#like how humanity operates under hell's oppression

[whumpitisthen]

Next chapter of Auden's story is written!!!! Once i edit it you will get to see just how powerful His Majesty is, a tiny bit of how humanity survives through literal Hell

and a little bit of Grim being a nuisance, as per usual, because he is important to me and a bastard

We'll get back to Auden after this it's kinda weird how it's his story and he hasn't been here for two chapters............ Dont you worry the angel boi will continue being harmed and traumatised :3 i just had to introduce our whumpers properly

[kob131]

Here’s a question for everyone- Give me your full thoughts on how the Fanaus/White Fang plotline worked out for you.

I’ll give mine to start.

It’s...alright.

I’ve heard a lot of people say that it was racist to have the Fanaus group (stand-ins for minorities) be bad guys because it supposedly demonized civil rights groups. But from my perspective, that’s just...kind of how those things crumble in the end. Most revolutions, if they succeed, tend to devolve into anarchy if not outright power grabs with stuff like The American Revolution and the Civil Rights Movement being exceptions to the rule. 

Hell, the American Revolution had a sister revolt in the form of the French Revolution which spawned ideas like ‘hey maybe we shouldn’t enslave other people for *insert stupid reason here*’. It also devolved rapidly into dictatorship after dictatorship, a clusterfuck of human rights violations until ultimately being undone within 30 years of the revolt.

And the reason why this seems to happen, boiling it down from the various and complicated factors, is because the revolutionaries lacked hardline morals and goals. If you’re, say, operating under the idea that you are fighting for your people and thus all your interests are for their sake- who cares if you behead a couple hundred or so of your fellows for daring to criticize you? Who cares if you start limiting their rights? You’re not a member of the elite so of course it isn’t oppression! 

Hardline goals and morals help stave off that natural slippery slope we all walk alongside in life. It gives a clear end to your actions, to your role as a rebel and shows you where you go wrong. And the WF kind of lost that, like many revolutions.

It’s also kind of hard to call it racist when the stand ins for racist white people are...far worse people. Like, bitch about people like Corsec/Fennec and Sienna but they’re better people than say...Cardin and Roman Torchwick. Hell, for all the complaints about Adam being a one note bad guy- he at least had a reason for why he acted the way he did and was treated as an actual threat. What reason does Jacques have to be so greedy? None, he’s just greedy. Is he treated like a legitimate threat? No, he’s a cowardly, sniveling little snake.

Even the best of both sides are treated very differently. Blake is never brought into question for her ideals or methods while Weiss gets shat on for her beliefs and actions. Rightfully so...but notice how there isn’t a shred of sympathy or even ‘he has a point’ on the human end? If it’s really racist, then wouldn’t the racism be against the group that’s portrayed as one-dimensionally evil?

... Yeah. this is why I don’t buy into the racism stuff.

That isn’t to say this is perfect mind you. In fact, when it comes to the worldbuilding aspect of the WF plotline, it kind of falls apart. We rarely see any actual discrimination against the Fanaus and what we do see is, again, from characters depicted as pathetic or evil, if not both. We get some small details like a ‘No Fanaus Allowed’ sign or the Fanaus of Mantle being forced into the rundown crater underneath Atlas. Hell, we get an example of someone who suffered from racism (Illa). But...since so much of it is small details or done by morally bankrupt people, it makes it seem like racism is this long decided evil like it is in modern society. When logically, racism should be more socially accepted and done by generally good people as well as bad ones.

All of this would go to show how desperate the situation in Remnant is for the Fanaus thus justifying why the WF became so radical in the first place. I think that’s the true failing of the plotline.

P.S. There probably should have been another leader between Sienna and Ghira to give a smoother decline to Adam’s radicalism. Because going from ‘we must be above them’ to ‘it’s okay to use violence and fear to gain rights’ is a pretty huge leap. There should have been someone holding a stance like ‘We should be allowed to defend ourselves from the human’s attacking us’.

[dumb-cdc]

the Standpoint of being "Chosen"

It is a journey into distortion to understand the positionality of Evangelicals and Zionists, and their ideological siblings in MAGA under Trump and Hindutva under Modi.

This is a positionality not often discussed in Standpoint Theory™️, which posits that all knowledge of the self and the world is informed by social position.

Black feminists like Patricia Hill Collins describe Standpoint™️ as the place where one finds themselves within a 'matrix of oppression'—an individual's standpoint is located at a unique nexus of the intersecting systems of race, gender, and class. When this standpoint is located outside of hegemony, you have a clearer vantage point of the cogs in the greater machine and the contours of these intersecting oppressive systems. From these standpoints, we can better see the violent churn of bureaucracy down to the interpersonal mechanisms of violence.

What happens, then, when the 'matrix of oppression' is replaced with a 'matrix of exceptionalism'? A matrix where entities believe that they sit at the centermost nexus of race, gender, and class systems, a standpoint nestled within hegemony rather than one thrown to a distal area from it. A matrix where the resulting standpoint is one of being "chosen."

Not just exceptional by ordinary standards, but "chosen": singularly "chosen" by God and Nation. Now that is a data validation conundrum.

How does this standpoint of being "chosen" understand equality, equity, or justice? Human rights or humanness itself?

When trying to understand this, I think to a scene from the miniseries Midnight Mass. The series follows a congregation "chosen" by an angel (sorta vampire?) that is now tasked to decide which church members should survive to see the New World Order. A show 100% about epidemiological investigation (ie new incidence of vampires), featuring communicable and zoonotic diseases.

The scene is Annie (neighborhood mom) speaking to Bev ("chosen" church leader, vampire) after much of the town has been sacrificed for the New World Order. Annie to Bev: God doesn't love you more than anyone else. You aren't a hero. And you certainly, certainly aren't a victim. Bev: I wouldn't lecture Annie Flynn. [...] (Gives a bitchy read of Annie's parenting skills because her sacrificed* son killed a child during a DUI.) Annie: And God loves him. Just as much as He loves you, Bev. Why does that upset you so much? Just the idea that God loves everyone just as much as you. (Get her Jade!)

In the 'matrix of exceptionalism,' how does one conceptualize love from God and Nation? God and Nation can certainly love beings that aren't equal to the "chosen." God and Nation can certainly love them less. The love itself does not have to be equal.

Meanwhile, in the 'matrix of oppression':

*see above

All this to say: those of us scattered across the 'matrix of oppression' can look at hegemony and have an outside vantage point of the Master's House™️ per se (coined by Audre Lorde).

I believe that those inside the Master's House are scattered across the 'matrix of exceptionalism.' Nestled within hegemony, they have a proximity to something else.

And perhaps through a keyhole, a crack in the door, a few inches between the window pane and sill, we on the outside see what it is:

The Cuckoo Clock in Hell™️

This is how Kurt Vonnegut describes the innermost mind of the far-right in his 1961 book Mother Night. This mind is a machine so fundamentally broken, random, and pointless, that it functions only enough to simply keep its shoddy machinery operating and whirling.

Ostensibly able to 'make the trains run on time,' but always in a super fucked up way.*

*see above

In Vonnegut's words:

I have never seen a more sublime demonstration of the totalitarian mind, a mind which might be linked unto a system of gears where teeth have been filed off at random. Such snaggle-toothed thought machine, driven by a standard or even by a substandard libido, whirls with the jerky, noisy, gaudy pointlessness of a cuckoo clock in Hell. [...] [The far-right] wasn't completely crazy. The dismaying thing about classic totalitarian mind is that any given gear, thought mutilated, will have at its circumference unbroken sequences of teeth that are immaculately maintained, that are exquisitely machined. Hence the cuckoo clock in Hell - keeping perfect time for eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, jumping ahead fourteen minutes, keeping perfect time for six seconds, jumping ahead two seconds, keeping perfect time for two hours and one second, then jumping ahead a year. The missing teeth, of course, are simple, obvious truths, truths available and comprehensible even to ten-year-olds, in most cases. The willful filing off of gear teeth, the willful doing without certain obvious pieces of information - [...] That was how my father-in-law could contain in one mind an indifference toward slave women and love for a blue vase - That was how Rudolf Hess, Commandant of Auschwitz, could alternate over the loudspeakers of Auschwitz great music and calls for corpse-carriers - That was how Nazi Germany could sense no important difference between civilization and hydrophobia - That is the closest I can come to explaining the legions, the nations of lunatics I've seen in my time.”

^^ a cuckoo clock, not pictured in hell

In respect to Black Lives Matter, Trans Rights, and Palestine, those of us glimpsing inside the Master's House through a keyhole or opening have seen the faces of friends, family, and community members in there.

More often than not, I see white queers speaking Zionist rhetoric while staring directly into the Cuckoo Clock in Hell™️ --

They agree with it. On the same day pro-Palestine protestors shut down the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Williamsburg Bridge, and Holland Tunnel using ACT UP's 1995 "bridges and tunnels" protest techniques. On the same day over 400 persons were arrested for this act of defiance. On the same day ACT UP NY announced fully-funding bus tickets for the ACT UP block going to the January 13th March on Washington.

