cody, and his scar, and his stress lines, and his familiar face.

“What... what do I... what...” Rex heaved for air, finding it suddenly so hard to breathe. His chest felt heavy, his throat so tight he almost thought he was being throttled by invisible hands. “What am I supposed... to do? J-just... put him out of his misery?”

Ahsoka took a deep breath.

Held it.

“...I don’t know. He’ll never be right again. He’ll never be...”

“Free,” Rex finished. “He’ll never be free.”

][][][][][

They had tried to heal him. They had tried to recondition him. They had tried erasing his memories of Order 66. They had even tried erasing his memories altogether.

But the broken mind of Commander Cody did not respond to time or treatment.

Most of the time he was calm. Sweet, reasonable, capable of cracking sly jokes.

But the slightest thing that triggered memories of Utupau would set him off.

Asking oh so politely for permission to go seek and kill a man long-dead, a man that he would once have never considered raising so much as a finger against.

He never harmed anyone in his attempts to leave.

But he harmed himself, skipping meals and sleep, banging slowly and repeatedly on closed doors, and demanding over and over and over to be let go.

And it took too much manpower to keep a constant watch on him. Manpower they didn’t have.

...So Rex, eleven years to the day after Order 66, settled his brother in a bed in the medical wing and set everything in order.

Waited for Cody to drift into a natural sleep.

And then, tears sliding silently down his weathered face, Rex pressed the button that would flood Cody’s veins with a drug that would ensure he would never wake again.

Cody slept.

][][][][][

[itsuki-minamy]

“KEBAB SPECIAL TOTSUKA”

* Mini Episodes KFCN (List of Chapters) * Projects & Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

Totsuka Tatara started selling doner kebab at a street food stall, because his friend Murat Uchan from Turkey exacerbated his chronic back pain.

"Tatara-san. I'm sorry, but could you take over the shop for about two weeks?"

Before moving to Shizume, Uchan-san, who has been in Osaka for 10 years, consulted with Totsuka, and when he asked about it, he said "Yes, it's okay." and he took it easy. Totsuka immediately drove Uchan-san's mobile kitchen vehicle from the next day to open the shop.

From the preparation of the lamb for the kebabs to the operation, he does everything himself and makes a certain amount of operating profit, although he is not as good as Uchan-san. No matter how much experience he had working part-time, he helped Uchan-san's mobile shop several times in advance, but his culinary skills and managerial sense were far from amateurish.

However, after the first day, Totsuka Tatara's face (albeit smiling as usual) didn't look very happy. Thoughtfully he crossed his arms and devised some plans in his head.

And starting the next day he made some changes in the business style. Of course, with the permission of the Uchan-san.

First, he changed the taste of the kebab. Originally, Uchan-san, who has lived in Japan for a long time, added the Hatcho Miso to the hidden flavor and fixed it for the Japanese, but brought it back to a more ethnic and authentic flavor. There are many foreigners in Shizume and a wide variety of restaurants is thriving, so it was decided that it would be easier to accept.

In addition, the location of the business was moved from the front of the station to the plaza. He makes the most of personal connections, prepare nice chairs, tables and umbrellas, and create an environment where you can eat immediately after taking out. He also changes the paper to a more colorful, modern and more "shiny" one. As a result, the number of clients, mainly young women, increased significantly.

About two days before Uchan-san returned, Totsuka just couldn't go to the store and started hiring Yata as a temporary part-time job.

And his prosperity caught the attention of the lord of the square.

"It's annoying, you…"

At night, a burly man wearing an eye patch appeared in front of Totsuka and Yata, who were preparing to remove the shop, lifted his head neatly, and it was amazing.

"Ah? Who are you?"

Yata, who was not so scared, stood in front of the big man without making a difference in height and ignited the weapon.

"Is he a gangster on the floor? It was a shame if he could get it even for the shoba fee. I'm making a mistake."

"Yata. That person is different. That person is not a gangster."

Totsuka laughed and stepped between the two.

"He is the owner of the 'Man's Innocence'. You see, he is a ramen stand that he opened in front of the fountain."

