#law quick your brother is dying (foreshadowing)

[maoxyi]

The day Luffy became sick and accidentally unlocked something 😔

Started off with poor unsuspecting Ace who was asleep </3

[thesummerstorms]

Rev Recaps Hard Contact (Chapter 19)

CW: Violence & blood. 

TL;DR Recap: Niner and Fi kill the scientists as they flee Uthan’s facility and Darman blows it up from underneath. Hokan realizes he now has no scientists and no virus. Etain briefly distracts Atin and he gets shot. Uthan is injured by shrapnel from his armor. Niner and Fi try to take down Hokan, but struggle against his beskar’gam. Niner decides on a trap.

Beginning Kal Count: 37 Ending Kal Count: 39

Last chapter, with the exception of the date rape joke, was actually fairly satisfying, so by the Traviss Law of Plotting, this one has to make me sigh. Here we go.

Darman and Atin are approaching the safety point where they can blow up the science facility from underneath, but Niner is observing it topside and tells them to hold off when he notices something happening.

Somewhere in the middle of that, we get this line”

Which, spoiler for Triple Zero, it absolutely is his new tic.

 Hokan has killed the lights, and when Niner’s night-vision kicks in, he hesitates to shoot at the people coming out of the building because he sees Hokan’s t-shaped visor and Niner associates with clones (and probably Kal, though mercifully that isn’t brought up for once) and his brain jumps to Atin and Dar, despite them being a ways away. After a moment, he opens fire when he realizes it’s Hokan, but it’s too late. After another second, a second group makes a break for it (Hurati and the scientists) and he and Fi successfully gun down 3/4 people. See? Foreshadowing. 

They decide to put more explosives into the facility, just to be on the safe side, so Fi and Niner throw in six anti-armor grenades to take out any remaining droids close to the surface, and also set the E-Web to overload. Then they book it, because Dar’s about to blow up the labs from underneath, and absolutely no one wants to be in that blast radius.

The things that make Fi happy.

Sadly, this is not endex. We switch to Hokan’s pov for the updated casualty report. He’s survived and so has Hurati, but all of the scientists are dead.

Niner apparently hit someone, just not Hokan. Or Hokan’s armor protected him. Or the scientist functionally turned into a shield. Hurati confirms that  he survived because he hit the ground, but that when he yelled drop, none of the scientists dropped. Hokan confirms that civilians tend to do that. Hurati adds more bad news by explaining that, given the color/temperature/position of the explosion, there’s no chance that any samples of the virus left in the facility survived. Which means Hokan has lost Uthan, the science team, and the virus work all in very short order. His only shot is to recapture Uthan, but his staff is down to him and Hurati, so chances aren’t great. He decides to try it anyway, sends Hurati hunting, and settles in to listen for the commandos.

We then switch to Etain’s POV. This is the scene that makes me sigh. But I’m just gonna ignore authorial intent and power through.

I can’t think of a great explanation for Etain being able to sense the larty and not droids/weapons/ *ahem* minefields. I really just don’t know. Best guess is what she’s feeling is less the gunship itself and more the Force rippling with the currents caused with what will happen because of the gunship/ how her life will be changed...

... but again. Triple Zero. The minefield. I don’t know.

a) “its drive chang[ed] pitch, and Darman reacted as if someone were talking to him” 

b)  everyone seems, at best, mildly perturbed the first time they see Atin be even remotely cheerful, and it’s pretty damn funny. If only it wasn’t a set up for disaster.

a) I pity that specific soldier too.

b) okay, so the “clones are appreciative of the little things & look how grateful they are compared to your average civvie” has been a MASSIVE throughline in this book (and series) but “His dreams were modest. She thought that was a fine example to set.” Actually, you know what, no, not when you look at the systemic reasons for the “modesty”. This line is just creepy.

c) (the highlighed line) Etain wants Darman’s respect. That should be your immediate red flag signal that something terrible is about to happen immediately so the narrative can show her why she doesn’t deserve it yet again.

d) (still though... she wants his respect, specifically, she wants to know what he wants to do when they finally escape this miserable place. notably, she isn’t even thinking what she’ll do, though of course having already read the book we know she doesn’t get to escape. but it’s not subtle is all I’m saying.)