I see white queers agree with the Cuckoo Clock in Hell™️ and listen to its dissonant whirling. To them, I want to ask: Why do you feel so safe inside the Master's House? You will eventually be evicted, displaced, and discarded. Do you actually believe you are "chosen," a credit to your kind?

When I think of Palestine as a Standpoint™️, I think of what the Castro district of San Francisco, CA has come to mean for queers across the nation (and even globally).

^^ photos taken by me, 2023

When you're in the Castro, you know you're in Castro-- Rainbow crosswalks, rainbow banners on lampposts, a historic 'rainbow walk' with plaques dedicated to famous LGBTQ+ figures, and a giant rainbow flag (20ft x 30ft) flying over Harvey Milk Plaza.

The SF AIDS Foundation has a beautiful multi-story wellness center serving the community. The historic Twink Peaks Tavern sits atop Castro St.; its large panoramic windows were uncovered in 1973, making it the first gay bar to stop hiding its patrons from the public.

The graffiti says 'Protect Trans Kids' and 'Dykes Hate Techies.' There is an ease around queer public displays of affection and sexuality. The Castro 'Welcome Center' plays Kim Petras' album Slut Pop over the sound system.

The historic Castro theatre visually distinguishes the neighborhood's main drag from anywhere else.

Harvey Milk's old photo shop is now an art space called Queer AF.

Dildos are in a fair amount of store windows. And you will probably pass a nudist on your morning coffee run.

^^ photos taken by me, 2023

The Castro's response to Palestine was immediate and visible.

After Israel's retaliation to Hamas' October 7th attack had begun, Palestinian flags went up in storefronts. Sandwich boards said 'Free Gaza' and 'Let Gaza Live.' Messages of solidarity were written on printer paper and taped to windows. Residents hung Palestinian flags out of their apartment windows. We marched to the Civic Center.

^^ photo taken by me, 2023

And so, when I see white queers parroting the Cuckoo Clock in Hell™️, I want to ask: What would it mean for the queers of Castro to become forcibly displaced?

Would it be a stretch of the imagination for windows to be broken, residents to be threatened, stores to be trashed, or pedestrians to be beaten? Would it be a stretch of the imagination for the few franchises among the queer-owned local businesses to pull out of the neighborhood with enough political pressure?

What if you heard that queer residents on the outer blocks of Castro had their homes bricked. They left in fear. The city quickly seized the property. Squatters and developers moved in. The violence may move inwards towards the heart of the neighborhood.

Now more people want these dykes, fags, trannies, groomers, pedophiles, and perverts out of here.

And they found a system for doing so.

^^ graphic design is their passion

So let's just stop here. This is the most benign level of forced displacement. This will not create refugees or a humanitarian crisis. This isn't even on par with raiding gay bars like in the good ol' days.

This isn't police beating up queers in the street or arresting them for now being 'unwanted traffic' in public space. This isn't vigilantes telling "the queers" to get out of their homes and businesses at gunpoint. This isn't throwing all of your belongings out of the window and into the street.

This isn't making flying the LGBT flag illegal.

This isn't tearing down the sign for Harvey Milk Plaza.

This isn't defacing the Castro Theatre.

This isn't even a loss of life.

This isn't even war.

I want to posit this to all the white queers fixated on the Cuckoo Clock in Hell™️. I want to ask why they feel safe from state violence that, given the current anti-LGBTQ+ landscape, is only one move of the needle away.

When you are no longer "chosen," how will you return to and face your community again? And better yet: can you? We protect us, after all.

This article is dedicated to you.

[logicalbookthief]

Christmas Movies Ranked by How Anti-Capitalist They Are

It’s a Wonderful Life

Movies that make you want to pick a fight with the 1% and also weep with joy. Absolutely a classic and anti-capitalist at its very core. Will convince you we need to start oppressing landlords again.

“Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about... they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle.”

SAY THAT!!! George Bailey said fuck landlords, all my homies hate landlords, they have NO rights. Local man believes poor people are human, dedicates his life to helping them, and in his time of the need literally the whole town comes together to support him and his family. Class solidarity ftw!

“Remember no man is a failure who has friends.” Bitch I CRY EVERY GODDAMN TIME. 

10/10

Home Alone

Soundtrack goes hard, the wacky hijinks even harder. 

Loses points because the bandits had a prime opportunity to seize and redistribute some of the wealth from this ritzy Chicago neighborhood and instead they focus their energy on trying to kill an 8-year-old who outsmarts them at every turn.

2/10

Elf

A family favorite in our house. Touches on the overworking and mistreatment of employees through Greenway Press – Walter forced to choose between being with his family on Christmas Eve or losing his job, it’s implied Deb has a pet grooming business on the side to makes ends meet despite being a receptionist at a NY publishing company, etc.

Honestly most of the points come from Jonie’s underrated yet highly relatable storyline. She works in retail, exhausted and cynical towards the high-paced Christmas season which gives her little to no relief or reward, since she’s surviving on ramen noodles and using the employee showers because her water was cut off. Not expanded on enough to be considered a true Marxist piece but the effort is appreciated.

5/10

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Although the meme is correct in that Rudolph’s red nose becomes desirable only once it proves to be useful, it does get points for exposing the harmful nature of forced conformity and those alienated by these capitalist ideals -- Rudolph, Hermie, the island of misfit toys -- are given a place to belong despite the perceived “flaws” that before made them undesirable.

Also the elves definitely have a free dental-plan now thanks to Hermie and are hopefully on their way to unionizing. Fucking superb you funky little misfit.

6/10

Klaus (2019)

Turns a member of the bourgeoisie into a man I’d trust to carry my mail. Respect for postal workers this movie contains was ahead of its time.

 No direct takedown of the establishment but a heartwarming message -- “A true selfless act always sparks another” bITCH I may be crying -- that emphasizes the importance of giving to others even when there is no selfish motivation to do so, which is inherently anti-capitalist.  

8/10

The Santa Clause

Scott Calvin starts as a toy executive who takes part in the commercialization of Christmas. He was probably a business major so automatically loses points.

The Santa dynasty itself seems to operate under the cutthroat rules of the business world where you must overthrow (or in this case, throw him off the roof) the former CEO in order to seize power. 

Elves have not unionized or seized the means of production by the end.

0/10

A Christmas Carol 

THE ORIGINAL. Charles Dickens was not even in the neighborhood of fucking around with this one. CREATED the anti-capitalist Christmas genre!!

Rich man treats his employees like shit and gets terrorized by three ghosts on Christmas Eve. Force him to redistribute his wealth by dragging him through a montage of his most epic fails -- oh, hey, remember when your fiancé left you? -- and make him listen as all his employees and relatives complain about his stingy ass. 

They end this slideshow by throwing this dude into his own grave. DIRECT ACTION. 

Like damn, the ghosts really said, “If you hoard your resources and ignore those in need when you could directly improve/save lives with no cost to yourself, you will die ALONE and you WILL pay for your crimes in hell.” Literally watching this movie is a catharsis for anyone who is or has been poor and working class. 

I’m including all versions of this movie but a special shout out to the Muppet version because it fucks the hardest. 

100/10

How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000)

Listen I’m not even in realms of joking with this one. This movie is THE anti-capitalist film of the holiday season. 

WhoVille commercializing Christmas and a fixation on consumer culture to the point where anything and anyONE who cannot be commodified -- aka the GRINCH -- is alienated? The Whos rediscovering that people should be cherished over material items once it all is stolen and they must confront how empty the holiday has become??

Cindy Lou becoming disillusioned in Christmas -- at an age that coincides when many children (those who celebrate Christmas at least) lost belief in Santa and had to wrestle with what the holiday means with the magic gone and they’re more aware of the rampant consumerism that taints the season?? Her resolve to find a meaning that goes beyond material consumption because if a holiday founded on goodwill doesn’t extend that goodwill to everyone, even those society deems undesirable, then what’s the point???

The Grinch despising Christmas because he is unable to participate and isolated from the Whos and also the better qualities within himself? His alienation serving to demonize him further as it allows the public to narrow his valid criticisms of the holiday down to him being different and thus inherently predisposed to evil?? And hmm isn’t it interesting that a LOT of this demonization comes via Mayor Augustus “generously paid for by the tax-payers of Whoville” Maywho, Mr. 1% himself.

The upper vs working class divide evident in the light show competition between Martha May and Betty Lou Who?? The opening scene of the shopping frenzy that mirrors our own consumerist culture and overworking of retail/poster workers??? This entire monologue:

“That's what it's all about, isn't it? That's what it's always been about. Gifts, gifts... gifts, gifts, gifts, gifts, gifts! You wanna know what happens to your gifts? They all come to me. In your garbage. You see what I'm saying? In your garbage. I could hang myself with all the bad Christmas neckties I found at the dump. And the avarice... the avarice never ends! ‘I want golf clubs. I want diamonds. I want a pony so I can ride it twice, get bored and sell it to make glue.’" 