In addition to the Totsuka kebabs, there are several street vendors operating in this square. Totsuka successfully obtained a business license from the square administration office, and politely greeted each shop, who are his sempais, on the first day. And now, while the owner of the "innocence of man" was standing in front of them...

"Oh, good luck at best."

He raised his voice saying that.

"Did we do something that bothers you?"

When Totsuka asked with a smile,

"No, not really."

The great man finally laughed.

"Suddenly you got sick, so I wonder if you'll be open elsewhere from tomorrow."

(Totsuka-san.)

Yata hid his voice from him and listened.

(This guy has been flirting with us because our kebabs have increased in sales.)

He knew Totsuka and so on.

"What if I say no?"

When Yata screamed and provoked,

"That's right. I don't care... I wonder if an unfortunate accident might happen to him."

The big man spread his hands playfully. He flicked his finger to the side and stuck out his tongue like a villain. Totsuka sighed a little.

"I understand your purpose. So why not do this? Tomorrow, we will compete with the sales of others. And if we lose, we will leave here. How about that?"

"Hmm... okay? Don't you know I've been the number one salesperson in the area for the past few years?"

"Oh. Instead, if we win, can you change the name of your stand, the 'Loser Dog Ramen'? The 'Man's Innocence' sign was always annoying."

Totsuka spat venom as he smiled. He seems mild-mannered, and he is one of Homura's executives, but in an emergency, he will cut off that image. Yata whistled. When the big man frowned...

"You will swallow your words!"

He left that place with abrupt steps. Totsuka and Yata looked at each other and laughed.

Originally, he only came to this plaza temporarily to facilitate Totsuka to do so, and a few days later, if he returned the traveling shop to Uchan-san, the place of business would simply return to the front of the station as before, so, to be honestly, he deliberately bothered to compete in sales, etc. It doesn't make much sense to do it. However, he was willing to accept such threatening words.

"Well, I want to pop a bubble."

That was the case with Totsuka. And Yata also strongly agreed.

The next day, the day of the decisive battle. The sky was clear. As it was a holiday, there were a lot of people. As a rule of the square, the business hours of the stalls are established from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. During that time, the game was how many sales could be increased.

A bowl of ramen costs 600 yen. The kebab costs 500 yen. There is not much difference in price, so simply the number sold will be the game.

The ramen preceded a bit in the morning, but the kebabs gradually started to come off around noon.

"It's amazing! Totsuka-san!"

Yata, who was rushing to cut the meat while he was sweating on his forehead, said that. After wrapping the kebab and handing it to the customer with a smile, Totsuka replied.

"Hey. I advertised a lot."

Totsuka knows everything about this city. How many people are there, in what time zone, and in what age group. Akagi and Bando, who are not at this location, were allowed to distribute promotional brochures at key points in Shizume.

He has also opened a SNS account on behalf of Uchan-san, who had been indifferent to such things for about a week. The announcement there was gradually beginning to take effect.

After fourteen, the victory of the kebab seemed certain...

"Well, isn't it strange?"

Yata asked a question. He was really interested in Totsuka. On the ramen side, the customer base had started to change.

"Man's Innocence" usually had five seats, but today, towards a special eight-seat chair and table around the booth, it was uncomfortable to see all of them, similar, it was occupied by men with a pleasant atmosphere.

They never get up from their seats after eating a bowl of ramen and continue to eat two or three bowls on the spot. Some people look at this and grin or strike a provocative pose.

Then, when he noticed Totsuka's eyes, the owner of "Man's Innocence" crossed his arms behind the counter and smiled a triumphant smile.

Totsuka coughed in a dazed and slightly amused tone.

"I see. Is it a strategy to fill all the seats with your relatives and just replace them no matter if they pretend to be?"

Yata shook his body in anger and clenched his fist.

"Damn."

"Totsuka-san, are you silent?"

Yata said that with the intention of "Let's go hit him." Totsuka scratched his head.

"Hmm. In the beginning, I didn't have any special arrangement to forbid that sort of thing."

To be honest, it is not a violation of the rules. Yata made a plaintive voice.