Okay, so the set up the narrative is going for is clearly:

Etain wants to be liked/appreciated/respected so she decides to show off with her Force abilities ---> Professional and Competent Soldier is Distracted by Etain at the wrong moment ---> Atin gets shot and it’s Etain’s fault because she distracted herself and him with Force powers but those Force powers weren’t even good enough to see the REAL threat so what use are they actually, she’s worthless.

ahem.

As an Etain RP player... I tend to keep this as exactly how she perceives/remembers this incident. Her fault. A confirmation yet again that she isn’t worth anything to anyone, that she’s useless. The guilt stays with her, unless someone finally manages to corner her to talk about it, which no one has yet.

As someone critiquing the narrative... look, we’ve seen Omega get taken by surprise and be shot at before in this book. What it horrible, terrible timing that Atin is shot while Etain is, admittedly, showing off a bit because all three characters have relaxed after hearing the gunship? Yes. It’s terrible. But I really don’t feel like Etain deserves a much larger percentage of blame for what’s ultimately a matter of bad timing.

As for her not sensing Hurati... listen, Traviss you literally had her sense a gunship, aka machinery, not five minutes ago. Yet she can’t sense one clearly malicious/dangerous shooter nearby? Not only is that inconsistent with every pattern you have written so far, it’s an obvious authorial choice to force this exact situation despite internal coherency. Not unlike the minefield in True Colors.

I wish she’d just make a consistent thread for Etain’s abilities, but they’re always magically heightened when its necessary to resolve a plot, and otherwise diminished at any possible given moment so that we can rag on her some more.

Anyway, Darman downs Hurati and gets a look at him through the scope:

“He is now.” pffff.

Darman field medics Atin, who isn’t doing great, and prepares to carry him to the larty. Atin, per his history, tries to convince Darman to leave him behind, because, again. He’s been in this position before. Even if he weren’t critically injured, this would be pressing all his trauma buttons.

With Dar caring for/carrying Uthan, that leaves Etain to carry the partially sedated Uthan, except Etain realizes that Uthan has also been injured. She has a shard of shrapnel from Atin’s armor embedded in her ribs. This means that, if you view this incident as Etain’s fault, Etain has accidentally just endangered/ruined the entire mission. With Uthan dead, they might as well have blown up the planet from orbit and spared everyone the bleeding and the heartache. Great.

She’s got a point about trauma, but to be entirely fair to Kast, he didn’t teach her lessons that were “learned quicker by almost dying” because that’s an insane way to teach. Additionally, she’s also falling in love for the record, and just doesn’t know it yet, but I’m tired of KT’s pogoing back and forth between “jedi/not jedi” so we’re moving on.

So this is Kal Count 38, but it actually is a fair point about Fi versus Skirata, so I’m okay with this one. Fi and Niner start to talk about where they’d rather be deployed next, urban versus jungle, but it quickly devolves into an admission that Fi is not entirely detached or coping well; he just wants to be.

Fi gets the least amount of development of all of Omega Squad in this book, but it’s moments like these when you step back and remember, he also just watched all three of his original brothers die. Niner trying to reassure him is heartbreaking, as is realizing Fi is “shutting down” and trying to distance himself because it’s all happening again, and so close to the last mission, too.

Hokan cuts off this emotional moment by firing on Niner & Fi. They have difficulty because Hokan is wearing beskar’gam, which is as tough or tougher than their own armor, and he also is armed with a Verpine shattergun, which just made very quick work of Atin’s armor.

Fi and Niner realize that if they don’t hurry it up, Majestic will leave without them because now that Uthan has been captured, they’re unimportant to the mission. (They aren’t even wrong, actually; they just don’t know that Zey will end up staying on planet.) They comm Darman, who offers to leave Atin at the gunship and come back for them, but he’s got 10 minutes until he even gets to the larty, and Niner orders him to stay back. Then Hokan throws an EMP at them, and Niner & Fi lose all systems because apparently when the katarn helmets got upgraded after Geonosis they weren’t stress tested properly.