MARXIST KING. MENTION IT ALL.

1000/10

[quazartranslates]

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH54

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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Chapter 54: Purgatory Reunion (VI)

At this moment, the world was silent.

Qi Leren stood on a black rock in the middle of the lake of fire, staring at Ning Zhou, who had become a dragon. The dragon also stared at him. The slender and horrible vertical pupils of cold-blooded animals showed the gentleness of recognition.

The fire and rain falling from the sky stopped, and the magma erupting angrily because of the force of destruction also stopped. This dark underground world was immersed in the warm sunshine pouring in from the gap and the holy light from the Prophet's Heart.

For a moment, Qi Leren couldn't say anything, because there were too many words choked in his throat. When he opened his mouth, the words that could be said and could not be said were about to slip away before his eyes.

He held out his hand and wanted to touch the dragon that he was so close to. Even in purgatory, its head was head high rather, not low. But the dragon in front of him gently lowered its head and stopped in front of his eyes.

Qi Leren stroked the dragon’s cold scales, and then hugged him. He didn't even dare to put pressure into it. He just put his face on the cold dragon scales and choked:

"Ning Zhou, I’m back."

This sentence was like a spell. Qi Leren’s tears that had been building finally flowed down. These tears were full of love and joy. He was thankful that he wasn’t too late, and that the tragedy in his nightmares hadn’t taken place. He finally came to Ning Zhou before everything was irreversible.

As long as Ning Zhou was still alive, there was still hope for everything.

It was also with this sentence that the dragon standing in the lake of fire slowly changed back to its human form—a thin, gaunt, but still alive Ning Zhou. When he stared at him with his blue eyes that held too much emotion, Qi Leren suddenly felt that Ning Zhou knew everything, and he understood everything.

Whether it was misunderstanding, deep guilt, or love, when they met again in this hot lake, a pair of loving souls embraced everything.

　　&&&

"Is this who you were talking about, His Majesty's dead lover?" The Witch of Nothingness turned her head. Although she never opened her eyes, she "stared" at the Devil of Evil, waiting for his answer.

All the demons sitting around the long table looked at him. This oppressive gaze made the Devil of Evil feel pressured. He spread his hands: "According to intelligence, he is indeed dead, but the truth of the matter doesn’t seem so simple. I’m afraid even our Majesty thinks he’s dead."

"Whose side is he from?" The Witch of Desperation only cared about this problem.

"The Holy See?" the Witch of Resentment murmured, staring at Qi Leren who was shrouded by the power of a holy angel.

"No, the intelligence said that he’s a foreigner. He came here from another world, and he had no faith. However, his strength is biased towards the Holy See. Which master in their camp gave him an item to borrow strength?" the Devil of Evil mused.

The Witch of Desperation waved her hand, and the magic mirror’s perspective pulled away, overlooking the lake of fire from a distance. The paradise reflected in the holy light covering the sky had the divine beauty of dusk, just as it had been repeatedly described in the Canon, the home of God.

"It’s the Village of Dusk’s Prophet!" The Witch of Nothingness recognized the characteristics of this miracle and revealed it in the same breath.

"It seems that His Majesty's little lover is a man favored by the Prophet. If he doesn't know what his original strength is, he’ll never become a 'guardian' like Maria, right?" The Devil of Evil touched his chin and showed innocent cruelty in his eyes. "Oh, I don't want to see the tragedy of that year repeat itself."

The Witch of Desperation looked at the magic mirror silently and said after a long time, "It's a pity... It’s almost too similar."

The Witch of Nothingness comforted: "There’s no rush for a while."

"Haha, aren't you going to rush out and stop them now? Even if you say yes, I won't go, I still want to keep this life for a long time." The Devil of Evil put his hands behind his head and leaned lazily against the back of the chair.

"Wait and see. It's not time for us to show up yet," said the Witch of Desperation, drawing a pause symbol on the attempted operation.

　　&&&

The two people didn't go far. Ning Zhou was tired when Qi Leren found him, as if he hadn't slept for several days, and he forced him to have a rest. They settled down in a secret cave not too far from the lake of fire, and Ning Zhou set up a barrier to prevent harassment from lower demons.

There were fluorescent fungi and luminous moths like butterflies in this cave, and Qi Leren took out a lantern to make the dim light illuminate their surroundings.

Qi Leren leaned against the cave wall, and Ning Zhou rested on his leg, his body covered with a blanket.

The warm light of the lantern allowed the two exhausted people to briefly escape from this Nightmare World and take a nap in a pure peaceful land. The scarred soul wrapped in its scarred body finally found rest here.

Ning Zhou quietly looked at Qi Leren, but he couldn't close his eyes for even a moment until Qi Leren secretly hooked his hand under the blanket, and their two hands clasped each other. Then, his nervous look eased slightly.

"Can't sleep?" Qi Leren asked softly.

Ning Zhou shook his head gently, holding Qi Leren's hand tightly, as if when he let go, the warmth in his hand would slip away quietly.

"Then let's talk for a while?" Their old estrangement had long since disappeared. At this time, Qi Leren simply had endless questions and endless words. He was curious about everything about Ning Zhou, his childhood, his past, his mood, and he also had a lot of things to tell him, such as how worried he was... He can talk about forever on his own.

Qi Leren couldn't help but talk about it. From the beginning when he had found love at first sight, he talked about his inner struggle and suffering.

"...I'm not afraid to love someone of the same sex, but I'm afraid my feelings will hurt you. At that time, I even thought… if I choose to be patient to let you live better, I would rather… be patient my whole life. But... but, in the end, my love has become your burden. I'm sorry, Ning Zhou... I'm sorry..."

Just as tears fell from his eyes, Ning Zhou wiped them away with his fingers.

"At that time, I wrote a 7 to tell you that I would be resurrected in seven days, but the moment I wrote it, I regretted it. Because... I shouldn't have said this... I never knew it would be so painful to tell the truth. If I hadn't said it, maybe you wouldn't be here now, you'd still be living in Neverland, and you wouldn't suffer so much..."

When Qi Leren had learned of Ning Zhou’s end in that game, besides his great fear, his heart had been filled with endless guilt and remorse.

He instinctively blamed himself for everything, and decided that his existence had made Ning Zhou embark on a road full of thorns, which was indeed the case. Without his existence, Ning Zhou's identity would still be an exorcist in Neverland, instead of... a descendant of the Destroyer.

"Then you would spend your whole life deceiving yourself?" Ning Zhou asked gently.

Qi Leren was silent.

"Calm pain is better than hypocrisy. I should pay for it all my life, but I shouldn't cheat it all my life... I’ve never regretted my choice." Even at the moment when he was determined to end himself, his heart was filled with endless sadness and despair, but there was no resentment or regret.

Even when he sank into the abyss of despair at that moment, he was illuminated by a beam of light, and he had been redeemed.

God gave him a miracle to embrace the light at the end of Hell.

He had courage and determination again. He wanted to give it a try and see if he could control the raging destruction, not sink into the power and become a slave to it. He was willing to try for the person he loved, even if it was an almost impossible challenge.

He was willing to die for this world, but he was willing to live for his lover.

Sometimes it was harder to live than to die.

"Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Those who can endure and overcome temptation will be rewarded." Ning Zhou gently recited the words in the Canon and looked at Qi Leren. "God has rewarded me and he sent you back to me."

Qi Leren could no longer speak. He felt another person's heat on his skin, so warm and pleasant.

He read another person's soul from his eyes, so pure and calm.

He was glad again that he had not missed Ning Zhou.

Qi Leren took out the Canon and said with a smile: "Chen Baiqi gave it to me. I’ll read it to you. If you’re tired, just sleep."

So in the dim light, he read from the first page: "After the destruction of the ancient world, everything was chaotic and asleep. There was no past, no future, no center, no margin, only endless darkness. The gods came from outside, each sowing a seed. Some seeds died before they germinated, while others were swallowed up as soon as they sprouted. Only the seeds of Father God were born within light and darkness, sky and earth, sun, moon, and stars. Father God was happy, for he wanted to bring life into the seed and make it become its own world..."

Ning Zhou closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep.

Qi Leren closed his book carefully and gently stared at Ning Zhou. At this moment, his heart was full of both sourness and sweetness. He was glad that he had arrived here in time, and pulled him out when Ning Zhou was at his most helpless and vulnerable, so that he didn't fall into the abyss of death.

At first, he thought that Ning Zhou's death would be at the hands of others, but when he came to the lake of fire and watched the black dragon roar in despair, he suddenly understood.

What would kill Ning Zhou was not the devils hidden in this underground world, but the devil inside Ning Zhou.

At that time, Ning Zhou's heart was so desperate that he would rather die of guilt than live in the world... This thought made Qi Leren feel sourness in his eyes.