"Damn."

At that moment, the sight in Totsuka's eyes jumped and he smiled.

"Well, it seems we also have a god of salvation."

Yata also followed Totsuka's line of sight and raised his voice in joy.

"Kamamoto!"

It was Rikio Kamamoto who calmly appeared at the scene.

"What? I heard it from Shohei and the others. If you have a food store, give me a call."

"Eat all you want."

Totsuka immediately told Yata to start preparing more kebab.

In the end, "Man's Innocence" dug his grave by his own strategy. Few strong young men can continue to eat three or four cups of ramen, but Kamamoto is like a kebab. Like sushi and sandwiches, he tossed them into his mouth and ate one after another.

The owner of "Man's Innocence" finished with only an hour left until the closing of the store. When he walked to the front of Totsuka, he took off the headband that was wrapped around his head and took it, tilting his head as he held it in front of his body.

"Well, I give up. It may be unpleasant though, but can you forgive me for changing the signboard?"

Totsuka and Yata looked at each other and smiled.

"Now…"

"That I have to do?"

They were a bit mean and wanted to do it.

"Well, don't raise your head anymore. We won, but you don't have to change the signboard."

"Oh, yeah. At first, we weren't serious either. Oh! Were we the only ones who won?"

Suddenly, the two of them ran out and urged the owner of "Man's Innocence" to raise his head. The owner moistened his eyes.

"Oh, you are a good guy."

He was impressed. However, Totsuka and Yata knew it. Kamamoto, who enjoyed the kebab to the bottom of his heart, made his way towards "Man's Innocence" as he tossed his stomach to change his mood.

Eventually the game was abandoned and Totsuka successfully completed the period entrusted to him and returned the kebab stand to Uchan-san.

Both Totsuka and Yata made a lot of money, but it must have been Kamamoto, who was able to eat delicious food from the bottom of his heart, at the level of once a year or not, who was more satisfied than anyone else.

[nitewrighter]

Omg I loved the ASOIAF Gency post you wrote recently! Can you write more?

God this has been languishing in my drafts since... September?? Jesus...

Anyway, a continuation of these ficlets!: 1, 2, 3

-----

“I mislike this,” said Orisa as Efi carried her helmet over to her, “I am your sworn shield, I will not have my oaths or her family’s... undermined like this!”

“And I’m quite capable of traveling on my own!” said Angela but both Efi and Orisa gave her skeptical looks and her lips thinned and she glanced off. No woman in her right mind would travel the Stormlands alone, but then again, no woman in her right mind would flee her betrothal with the intent of lying her way into the Citadel at Oldtown, either.

“This isn’t just about her, Orisa,” said Efi, “I want to go to Oldtown when I’m old enough, too. And I don’t want to be married off, either.”

“Your dowry could be in the form of books?” Orisa said a little helplessly, “Perhaps even Valyrian manuscripts!”

Efi gave her a half-lidded look with one corner of her mouth tugged up.

“...the marriage is the problem,” said Orisa, glancing off.

“The marriage is the problem,” said Mercy in agreement.

“It would only be to get her to the Citadel!” Efi insisted, “Then you could come right back to Aurochs-ford!”

“Taking the marriage out of the equation might force the Storm lords to re-evaluate their little feud as well,” said Mercy, “Disrupt things enough so they cool their heads. Maybe buy enough time for the Iron Throne to step in.”

“See?” said Efi, “You could be saving the Storm Lands in the long run! This definitely falls under ‘Sworn Shield’ duties.” Efi gave a glance to Angela, “If we can give her a chance...then maybe when I’m old enough...”

“You can forge your own Maester’s chain?” said Orisa with a tilt of her head.

“Not a full chain,” said Efi, “…Gold, iron, and black iron links for sure, though...” she said, trailing off thoughtfully.

“I only need the one,” said Angela, “Silver.... though... lead might be useful as well...”

“If you’re still at the Citadel when I get there, we’ll get a Valyrian steel link together!” said Efi, her hands balling into fists with excitement.