They try to throw some IEDs after Hokan, complaining about “civvies” who tested the armor the entire time, but that fails so they have to come up with another plan. Niner decides to try and trap him.

Kal Count jumps to 39, with one more chapter to go. But those last two lines never fail to break my heart.

[sapphyrelily]

Slick Red, Dried Rust

He stands on the outskirts of the city, listening to the hymns below, mingled with the bellows of drunk soldiers. He turns his back on them, facing the moon, his blade hanging at his waist.

It is foolhardy, but he unbuckles the belt, allows his blade and scabbard to fall. He takes two steps forward and sinks to his knees, head thrown back to regard the moon and her fullness, mouth open in a silent scream.

Huntress, give me strength and a sign.

I do not wish to fight any longer.

But she remains silent, her pale skin taunting, white and unmarred by the stain that covers his blade.

He crumples into himself, puppet strings no longer holding him up, and weeps.

He falls into sleep where he lies, and his dreams are plagued with the clash of blades, and the splatters of flying blood.

-----

He rises to his feet, inhaling the crisp morning mist.

Today. Today will be the day they face the last of their adversaries, and then he will be free. No longer bound to the throne by blade and blood, no longer obligated to serve for a cause so lost that half the nation has died for it.

Today he faces the champion of the opposing nation, and takes his head as a trophy.

-----

He wasn’t always a warrior.

He was a scholar, hands soft and supple, made for holding quill and scroll. They were nice hands, big hands, long and lean fingers, perfect for pointing out taxation miscalculations and reading words of the law.

But he was conscripted because his father owed a debt, and he learnt from the captain of the guard how to wield a sword, how to strike an enemy where it would hurt him most.

He thought he would die, the day they put him on the battlefield, a mere horse-length from the captain. And then the horn was sounded, the battle began, and he found his blade in the stomach of a foot soldier.

It was like all he had been raised for fell away in that moment, as he looked into the fading eyes of the man he had killed.

Him. He killed a man.

He was a murderer.

But as he pulled his blade free, another took that soldier’s place, and steel came slashing down, detaching head from body, the thrill of battle singing in his veins, lending him undue strength.

He felt alive, he felt reborn. He felt like he could take on the whole army on his own.

The remaining soldiers of that day always said that they didn’t know who he was, didn’t know where he came from.

An angel, they said. The exactor of justice. The Huntress has blessed him, and he cuts through the enemies on tawny wings, a monster draped in dirt and sand.

He stopped trying to protest after the third song sung in his honour, and accepted his fate as their champion.

But though his blade sang in the heat of battle, his soul cried every night for the souls he cut down, for the families who had lost a father or brother or husband.

-----

The battlefield lies before him, the remainder of the army at his back. The desert breeze brings to him the smell of rot and blood, and he inhales, steeling himself and reminding his hands not to shake.

One last mission. One last call. One last body.

He has prayed for peace too many times, so many times that it is now a mantra and no longer a prayer, and he thinks that this may finally, finally be the fight to end it all.

Lady of the Hearth, I beg for forgiveness. Take away this stained conscience, and give me a spirit new.

There is the tickle of a finger drawn down his cheek, brushing along the stubble grown through their endless march.

You do not have the right to beg my forgiveness yet, little one. Come home, and I will greet you with the warmth of flame.

He closes his eyes and whispers another prayer – of apology, this time, and instead turns his attention to the monster in his blood.

Lord of War, do what you will with me.

A thrill goes over his skin, and his heart pumps faster.

That’s the spirit, my boy.

-----

The battlefield is a whirr, a spinning storm. Two champions, spurred on by their respective gods and goddesses, uplifted by the song of their people, supported by the dwindling numbers of their dying armies.

They turn and they clash, blade to blade, never slipping, never giving in, digging in to make a cut, spinning out to avoid a slash. They are evenly matched, and though the soldiers and horses die around them, they continue their deadly dance over bodies, refusing to admit defeat.

It is exhaustion that stills their blades, one at his throat, one at his heart. They regard each other, panting heavily, the war rage fading from their tired pupils.

He can see now, that his adversary is barely older than him, a face marred with dirt and blood, gaunt with the lack of rations.