A fluorescent moth, which had stopped on the cave wall, came down lightly and stopped on the blanket that covered Ning Zhou, emitting blue-green light. Qi Leren moved his fingers and drove it away.

"I believe that power has nothing to do with good and evil. You have never fallen," Qi Leren whispered, tracing Ning Zhou's sleeping face with his eyes.

Ning Zhou didn't open his eyes, but he held his hand tightly.

A teardrop trickled down from the corner of his eye and sank into the shadows.

In this dark world where only a lantern shone faintly, they devoutly delivered trust and love, and then received redemption from each other.

The long night road that they had once thought they would never be able to see the end of, all of a sudden, had already revealed the tiny lights between the distant mountains.

Qi Leren suddenly felt deeply touched. When he was trained hellishly by Chen Baiqi, he had rationally understood that all this was for his own good, so deep down, he had no hesitation or complaints. But when he held Ning Zhou's hand at this moment, he suddenly understood everything, and everything he had endured, whether it was hard training or life and death tests, had taught him to grow with every step. He had to keep growing.

What he shouldered was no longer his own life.

To the world, he was only a trivial person, but to the one who loved him, he was his whole world.

——I am willing to create a paradise on earth for you, and I am willing to hold your wandering and painful soul here.

——At this moment, I only wish that you have a good dream.

-----

Editor’s Notes: After nearly two hundred chapters, we finally get to see some sweetness between them :’)

[Here] is some fanart of their reuinion.

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[11quillen11]

About Jayce

I think I have finally pinpoint the reason why I cannot unproblematically love Jayce’s character despite him seemingly having nothing but good intentions. Simply put, Jayce is always hyper focused on finding the solutions to problems he does not understand.

It is unclear where Jayce was born and under what conditions he lived his early childhood but we do know for certain that he was, at least partly, raised in Piltover, the only son of a minor house with a successful business, and a loving mother to support him. Nothing in the show indicates that Jayce has known extreme poverty or systemic oppression. The lowest point in his life is when he discovers that he will not be able to achieve his dream of creating hextech. Now, I do not want to understate how devastating that might be, but it does feel jarring when the show directly contrasts his predicament with that of a group of undercity kids whose living conditions are so poor that they cannot possibly allow themselves a dream at all (besides “respect” or “wealth” which really ties back to the concept of “security”, physical as well as financial, something that is a human necessity, as well as a given for everyone in Piltover, including Jayce).

Jayce’s dream is to harness magic through technology because he sincerely believes that magic is a force that can be used for good and improve the lives of people. The first time we get an idea of what Jayce means by “improving lives” is at the beginning of Act III, when he and Viktor showcase their inventions to Heimerdinger. These inventions are tools created to facilitate the job of workers, and although I have no doubt that their health was Jayce’s first priority (or at the very least, one of his top concerns) I suspect that “productivity” was also a motivation for him. Even if it wasn’t, Jayce must know that the people who will be using those inventions are from the undercity, yet at no point does he show interest in going to the undercity and observing their working and living conditions with his own eyes.

There is no indication in the show that Jayce ever wonders what life in the undercity is like. There is no indication in the show that he ever considers visiting. He is creating tools to improve the lives and working conditions of people he knows nothing about and seemingly does not care to know better. Jayce’s concern with the undercity only begins when he is made councillor and assigned to Hextech Security. The first time he willingly starts paying attention to the going-ons of the undercity, he is put and places himself in a position of opposition towards it and proceeds to treat the undercity as a threat to Piltover’s security, a problem in itself that needs to be solved, an enemy. Viktor has to remind him that the undercity is in fact a place in which many different human beings with different personalities, goals, and temperaments live, rather than a homogenous criminal-breeding hell pit (paraphrased in the sentence: “I’m from the Undercity.” Hopefully Jayce can read between the lines).

The first time we see Jayce go to the undercity (and as far as we can gather from the show, the first time Jayce goes to the undercity at all), it is when Vi prompts him to. Together, they destroy one (1) Shimmer factory, but during the fight, Jayce accidentally kills a child. He is so upset by this tragedy that he decides to cease all operations and broker a peace with Silco, which goes to show that Jayce is a kind-hearted, well-meaning man with a distaste for violence. It also goes to show that Jayce has no idea and seemingly little interest in understanding the problems that he is trying to solve; he saw, with his own eyes, that children were working in that factory! He experienced, with his own lungs, how toxic the air is in the undercity! He must have noticed how little sunlight those people were exposed to, how unhygienic the streets they live in are, how unsafe the place feels. He must have at least caught a glimpse of how widespread Shimmer was. Yet his reaction was not to inquire on how the undercity had evolved into what it was, but to offer its independence. To relinquish all responsibility and leave it at the hands of drug lords.

On one hand, we can’t be too mad at Jayce because, again, he is sincerely trying to do good. On the other hand, I will never be able to fully appreciate his efforts as long as he remains completely oblivious to the more fundamental aspects of the problems he tries to solve. We see in act three that kid Jayce liked to imagine himself growing into something of a superhero, with the cape and the big hammer. Clearly, adult Jayce is still stuck in this mindset: he wants to be the superhero who sweeps in and saves the day, but although his intentions are commendable, it seems that they are partially driven by ego, a need for recognition, a desire to be admired, which is maybe why it never occurs to him that when none of what he is does pans out as planned, he should maybe stop looking for a solution and try instead to understand the problem.

[thevindicativevordan]

Any thoughts on Grant Morrison's Action Comics run? Beyond T shirt-and-jeans Superman being great.

That whole run reinvigorated my love of the character.

There have been numerous thoughtpieces about New 52 Superman, how he worked and how he didn't but these two entries really do a great job of summing up why Morrison's take on Superman was great. Morrison laid the foundation for a new generational Superman that DC completely fucked up and ran into the ground. I'll always be bitter about that, even if I had tapped out of reading the New 52 Superman books by the end due to how bad they got. Editorial and their idiotic mandates were what screwed over the potential of this take in my eyes.

Now I get that it wasn't to everyone's taste, but I cannot fathom how anyone could ever claim that Pre-Flashpoint Superman was better. If you liked Byrne's reboot better, your guy already got rebooted after Infinite Crisis. For someone like me who really enjoyed the Johns/Busiek era, that era's potential got spoiled after Johns & Busiek left, with New Krypton imploding and the awful Grounded taking it's place. When you get to the point where the best Superman book is the one starring Lex Luthor, it's time to reassess the franchise and figure out where the hell it went wrong.

Which is exactly what Morrison did. For this new Superman, Morrison mined all the best ideas of every Superman era to really give what I consider the ideal "base" for Superman. They also took pains to address common criticisms about Superman, working to correct his pop culture image. People have been complaining that Superman is "too perfect", "too unrelatable" for a long time, so Morrison addressed that. They gave Superman his balls back, and let him reacquire that Golden Age edge he had originally.

There are a lot of complaints you can make about Morrison's Superman, but I don't see how you could accuse this guy of being "flawless" or "bland". He definitely had a personality that you could describe, love him or hate him. Compassionate, but not a pushover. Clearly holding himself back, but unafraid to occasionally let loose. Flaws that were patently obvious, Clark had a temper here that could get him into trouble. There was a real showcase of anger here, of Superman being furious at the way people were treated by the rich and powerful, then doing something about it that I ate up.

I read this run just as I was coming into my teens and it hit perfectly for where I was in life. Did not want a Superman who would smile and tell me it gets better, I wanted a Superman who looked you in the eye and told you he felt that same anger, and then encouraged you to go out and do something about how you felt. That was what this run delivered in spades, and it expanded what I believed could be done with Superman.

While it totally blew my mind to see Superman acting this way the first time I read Morrison's Action Comics run, in retrospect it really isn't that different from how Superman has acted even under Byrne. One of the few traits I've seen carry across Superman incarnations in the comics is that he has a temper underneath that affable nature. "Don't tug on Superman's cape" as the old song goes. This run simply elevated that to the forefront of the character again, for the better in my eyes given I believe "Wrath" is Superman's Deadly Sin.

In fact, one of the strongest features of this run is that Superman gets actual character development over the course of the run, analogous to what Batman underwent in Morrison's Bat-Epic. While the Bat-Epic was merely Morrison re-canonizing Batman's entire history, and applying a retroactive character development storyline that culminated in Morrison's current Batman work, their Action Comics run had them attempt to craft something similar for Superman from scratch. What that meant was Morrison attempting to draw on the most important traits of every Superman era and incorporate those into this new take. So Superman had the Golden Age temper, compassion for the oppressed, and cockiness. The Silver Age supergenuis, proud scion of Krypton who cherished his Kryptonian nature, member of the Legion of Superheroes, and participant in stories that weren't afraid to get weird. Superman's wrestling with his place in the world, the importance of Clark Kent, and making journalism a key part of the character strike me as all being hallmarks of the Bronze Age. From Post-Crisis we got that Clark views himself as human and loves his adopted parents, considering them as equal to his birth ones.