Angela chuckled a little, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Indeed. Neither of you are at Oldtown yet,” said Orisa, flatly. She looked back at Efi, “I will see her safely to Oldtown at your request, my lady,” she said with a bow of her head.

Efi touched a small hand to the side of Orisa’s face, her brown eyes bright.

“And then I am coming right back to Aurochs-Ford,” said Orisa, furrowing her brow.

Efi giggled and brought her skinny arms about Orisa’s neck. Orisa pulled herself up to her full height to embrace her, bringing Efi up off the floor.

Right back to Aurochs-Ford.

Right back to Aurochs-Ford.

Orisa’s eyes opened in a gray morning light and she quickly sat up in bed and gauged her surroundings. She was in a bare, wooden room, the foliage of a tree outside suggesting she was on the second floor of a building. Her own well-rested state quickly set her on high alert. She sat up in bed--Bed--right, they were in an inn. The mattress was stuffed with hay but it was still the finest sleeping conditions Orisa had since leaving Aurochs-Ford. She wondered if Lady Efi was doing all right. Probably still puzzling over those dusty old books of Valyrian alchemy and inventions, maybe even bogarting the castle blacksmith to forge her another obscure and specific little gear for her devices.

Orisa flinched in bed to see the door opening, her hand quickly going for the sword hanging on her bedpost, only to see Mercy in the doorframe, the very image of a pleasant septa with a tray of honeyed oatcakes, boiled eggs, and mugs of weak ale and goat’s milk.

“I overslept?” Orisa said looking out the window.

“No, I just woke up early to check on our lordling,” said Mercy, setting the tray on a table. She smiled a little. “He’s still alive---in remarkably better shape than last night, as well.” The relief in her voice gave Orisa pause.

“Do you still wish to go through with this?” said Orisa.

“What, I could bring books as a dowry?” said Mercy with a huff as she flaked shell off of her egg with her thumb, “I’m sure they’ll be perfectly wonderful reading when Lord Akande puts our houses to the torch.”

“You seemed to get on well with him,” said Orisa, frankly looking for any excuse to end this folly of a quest and get back to her young charge.

“Even if I did tell him--what would happen then? ‘Oh, by the way my lord, I’ve been lying to your face for the past three days because I’ve been desperately fleeing our marriage!’ That’s a wonderful start to things!” She huffed, “No,” she said, taking a bite out of her egg, “I said I would go to Oldtown, and I’m going to Oldtown, but if you wish to go back--”

“No one in their right mind would travel these lands alone,” said Orisa, flatly.

Mercy gave her a steady look, her mouth slightly tight at the corners in a not-quite smile. They were both highborn, but Orisa’s family had let her pursue knighthood while Mercy had seen more instruction in courtesy, embroidery, and the arts expected of ladyhood. There was admiration in Mercy’s eyes, maybe even a little envy. An idealist who longed to be practical, she gave off the air of someone who never quite fit the role set for her, and she had Orisa’s sympathy for that. Believing in the ideals of knighthood, that was a solid thing to believe in--but it definitely got more complicated being a woman.

“...I’m going to Oldtown because I--I don’t want to be a burden,” said Mercy, taking a bite out of her egg, “But I feel like a burden on you.”

Orisa glanced down, “I am doing this for Lady Efi,” she said, snapping an oatcake in half, “I want to believe in the world she believes in... but she is young and idealistic, and I know, being older, you have a greater understanding of just how much stands in your way.” She took a bite of her oatcake and chewed.

“I won’t let her down,” Mercy said, her eyes fierce, gulping down her own mug of goat’s milk.

“Intention and execution can be two very different things,” said Orisa.

“...well,” said Mercy, standing up, “We’ll set deeds to words, then. We’ll get out before our lordling wakes up. You finish breakfast and get your armor on, and I’ll saddle Dynast.” Her hands balled into fists with determination. “I’m already packed.”

Orisa gave a short huff through her nostrils. “That may be your most practical suggestion since this whole quest started.”

Mercy beamed before slipping out the door.