He can see now, that his opponent is a moonlight child, sword grip like that of grasping a pen, but his eyes are hard and unwavering, ringed with the blessing of a warrior.

“I will lower my sword if you do.”

They are both shocked by his words, in a voice so dry and rasping, they wonder how long their fight has gone on. His rival only tightens his grip, and licks his lips. The shine of rusty red on his lip makes him think of champions and warriors, and how he too, had been forced into war when all he wanted was peace.

“Who is to say you will not kill me immediately?”

He is right to be sceptical, and he blinks his acknowledgement. Ah, but he is so tired.

“Do you not want to go home?” He asks instead. He can feel his sword wavering, the muscles in his arm worked beyond the point of mere exhaustion. “My goddess awaits my return.”

The other’s eyes widen. “You are a seer.”

“And you are a scholar.”

“No,” and his adversary has on a smile so bitter, so filled with loathing and resentment, he could make a ripe field rot. “I am a warrior, and it is my pride and my honour to extinguish you.”

The sword comes at him again, but he spins, dropping his own that he might grab the other’s arm and twist the weapon from it.

He holds him, his back to his front, breathing heavily into dust-caked hair. “You are a scholar,” he whispers, and he feels the truth in those words, feels it resonate in his bones. “Your war god has abandoned you, as mine has abandoned me.”

He feels his opponent slump, and yells as a foot crashes down on his own.

He rolls away, picks up a sword, blocking the blow just in time.

“The Huntress,” his adversary snarls, “Has never been by my side. It is I, and only I, who fights this battle, and I suffer for the gains of the throne.”

“Then you understand me!” He pushes back, sends him tumbling, and then they are at a stalemate again, sword to throat and heart.

“You understand me,” he says, more quietly, eyes hooded. “For I too, serve by the blade, though I would rather take a moonlit night.”

“A romantic,” the other sneers. “But it will do you no good. I will take your heart back to my king, and he will free me.”

“If I take your head back to my king, he will free me.” He cocks his head. “Seems like we want the same thing.”

“I will never agree with the likes of you,” he spits, but he only smiles.

“Won’t you?”

-----

He sits in a clearing, waterfall within sight, the roaring blocking out all else. His hard work is splayed around him, sheets upon sheets of freshly pressed paper, and he is mixing ink for his pot.

He corks the bottle and sets it aside, gathering his sheets to place in a chest.

He murmurs a prayer to the god of the earth, a thanksgiving for what he was allowed to take, and what he has made from it.

He takes a quick dip in the pool of the waterfall, washing away his grime, cleansing himself of his labour.

He catches sight of his reflection before he dons his robe, and turns away with a tight smile.

He cinches the neckline tight, hiding his scar from the world.

-----

He sits in the temple, placing offerings in the brazier, the smell that rises up pleasing to him, but most of all, pleasing to his goddess.

Thank you, child.

My pleasure, my Lady.

He turns to the papers on the altar, notes the quality and the make of them. He smiles to himself, and fingers the fabric above his heart.

He does not press down, because the scar is deep, and he does not want to wound himself further.

-----

There is a tense silence as their eyes meet, as they eye each other across the clearing. They take a step forward, and another, until they are face to face, and bend slowly, leaving their offering between them.

He tilts his head, exposing his scar. “I see you.”

He touches his heart lightly, his hand falling to his side. “I see you.”

They circle each other till they reach the other’s gift, crouching and reaching into the bags, eyes finally leaving their fated opponent.

He smiles at the contents, and sees the other doing the same.

They stand in tandem, clutching the bags to their chests, circling again until their backs are against their original route.

They breathe slowly, regarding each other, heads cocked, eyes analysing.

He speaks first, with a toss of his faded copper hair. “Till next month.”

His rival – enemy, soulmate, fated counterpart, did it really matter? – inclines his head just so, quietly mocking. “Till next month.”

They turn and exit, leaving the same way they came, the summer breeze ruffling through their hair.

In the clearing, silver and copper strands linger among the blades of grass, a promise and a pact, formed long ago in the haze of battle rage, tempered only by the hope of living, and the foreshadow of what was to be forgiveness and forgetfulness.