One of the big frustrations for me with the endless origin stories for Superman, is that so many of them follow a predictable and stale formula where Clark puts on the suit and is essentially ready to go. Doesn't interfere with human affairs, is modest and humble, restrained in usage of his powers, it's like Clark has meta knowledge of what he "should" be, despite that he shouldn't have any foreknowledge of what a "superhero" should look like. He operates the same way at the start as he does in the modern day, and that's really boring to me. This Superman, because of the difference in powers and attitude, operated extremely different from his "present day" incarnation. Dangling Glenmorgan over the edge of a building isn't something a fully powered and mature Superman should do, but it works great to make his early days different and exciting to read about, it makes returning to that era something you can do different storytelling with. This run is the only time where I really cared that Superman is "supposed" to be the first superhero, because figuring out what that means here is a big part of how he develops.

We all know the common complaint that Superman is "too powerful" and that "nothing can hurt him" (funny how Thor never gets hit with those accusations), so Morrison made sure to show that this take on Superman could be beaten even if he could never be defeated. Events conspired to force Clark to use his brains as well as his powers to overcome the challenges in front of him.

Examples include him using his heat vision to fry Lex's equipment and escape the military, using his rocket ship to defeat Brainiac, and rallying the population of Metropolis to banish Vyndktvx. Not to say that Clark never used his brains before to win, but this run was very upfront and in your face about how important Clark's intellect is to triumphing over his foes. Can't take seriously the complaint that Superman is too overpowered when Morrison constantly showcased how even a very powerful Superman could get his shit wrecked by his Rogues.

Another example of Morrison addressing criticisms is Kryptonite. A lot of people poke fun at how convenient it is that pieces of Superman's homeworld follow him all the way to Earth. Isn't that a bit of an asspull? So Morrison made Kryptonite the power source of Superman's rocket, giving it a perfectly natural and believable reason both for it to end up on Earth, and for Lex & the military to get a hold of it since Pa Kent gave the military the rocket. That's still my preferred explanation for how Kryptonite ended up on Earth.

It also provides a better explanation for all the different Kryptonite variants. DC can handwave away the different types as a result of Lex experimenting or the different "forces" on Earth such as magic or the Speed Force or whatever creating the different variants. That to me is much more believable than Kryptonite travelling all across the galaxy yet still ending up on Earth somehow.

There have also been a lot of complaints about Superman's villains, and Morrison diligently set about reworking them. By far one of my favorite aspects of the run, was the villain revamps. Nimrod felt like a clean revamp of Terra-Man, making him into Superman's Kraven the Hunter struck me as a patently obvious route to go, wild no one has followed up on that or used him since. Metallo felt like a good synthesis of Johns take of him as an Anti-Superman weapon, and the sympathetic aspects of Corben's origin that are always there, I liked that Morrison didn't make him a total bastard before his transformation like Johns did. Brainiac got some sympathy added to him in that the collected worlds that were already marked for damnation, thus he was "saving" them in a fashion. Clay Ramses embodied toxicity as a wife-beater even before becoming Kryptonite Man, and I thought his backstory was a great way for Clark to still deal with "real" issues via a manner he could punch. Ramses is still the best take on Kryptonite Man. Vyndktvx felt like the greatest realization of the threat Mr. Mxyzptlk could pose should he decide to get serious since Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?, plus I'm a sucker for stories where superheroes fight the Devil. Drekken and Superdoom took the only interesting aspects of Doomsday (his ability to evolve and that he can kill Superman respectively), and were much more interesting characters.

And oh my God, speaking of Superdoom, that part of Morrison's Action run has aged like fine wine. I don't know if they caught wind of DC's plans for the character, or if they were just prescient, but everything that Superdoom is playing on is still sadly all too present. What Superdoom is as a character is a condemnation of what DC keeps doing with Superman: killing him off or making him evil.

When you realize what Superdoom (demand for a more violent and "realistic" Superman) and Vyn (WB/DC) stand in for, it makes the frustration Morrison is channeling much more palpable. Those two plotlines are all DC can think of to do with the character, returning to those again and again. Endlessly attempting to recapture the high of Batman and Doomsday beating the shit out of Supes in The Dark Knight Returns and Death of Superman. Overcoming these two obstacles is Superman's greatest challenge as conceived by Morrison, because both are out to corrupt and ruin the very idea of him. It's not just a physical death he faces, but a metaphysical one as well. Sadly it's a threat Superman just can't seem to lick in the real world, with more and more takes on "Evil Superman" coming.

Lois and Jimmy are great here, because Morrison actually made the investigative journalism aspect of Superman important. Lois is an active participant in the story, trying to break in to the base where Clark is being held by her father, competing with Clark for stories (I love how Morrison writes the banter between the two of them), and generally being classic Lois. Jimmy though benefitted from being positioned as a peer rather than as a kid in comparison to the two, something I wish the comics had carried forward. It looks like My Adventures With Superman is going with that interpretation at least, so I hope others do as well. Jimmy being Clark's roommate really adds to their bond, and I wish we had gotten more stories with that status quo.

Investigative reporter Clark Kent was so actively used here that it feels jarring reading other Superman runs where they tend to downplay and ignore it. Following Clark as he travels to different areas of Metropolis and actually interacts with people, instead of hovering above them as Superman, makes him feel human. Watching Clark actively pursue stories aimed at bettering peoples livelihoods, and seeing how those stories crossed with the superheroics, was one of my favorite aspects of the run. It's one unfortunately few other writers seem all that interested in, especially the New 52 writers who followed Morrison (I know editorial probably bears a lot of blame for that though).

Besides all that, this run was a lot of fun! The Legion of Superheroes showed up, their connection to Clark restored, and they got to play a big role in Clark's adventures! Krypto the Superdog! Martian colonies! Memorizing all of medicine, Superman performs a lifesaving operation! Lex using a "bullet train" to knock Clark out! 5-D imps! Rampaging robots from beyond! A Phantom Zone Halloween story! John Henry Irons suits up as Steel and kicks ass alongside Clark! Every Superman Rogue teams up to try to kill him, but Lex Luthor saves his life because that's a privilege he reserves for himself! Showcasing their trademark love for the Supermythos, Morrison took us on a tour of Superlore that demonstrated the depth and width of what could be done with Superman. Meanwhile the backups by Sholly Fisch excelled at giving us smaller, more human stories about Superman (the one where Clark meets Pa again via time travel "after" Pa has died always gives me a lump in my throat to read).

Ultimately this didn't get to be the foundation for the next generation of Superman stories as it deserved. Johns made New 52 Superman the scapegoat in Doomsday Clock for a lot of storytelling choices he did over in Justice League, something that pisses me off to no end. You want to tell me that this guy "didn't relate" to people, didn't inspire "hope"?

Like hell he didn't. This guy was Superman in every way that mattered and he deserved better than to be framed as the scapegoat for all the stupid decisions DC made about what to do with him. Greg Pak was able to do some great work with this version after Morrison, and just like how Gene Yang got a redemption work starring Superman, I hope to one day see Pak return to the character. Would love to read a Black Label Superman story by Pak that follows his take on young Superman.

All wasn't lost however. Against all odds, and Rebirth trying it's damndest to sweep everything under the rug, it looks like parts of this era have actually survived to the current Infinite Frontier era. With Morrison being heavily involved no less, both as an ideas guy and as an actual writer.

Superman & the Authority is explicitly Superman coming full circle back to the attitude displayed by his young counterpart under Morrison. Janin has outright said that the costume Clark wears here is reminiscent of the t-shirt and jeans era of Superman, and this book so far feels saturated with an energy level from Morrison I haven't seen in their work for hire since they left Action. Reaching old age and realizing he never really delivered on the high ideals of his beginnings, it's Superman putting together a team to hopefully succeed where he couldn't alone. Scathing in how it criticizes the superhero status quo, this has been extremely entertaining to read. Wish Morrison was writing 12 issues with this team, and that ultimately it will be up to PKJ to deliver on the potential is a drawback (although I've loved PKJ's Action run so far), but I'm glad to see DC finally treating Morrison and their ideas with more respect than was shown during Rebirth.

Jon meanwhile feels like an even more explicit attempt at redoing New 52 Superman. There's the updated new suit, designed to appeal to a new generation with it's streamlined look. Positioning Jon as a Superman who wants to tackle the "real" issues, with Taylor explicitly comparing him to Golden Age Superman which as I mentioned was an era Morrison tried to reincorporate into their reboot. There's the Legion of Superheroes connection which played an important role in Morrison's reboot. The rumors about Jon's sexuality are interesting, hinting that DC is willing to go outside the box with him in a way they never would with Clark. I'm excited to see what kind of Superman Jon ends up becoming, if he can deliver on the promise of the New 52 Superman all the better.