Mercy grabbed her satchel from her room and made her way to the stair leading down to the inn’s ground floor, humming. She froze at the sight of a dark haired figure on the stairs, his hand braced against the wall and his body tensed. Unthinkingly, her foot made contact with the first step and it creaked beneath her weight, and the figure on the stairs flinched at the sound and looked sharply over his shoulder at her.

Genji. He was awake. How was he awake already?! There was still a weary shine to his eyes, he still wasn’t back to full strength from his injuries, but there was an alertness in his stance that filled her with dread.

“My--?” she nearly started saying, ‘My Lord?’ but he put a finger to his lips and she quieted herself as she craned her neck to try and see what he was seeing.

“I’m only asking if you saw someone bearing a standard with two dragons on it,” A woman dressed in black and white with white hair--Lysene, perhaps--was addressing the innkeeper. Behind her were three men, of equal height, too lean to be highborn, the lower halves of their faces obscured by yellow cloth. Mercy would have tried to identify the sigils on their tunics but her own fear at being seen forced her to draw back behind Genji.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss who’s currently staying here,” said the innkeep.

There was the hard metallic ting of a dagger piercing wood and a long period of silence.

“...as innkeep it is my duty to assure my patrons safety so long as they are under my roof,” said the innkeeper, “You want to wait for them on the road, you can wait for them on the road. But there’ll be no bloodshed here.”

“A woman of business,” said the Lysene woman. There was the clink of coins in a sack hitting the wood next, and both Mercy and Genji tensed.

“...They’ve paid, too. And my service they’ll have,” said the innkeeper.

There was the sound of steel being drawn and Mercy’s breath caught in her throat.

“...leave her,” said the Lysene woman, “We’ll get what we need, with or without her.”

Silently, a bead of sweat quivering down his temple, Genji slowly backed up the stairs. Mercy tried to follow suit as silently as she could, but then one stair creaked loudly beneath her foot and the Lysene woman’s head swiveled sharply to the stairs.

“Go—Go!” Genji hissed under his breath as they both rushed back up the stairs.

“Septa—?” Orisa was stepping out of her room,  holding her sword in its scabbard, not yet belted to her hip, when alarm filled her face at the sight of Genji next to Mercy. “You’re—?” Orisa started but then cut herself off as the Lysene woman and her three compatriots rushed up behind them. Orisa read the situation in an instant and sidestepped in front of them.

“Find another exit,” said Orisa.

“What other exit?!” blurted out Mercy, but Genji hurried down the hall to an unglazed, shuttered window and threw it open, “Genji—I mean—My lord!” Mercy’s head jerked back to Orisa at the clash of steel on steel behind her. There were a few panicked seconds where Mercy was transfixed, watching as Orisa blocked the short sword of the Lysene woman before clocking one of the cloth-faced sellswords behind her with her buckler-bearing arm, dazing him before a hard kick in the stomach sent him tumbling backward and she once again clashed blades with the Lysene.

“Septa!” Genji’s voice sounded behind her. He had one leg out of the open shutters of the window, one arm braced on the frame, the other out toward her. She hiked up her skirts and rushed after him, hearing Orisa’s sword sing and gauntleted fists make contact with grunting flesh.

“It’s one knight!” The Lysene woman was barking behind them, “You fools can’t take out one knight?!” before there was another loud clang of steel.

Mercy felt Genji grab her forearm and she stumbled out the window after him onto wooden shingles that creaked with rot. Genji was already nervously sidestepping across the short row of shingles that formed an awning around the ground floor of the inn’s exterior, before Mercy saw he was moving towards the stables.

“We can’t just leave her!” said Mercy.

“She’s in full plate armor, she has a better chance if we get the horses and she’s not worried about us being in the crossfire,” said Genji, still edging forward.

“It’s four on one!” said Mercy, one hand against the side of the inn and the other bunching her skirts up for easier movements as she sidestepped after him. There was a sudden clatter behind her and her head swung around to see one of the brigands tumble out of another shuttered window, and roll backwards off the awning before landing with a grunt in the mud below.

“...three on one,” said Mercy, blinking incredulously.

“The skill of the Warrior and the strength of the Smith,” Genji said, impressed, “I guess the Seven really are with you two!”