This run deserves to be remembered and to have the lessons it tried to teach respected. Probably my favorite mainline run on Superman, I hope more people come around to liking it as time goes on.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Emp-ire “Anti-Alliance.”

So my schedule at work has been really weird lately, so I apologize for the weird posting schedule and if things seem a little cramped. I am trying to keep upon my posting, but it has been rather difficult recently.

I hope you all enjoy :)

He hadn’t thought that Spartans were normally meant for stealth with their red cloaks, bright red feathers, and pockmarked golden shields, but he had been wrong before. The ground below them was rocky even as they ducked and dodged through the large boulder field that marked the edge of a wide white salt flat.

From a distance it wouldn’t have looked all that interesting accept for familiar pockmarks in the ground, which he recognized to be evidence left behind from the landing struts of shuttles. His head was still reeling over the idea that there was any sort of Anti-GA resistance. Yeah he knew there were the isolationists and others who did not agree with their cooperation with alien lifeforms, but the idea that people would go to such lengths as to sell weapons to each other was nearly mind boggling.

He would have understood if the government were at all…. Oppressive, and granted there had been a few times when the GA hadn’t gotten it right, especially when it came to the whole LFIL business, but things had been rectified, and there were good relations all across the galaxy. Is only other thought is that maybe the people blamed the GA for the invasion of Earth, though how that could have been called an invasion was beyond him.

Most of the Burg had died within the first few minutes of landing on the planet, and there had only been one reported casualty in the entirety of Mericanda, that being a frail old lady who had seen the Burg from a distance and died of a heart attack related to shock, which he hardly thought counted.

Things were going good for them. In the history of humanity things had honestly never been better, so why someone would want to go and screw that up was beyond him.

But you couldn’t make everyone happy.

He slid into place next to James, the king of Sparta, and Xanthia, the queen, A they poked their heads over the rocks.

James had pulled off his helmet and handed it to Xanthia as he peered over the rock.

“What are we doing here?” Adam muttered as he glanced between a set of rocks and towards the deserted salt field. His bare knee ached from where he knelt on the partial gravel. The leather skirts may have been nice for the mediteranian climate, but he still missed wearing pants. He switched to his other knee, the fake one, so he might be more comfortable.

“My operatives in Athens recently sent me a report detailing this as the place where the anti-alliance ships have been landing.”

“Spies? But that doesn’t seem-”

“Not very Spartan of me? Well Adam, just because we took some inspiration from Ancient sparta doesn’t mean we do everything exactly like they did, besides Spartans were at war far more often than us?”

“Speaking of which, do you guys actually fight anyone?”

“Under GA law, we generally don’t, but the Anti-alliance scumbags work outside the law, and based on some of their actions, which have in the past included slave trafficking, I have taken it upon myself to dispatch a few of them. And no one has gone to the government about my activities because if they did, they would have to explain what they were doing in the first place.’

He gripped his spear tighter, ‘And as technical royalty, I am allowed, by law, mind you to police my own planet.”

Ramirez had schooted up next to them crouched low, using his spear to help him crawl over the rocks.

James nodded to him and he nodded back.

“What are you planning on doing.”

“Well, first of all, since you are here, I want to give you proof of what I have been saying all along, and then maybe you will understand better what is going on here. I want you to see that I’m not just some kind of tyrant trying to get rid of people who disagree with me.” he pointed towards the salt flat, “I really believe that these people need to be removed, but It would take a lot off my conscience if you knew that as well.”

Queen Xanthea raised her head, lips pressing together slightly.

Adam had a feeling that even if he did agree, the queen wasn’t likely to stop anytime soon.

The troop of spartan soldiers crouched behind the rocks with a stiff breeze blowing through them.

Adam had grown immune to mild temperature discomfort since his training had begun, and barely even noticed the early morning chill that rolled over him. Glancing out the corner of his eye, he noticed Ramirez and another one of the young spartans crouching close together, almost touching, sharting body heat.

He shook his head slightly.

Leave it to Ramirez to land a fling with a Spartan.

He turned his head back to the salt field, and was surprised to find movement on the far side.

The Spartans grew very quiet as they watched across the open plante to where a group of people had just emerged from the rocks.

A few of them were dressed like simple athenians in their tunics or togas, but there were a few more dressed in flight suits, looking very out of place on the Grecian landscape. Adam cocked his head trying to hear better, and watched as the king of the Spartains tilted his head and pressed into the skin below his ear. 

Adam forgot that the Spartan King also had a military grade translation implant and data chip installed just like everyone else. 

And also that he had one too, and therefore could amplify the sound.

He followed the Spartain’s lead and was just able to pick up the tail end of a conversation.

“We are moving them to the market on A1-36.”

“The GA has presence there don’t they/”

“It’s just a supply waystop for them, they don’t actually go in.”

“You know how the GA feels about slave trade.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what the GA thinks about the slave trade, without it we wouldnt be able to pay the damn Kree.” He snorted, “Little bastards upped their price after the war, and now we are having to pay them double for being involved.”

“Why are we even doing this? We haven’t gotten anywhere, too small time to really even make a dent.”

Their leader turned to glower at them, “All big operations started out small-time. Now shut the hell up, and stop bitching. We have work to do.” 

There was a roaring in the sky overhead, and the group turned their eyes up towards the great blue vastness as they watched a silver distortion roll like a hazy wave through the atmosphere. Adam didn’t even realize what it was until the shuttle touched down, and noted the reflective skin covering it’s hull.

It was a pretty clever if low-budget trick, though they didn’t need anything more high-tech on a planet that didn’t really seem to use technology in the first place.

The door to the shuttle hissed open, and a group of men stepped out dressed in black flight suits.

A few of them carried weapons, though the vast majority of them were armed with only batons.

While the distribution of firearms was common on earth, and an estimated 65% of the population owned one for personal use, the ability to get your hands on a human grade firearm in space was a little harder.

The GA had strict regulations on the movement of weapons through intergalactic airspace, and you had to have permits out the ass to even own one.

However, since when did laws ever stop criminals?

He doubted that any of these men actually had a permit, which was an arrestable violation to begin with, though he had more than enough probable cause to arrest these men anyway. 

He stayed put however, and waited for the scene to unfold before them as the group of men stepped down onto the salt, their boots crunching against the ground looking around nervously at the rocks.

If these men had had any REAL military equipment on them, their shuttle would have been able to detect the heat signatures of the company of Spartans crouched in the rocks, but even so, no one had noticed them, and they wanted with bated breath as the group of men met up with each other.

“Parked her in low orbit, sir.”

“Good, then let's get things going before anyone has the chance to notice. The damned Neo-Spartan bastards have been giving me trouble. I have had to change shuttle sites three times in the past month. I have a feeling those assholes have spies with the Athenians, though I can’t prove anything.”

“There are no spies, that’s not how the spartans work.” One of the Athenians piped in.

The man turned to look at the speaker, “Then your men are just Fucking incompetent because how else do the spartans seem to know where we are at every turn.” He kicked at the salt sending up a wave of white flecks into the air, “The Damned Spartan King and his and his stupid skirt-wearing, oily, dog shagging bastards showing up every damn time I try to do anything around here.”

The group stood around watching as their leader threw his little fit.

Behind the stones, the skit-wearing oily bastards grinned a little at each other. 

Adam bared his teeth.

He already didn’t like this guy, though the man didn’t exactly make it difficult to hate him.

“Whatever, just get them on the dam shuttle so they aren’t my problem anymore. All the wining and complaining and bitching. You were stupid enough to get caught now they can suffer the consequences.”

Adam had met psychopaths in the past, and even though the last one had totally tried to kill him, he was still pretty sure he liked that one better. This guy was much, much worse.

He talked too much.

And that was coming from Adam, the kind of talking too much.

His hand tightened around the shaft of his spear as he moved into position with the other spartans.

The kind nodded back towards the rest of the group, and then quietly engaged the shielding over the metal faces of their shiels. They had spears and the enemy had bullets, not that that would matter once they got within stabbing range, but until ten, it was a good idea to have some cover.

There was a soft shuffling from the other side of the valley, and a group of chained prisoners were walked out onto the salt. Most of them were alien, Tesraki, and Finnari, but a few of them were human. Adam’s stomach clenched as he noted that most of the human prisoners were wide eyed young women.

His teeth ground together in anger, and beside him he could feel the tensing of muscles from the other Spartans as they responded similarly.

James cracked his knuckles and Xanthia pulled her short sword.

That was an odd thing about her, she didn’t seem all that interested in the use of spears, but he HAD seen her use her two short swords before, and boy was it a sight.

These men were in for a wold of hurt.

Adam looked to James who nodded back at him.

This was clearly enough proof for them.

The Spartan’s shifted as one unit to the balls of their feet, pulling out their spears and adjusting their shields on their left arms.

Adam scooted up next to James on his left, and Ramirez covered Adam’s left in return. 

Their shields hummed  softly with the faint blue pusing of the shields.

James raised his spear, and the men waited on bated breath as the prisoners were brought out further onto the salt. The men with guns were turned away, their focus pulled to the chained prisoners who whimpered pitifully as they were dragged over the salt.

James thrust his spear into the air.

The men did not let out a war cry like they had practiced on so many occasions before, but they went running as silently as possible at full tilt across the salt, keeping in tight formation with each other as they did.

The prisoners noticed them first, and then the gunman allerted to their rapid approach by the clattering of shields and spears. They turned with shocked expressions on their faces just in time to be bowled to the ground by a wave of bodies and metal.

Adam rammed into one of the gunmen hearing the subsonic crack of the rifle as a bullet tore into the salt near his feet. He slammed the man to the ground with his shield. And then raise it just in time to deflect another bullet. Before he could take care of the next man, Xanthia was already there. The cything of her sword caught the man in the wrist completely severing his hand, then she kicked him hard in the chest causing him to fly back over the stone. Blood pooled in crimson puddles against the white salt as the group of Spartans hurried to surround the cowering prisoners.

Adam put his back to them and crouched low behind his shield spear at the ready.

He looked around in the confusion, and saw the slimy little rat running the operation as he clawed his way up the nearest incline and away from the fighting.

He bared his teeth in anger, before turning to shout to someone to take care of him, but it was just at that moment that a horn blast somewhere in the distance.

The group of them turned to look…. As a wave of Athenian soldiers came roaring over the hill.

***

“SHIELDS!” He heard James shout, and crouched down, interlocking the large round shield with the men on his left and right. Behind him, Ramirez was suddenly at his shoulder spear at the ready. Another man behind him locked a shield in palace over Adam’s.

At their backs, the mall group of prisoners cowered together in fear as they were surrounded by the spartan shield wall.

“BRACE1” James shouted, and Adam dug his sandals into the dirt.

The first wave of Athenian soldiers crashed against them, and the shield wall racked back absorbing the impact.

“PUSH!” Came the shout and with a heave of his legs and his back Adam slammed the shield forward pushing the Athenian soldiers back a good two feet, a few of them stumbled to the ground. He opened the shield just enough for Ramirez to lunge forward, stabbing outward at the first line of Athenian soldiers catching one in the stomach before pulling back behind the shield wall.

They turtles up again as the Athenians slammed against them one more time, and again they held, Throwing  them back with a powerful push which sent them sprawling to the ground.

The Athenian line broke.

WIth screams and cries of fear the scattered as the Spartans broke from their shield wall and charged into the frey.

Adam and Ramirez roared out together.

Adam clobbered one of the Athenians with his shield knocking him to the ground for Ramirez to finish off. He thrust his spear forward and waist height, impaling one man straight through the stomach and out his back. The Athenian looked almost surprised as he was thrown to the ground, a hole torn straight through him.

Adam had no time to think about what he had just done, as he stepped over the man’s body to meet another.

This time his spear caught the man in the throat. He knocked the body to the side, and use the reverse end of his spear to turn and take a man who had been sneaking up behind Ramirez.

Blood painted the white ground red as the short pitched battle came to a head.

James and Xanthia fell into step beside Ramirez and Adam and together they washed through the battlefield like a tidal wave of destruction. Adam caught one man’s swords on the haft of his spear, and james darted in, taking the man between the ribs with the point of his own weapon. Behind them Xanthai and Ramirez held their backs, chasing the enemy away from the cowering prisoners.

Adam took a cut high on his cheek feeling warm blood run in slow trickles down his face to drizzle onto his collarbone.

The shield protected his unarmed torso as he roared into another line of men batting them back.

After all the raining he had done with the spartans, these men were barely worth a match, especially since he had trained in the spear against creatures with four arms instead of two.

An athenian charged at him, and he ducked low, catching them in the upper legs and waist with his shield before heaving with his legs and back, sending them up and over his head with a wail and straight into Ramirez’s spear.

He was surrounded by at least three men in the second moment.

One was blocked with his shield, one with his spear, and he kicked the other directly in the chest sanding him spinning backward and away.

He plowed painfully into the ground.

Adam ducked to the side as the man’s sword cut past his arm, cutting his friend in the thigh. He let the spear drop through his hands, caught it near the end and drew the spike right into the man’s face.

There was a brutal crack but he didn’t stop to look as he spun, pulled back his spear, catching it on the balance point in the middle and threw it with unerring accuracy into the chest of the second man no ten feet away.

He fell to the ground sputtering as Adam ran forward and tore the spear from his chest.

He spun, but there was no one there to fight.

Lowering his spear, he stopped to look around at the carnage and blood that drenched the ground.

The Spartans were finishing off the Athenians who had attacked them and Adam lifted his head to find Xanthia dragging the rat from back down the hill. He had a horrible gash across his face, and was bleeding profusely down his front. Adam tried not to look at the bodies that littered the ground below his feet and hurried to join James ashe marched forward, 

Xanthia threw the man to the ground, and Adam and James both stepped over the body as he lay in the dirt.

“Been a hot minute since I last saw you.” James said casually as he bent don to look the rat in the eye.

The man snarled at him.

James shook his head, and then pointed at Adam, “Do you know this man?”

He turned his head to look up at Adam. At first there was no recognition, and then his eyes widened in shock and horror.

“Exactly, now the GA knows about your little group, and sanctioned what we have done here today. You have taken slaves which is the highest offence of the GA. You attacked A GA officer, and I would continue adding to the list, but we might be here all day.”

The man just stared at him with his cold dark eyes.

James leaned a little closer spear in one hand.

A cry of pain broke through their little conversation, and they all turned to look in that direction unconsciously.

Adam gave the credit to his mechanical eye for catching the movement.

The rat had taken the opportunity and launched forward drawing a small blade from his belt, aimed straight at James’s throat. Adam, reacting as fast as he could dove forward, shoving James out of the way.

He staggered and hit the ground. The little blade missed its mark but impeded itself high in Adam’s shoulder.

His adrenaline was pumping so hard that he barely even noticed as he turned and slugged the rat in the face. He hit the ground, eyes rolled back in his head. Xanthia reacted only a moment after him. Her swords to the man’s throat but he was already incapacitated.

James turned over into an upright sitting position, staring back at Adam with a look of surprise.

Adam glanced down at his shoulder, and here the small two inch knife was sticking.

It would have been devastating had the man had caught James in the throat, but as it was Adam would probably only need a few stitches.

Xanthia kicked the man in the ribs, and he grunted in pain.

James slowly stood, “You saved my life.”

Adam shrugged, “You would have done the same.” he rested his spear over his shoulder, “Either way, I will want to make a call to the GA and let them know what happened. This is a bit more serious than I had expected.’

James nodded in agreement.

***

Adam and Ramirez stood at the edge of the dock watching as the boat slowly drifted into position.

A group of Spartans stood around them.

Ramirez was off saying goodby to his “friend” and Adam was standing with Xanthia and James.

“It was a pleasure to fight with you, Admiral. It’s a real pity that we can’t keep you and your Marine longer.”

He nodded in agreement, “I wish we could stay as well.” He clasped the other man’s hand, “Keep in touch, it would be a pleasure to fight with you again, plus, I have a couple of aliens I think you would like to meet.”

James smiled, “Any alien that trained you how to fight like that would be welcome.”

He paused and then, Dropped the shield from his arm.

He held his spear and shield out to Adam, “Here, take these.”

Adam looked at him in surprise, at the well worn haft of the spear, and the dented golden metal of the shield, “I, but your weapons…”

“I can fight with any spear and shield, but you saved my life. Maybe one day, these will save yours and we can call each other even.” 

The boat docked.

Ramirez walked over to stand with Adam and together the two of them stepped onto the deck.

Behind them the spartans raised their weapons punching them into the air three times with matching shouts as the King of Sparta saluted them.

Ramirez and Adam saluted back as the rowers began to pull the boat away from the dock.

He was going to miss those men and women.

But now he had to leave, with the knowledge that the anti-alliance was out there.

Hopefully at least, there would be men like the Neo-spartans and their king to keep men like that at bay.

[blaydiud]

𝑨𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒃𝒉𝒂𝒓.

It came to him in a dream. 

One unlike all others- similarly terrifying, but lacking everything the rest had.

No voices dripping with hate, pain and sadness belittling him and calling for his name, no cold claws digging at his flesh and trying to drag him under, no fire licking at his skin and smoke filling up his lungs. Glenn, who usually flickered between getting sliced by an axe and angrily blaming him for his death, was nowhere. Patricia, who usually stood within a certain distance with a melancholic gaze laced with venom and a disapproving silence, was nowhere.

Father, who alternated between begging for his son to avenge him and hatefully cursing Dimitri’s very existence as his child, was also nowhere. Instead, before him was emptiness. Silent, dark- this wasn’t the eternal flames that awaited him, nor heaven’s unreachable embrace.