“Genji, the stables!” Mercy said furiously, still sidestepping forward.

Genji gave her an odd look.

“My lord, the stables,” huffed Mercy, another prickle of stress burning on the back of her neck, wondering if her panic in the situation had given her away in other ways.

“...you can call me Genji,” he said, still sidestepping forward, “I rather like the way you say it, Septa.”

“That is not appropriate,” Mercy said, glancing down and blushing furiously.

“Well you’ve already seen me naked, I’d say we’re well past--” He reached the edge of the awning closest to the stables and sucked in a breath, “Oh this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Mercy closed the distance behind him. “Do you need--?”

“You can barely move in those sept skirts as is--I’ve got this,” said Genji, dropping to a squat and positioning himself with his back to the edge, He braced his hands on the shingles and then pushed his legs out over the edge, grunting in pain as he dropped to a hanging position before grunting in pain again as he dropped to the ground, the length of his own body significantly reducing his fall. “Ah---” his hand went to his side as his feet hit the ground, but he shook his head, “Okay, your turn.”

“Right--okay--” Mercy started haltingly as she reached the edge and turned around but then she heard another groan and craned her neck over to look at the sound’s source. The sellsword Orisa had knocked out of the window was stumbling to his feet, muddy, shaking his head out of a daze, and he saw Genji. He drew a short dirk from his side and broke off in a stumbling run toward genji. Genji followed her line of sight but his injury slowed his reaction. Mercy wasn’t fully sure what compelled her to suddenly leap off the corner of the awning, but there was a half-beat where she felt the cold morning air rushing up her skirts and her arms flailing with nothing to grab before she dropped like a stone... right onto the sellsword with a grunt and a splatter of mud, her elbow slamming his face into the muck. She rolled off him and stumbled to her feet, panting. Genji looked from the unconscious sellsword in the mud, up to her.

“...don’t know which of the seven to thank for that,” he said, his eyes wide.

“Come on!” said Mercy seizing his arm and rushing to the stables.

“Ow--injured--ow!” said Genji as the muddy Septa pulled him into a run.

-----

The Lysene woman fought with both a short sword and a dirk, and her attacks were relentless. But her remaining fellow sellswords seemed to be more of a liability than a threat if they didn’t have the element of surprise. Orisa’s biggest disadvantage was the narrowness of the hallway they were in... if she could just find a way to get her opponents down stairs to the Inn’s dining area, maybe she could more properly maneuver... or maybe that would give them more space to flank her. Orisa had at least successfully backed them up to the point in the hallway so they couldn’t access another window to go after Genji and Mercy, but her brow furrowed as the Lysene woman and her two remaining compatriots kept their blades pointed at her.

“You were sent by Lord Akande, I take it?” said Orisa.

“I’m afraid the answer to that’s going to cost you,” said the Lysene woman.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Orisa.

“The Shimada lordling slipped from our grasp before... but we had expected him to die, I suppose we underestimated his house’s banner lords...” said the woman.

“I am under no banner but the Seven’s,” said Orisa, and she felt a surprising strength in what had previously been merely a cover story. To have a sword sworn to the Seven, to defend this grievously injured Lordling purely because he was attacked out of treachery rather than on the field of battle, it was thrilling, it was knightly.

The woman gave a derisive snort. “So I can’t expect you to counter Lord Akande’s offer with one of your own. No amount of piety will make a hedge knight anything more than a hedge knight.”

“...and I can’t expect you to hold to any word,” said Orisa, her eyes narrowing.

The woman grinned wolfishly before lunging forward, Orisa stood her ground, meeting the woman’s long blade with her own before glancing off the woman’s dirk with her buckler. Orisa’s shield and helmet were still back in her room, so she could count on the Lysene to go for the face. The woman kept up her assault and Orisa gave a bit of ground. Her attacks were aggressive, clearly she was trying to use the advantage of lighter armor lending greater stamina to keep up a relentless barrage of attacks, but Orisa remained calm. This was waves breaking on stone. One of her compatriots flanked Orisa only to get a hard buckler to the face, Orisa using the movement to pivot and yield space to back into her room where her helmet and broadshield were. The Lysene woman lunged forward with her short sword and Orisa tilted her torso in its movement to grab her shield. Orisa knew she wasn’t a small target, but the right movements could send virtually any blade scratching uselessly across the plate of her armor--and just in time, too. In seizing her shield, she yanked it up, her arm only looped in one strap, and used the weight of it to slam it hard into the shoulder and side of the Lysene woman sending her staggering to the side trying to regain her footing. Orisa kicked the other closest sellsword in the stomach, knocking him onto his back, only to see the third man in the doorway, pointing a crossbow at her. Orisa froze.

But then, there was a shattering sound and the crossbow-bearing sellsword’s eyes rolled back in his head, goat’s milk dripping down his piecemeal armor and he swayed and collapsed onto the floor. Mercy was standing behind him, the lower half of her skirts caked in mud, the broken top half of the jug from their breakfast in her hands. Orisa blinked in surprise, and even Mercy seemed a bit stunned at the collapsed sellsword drenched in goat’s milk at her feet before she seemed to snap out of it and shake her head.

“You--!” the Lysene woman scrambled to attack Orisa from the side, her attack panicked and messy, only to get cuffed hard in the face by Orisa’s buckler and get splayed out on the floor. The other sellsword, seeing the only two backing him up now unconscious, scrambled to the side of the Lysene woman, shaking her shoulder. “Lady Ashe?! Lady Ashe, get up!” but Orisa was already rushing to the door, properly strapping up her shield and grabbing her helmet as she and Mercy hurried down the hall and down the inn stairs.

“Genji’s gotten the horses,” said Mercy, as they darted across the tavern floor, tables groaning against the wood as Orisa’s armored frame shoved them aside, “Come on!”

They rushed out into bright, damp morning air to see Genji astride Dynast, holding the reins of a large honey-colored mare. 

“You made it!” said Genji, as Mercy scrambled up onto the saddle behind him and Orisa swept up onto the mare and they all took off into gallops down the road from the inn.

“Who’s horse is this?” said Orisa.

“Didn’t have time to ask! I imagine it’s one of the sellswords’!” said Genji, they were all half-yelling over the thundering hooves. 

“We’re stealing a horse?!” Orisa blurted out.

"Borrowing!” said Genji.

“IT IS NOT KNIGHTLY TO STEAL A HORSE!” said Orisa, her pauldroned shoulders bunching up.

“They attacked me,” said Genji, “Hardly good folk. You, on the other hand, have valiantly defended a grievously wounded storm lord and commandeered a mighty steed.”

Orisa blinked a few times. ‘Oh...I... I suppose I did.”

“It was like something out of a song!” said Mercy, her eyes bright.

“A song...?” Orisa started hesitantly. She tucked a stray braid of hair back, “...I suppose it will be a good story to tell Lady Efi when I return.”

“...Lady Efi?” said Genji, “I thought you said you were sworn to the Sev--”

“To Oldtown!” said Mercy, spurring their horse forward.

“To Oldtown!--Ow--ow..” Genji had punched a fist into the air with excitement, quite forgetting he was still injured. The dew seemed to make everything sparkle. Orisa wasn’t sure if it was the rush of adrenaline confusing the senses, making the light seem brighter, the sky bluer, the air cleaner, or perhaps it was the days of rain before. Orisa rolled the grip of her gauntlets on the reins of her own mare, a bright flare of thrill thumping with her heart in her chest. She looked over at Mercy, her arms gingerly wrapped around Genji’s waist, avoiding his injury as they rode, then Orisa scoffed a little, her own expression partially hidden by her own horned helmet, and her sound silenced by the thunder of galloping hooves, feeling the Inn shrink into the distance behind them. This was a terribly foolish thing they were doing, but at the same time, would anything but something terribly foolish give her the excitement she was feeling now? Were valor and stupidity two sides of the same coin? Perhaps theirs was a tale like Florian the Fool. 

Like a song, indeed, Orisa thought with some amusement.