This was nothingness. Quiet, lonely, inert. Both everything he had ever wanted, and everything he feared. A life spent isolated nowhere, where nobody could help him but at the same time he couldn’t harm anyone for the exact same reason. He could live in peace at the price of never fulfilling the ghosts’ wishes, an existence he wasn’t sure if meant as a reward or the worst kind of punishment.

Then came this horrible, bone-crushing, oppressive presence. Unseen, as if some horrifying beast was prowling in the darkness ready to pounce on him at any given second. Yet no matter how much he ran or looked around, the prince found nothing. The presence followed, weighing on his very soul, giving him the most primal reaction of fear as his knees threatened to buckle. A once predator being proven that, in fact, he was prey all along. It wasn’t like when he was little more than eight years of age, abandoned in the forest surrounding the Itha Plains by Gustave with no more than a wooden bow and a tiny dagger to defend himself, coming face to face with a bear.

Because then, even though he was just a small child, Dimitri knew that he had a crest, that it was strong, and that maybe it could make the bear go away. 

Now he wasn’t even sure of that.

It was perhaps the worst feeling conceivable- a looming threat that couldn’t be identified, one he couldn’t tell when or if it would attack, but it was there. And if it were to move, it would surely spell his end.

Going against all instructions taught by Gustave when it came to surviving in the wild, Dimitri ran. It felt like he was going nowhere, after all everywhere looked and felt the same. He might as well have been standing, thinking that he was running, probably posing as some pitiful entertainment for whoever was watching him. Was it the Goddess, finally showing him her true face? That he was nothing but a toy for her to play with, only to be discarded when she deemed fit despite his prayer and devotion? Would she kill him with her own hands and leave his soul trapped in this hollow hell forever, unable to move on? She might as well do it and get things over with. 

He continued to run, heart thundering against his ribcage, his muscles growing tired but unwilling to stop, everything in his brain telling him to run run run or it’ll get you.

Dimitri tripped on something and fell face down. The ominous feeling felt more real now, as if it were standing right before him, and something assaulted his nostrils for the first time in years.

The smell of bone. Overwhelming, pungent, strong, enough to make him cough and gag and hope for his nose to return to its non-operational state, but it only got thicker with each gasp of air he gulped. Dimitri got up on weak knees, only to trip and fall against something hard- bone. Not a human skeleton, but it was bone. If anything, it looked like a beast’s jaw with teeth protruding from it, smooth and razor-like. Looking up, he spotted what could only be the jaw’s matching palate, forming a cage of fangs keeping him trapped, like a squirrel in between a fox’s teeth waiting for death. 

Death didn’t come, so Dimitri wriggled his way out through the cage- holding his shirt against his face in an attempt to keep the smell of bone at bay. Taking a few shaky steps back, he stared at what could only be identified as a beast’s skull. Much bigger than him, with a pair of black horns emerging from pale bone and twisting inwards in an elegant yet ominous curve. In the skull’s forehead was a triangle shaped protrusion, the crest of Blaiddyd engraved on to it.

Countless scenarios went through his mind. Was his Halfa Bladid, the monster that lived in the mountains of Sacred Gwenwhyvar and gnawed at unruly hunters who hoped to bite more than they could chew? Tale books described it as a huge wolf, yet this looked much more like a dragon. Perhaps Conmac, the snake rumored to swim through a hidden lake in the plains of Itha? But this...thing, had his crest in it.

His family’s crest.

What was this, to him? The boar, finally showing its face? Dimitri gulped down. If this was truly the boar, then his life was over- he felt completely powerless against it. It felt strange, to feel such an intense reaction of fear towards what was literally the skull of a dead beast- yet its mere presence felt overwhelming. Intimidating, repulsive, violent, aggressive.

It was just like Areadbhar. The symbol of pride and power of the royal family that absolutely nobody wanted to see in action. The mere act of walking before the doors that lead to its resting chamber made his bones rattle as a child- no servant dared to enter without King Lambert’s company. Even Rufus refused to even look at the lance. It felt less like a weapon, and more of a beast, collared in a dungeon, always awake and waiting.

Yet, Areadbhar reminded him of Father. Tall and proud, scary but warm. Powerful but merciful in his own way. 

Areadbhar meant death, and his father...did, too.

Amidst the empty silence, Dimitri heard whispers. Tiny, quick hushes, all coming from the skull’s direction. Hesitant, the prince carefully made his way back to the imposing figure, and pressed his ear against the bone.

「  𝖨 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾. 𝖨𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌: 𝖮𝖻𝖾𝗒 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝗂𝖾.

𝖶𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗌.  」

From the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of striking blues- then the world went dark.

Later that day, Areadbhar had been delivered to his room as a gift from the royal court and his uncle, its grotesque blade buried in its soft cyan sheath, almost giving it a harmless look.

He still felt eyes on him, but those weren’t from the ghosts.

Dimitri has acquired: Areadbhar!

[sebastianshaw]

House of M fic

( @sammysdewysensitiveeyes  @the-home-kvetch Toad has a cameo in the second section and Pyro in the third. They basically disappear after that, though, then reappear at the very end for a brief but heroic mention , so if you only want to read those parts I shan’t be offended! I read a lot of stuff only for my own faves and then tap out, lol! The Gai are not Marvel canon. I needed some Generic Alien Invaders, so that’s what I came up with!) “So, now that you’ve seen what A.I.M. can truly do. . . can I count on your continued support?” Dr. Monica Rappaccini knew that she had taken a big risk bring a civilian to their Australian base and revealing so much of their operation here. But this civilian, a Ms. Radha Dastoor, given the moniker “Haven” years ago for her good deeds, had the same goals as her---human liberation from the boot of mutantkind. And what set Haven apart from so many other “sapiens” who wished the same was her resources; the woman was ridiculously rich. She’d already been a generous donator to A.I.M’s more. .  .legitimate faces, mainly concerning supplying disenfranchised human communities with medicine, clean water, and access to education. And some of her gifts had gone to these, as had been promised, but many had actually been funneled to A.I.M itself for its more. . .radical usage. Indeed, Monica was willing to bet a fair few pieces in this very facility were purchased indirectly by the unwitting Ms. Dastoor. But she wasn’t unwitting anymore. Monica’s agents had been easing her into more and more illicit aspects of their activism. While she didn’t seem ready to condone violence, she had expressed that she did not condemn it in an oppressed people either, just has she not condemned mutantkind for the same before the world’s tables had turned. Monica felt in this woman a kindred spirit, someone who wanted to even the balance, to help the helpless, and who, despite her pacifist demeanor, understood more deeply than she let on that breaking--or blowing up---a few eggs was a necessary ingredient in that omelette. She just couldn’t say so publicly, or the Red Guard would have her head in a second. Even her peaceful, benign activism surely had her on a few watchlists just because of how prominent she was. But here, she could speak freely. And Monica thought she knew what she would say. Monica thought wrong. Now, if Haven had had something affecting her mind, say a demonic entity of evil and chaos speaking to her at the most vulnerable moment of her life, Monica might have more than likely swayed her. But being in a stable mental state — “I am truly sorry, Dr. Rappaccini,” she said, and to her credit she did look it, “But I cannot be party to this methods. I understand the desperation that has driven you to them, and I even admire the---” “How can you say that?” Monica demanded, “After all I have shown you?!” “It is because you have shown me, Dr. Rappaccini, that I--” Haven was cut off again---this time by the klaxon alarm blaring throughout the building. ***

The Red Guard was storming the base. The technological hurdles had been considerable to get over, but once those were overcome by the tech division---S.H.I.E.L.D’S mutant technopaths helped considerably with that---the sheer physical power of the agents was practically bulldozing the poor A.I.M guards. Agent “Toad” Toynbee used his agility to spring off the walls and land on the agents shoulders, jumping from on to the other, knocking them off balance with each landing, allowing his fellow agents to hit them while they were distracted. His comrade and friend Agent “Nightcrawler” Darkholme used his teleportation to scout ahead, Agent “Marrow” Rushman punctured organs and blocked guns by firing bone spikes right up the weaponry barrels, while Agent “Rogue” Darkholme and Agent “Diamond Lil” Crawley simply barreled and brawled their way through every body in their path like the bruisers they were.  “Too easy!” Crawley bragged as she slugged one of the guards, who had practically been propelled into her fist by the thrust of Toad’s feet.  “Precisely”, concurred Director Shaw gruffly, and he grabbed the nearest scientist before the cowering woman could flee. They were deep in enough that the brains the operation were starting to be sighted between the garish yellow A.I.M. suits. And unlike those suits, the white coats over office casual clothes worn by the scientists exposed skin. Just hands and faces, the occasional legs from beneath a mid-length sensible skirt, but that was more than enough. “Agent Darkholme,” he said, and though he did not specify WHICH Darkholme he meant, Rogue knew it was her. She removed a glove and brushed a single finger against the woman’s whimpering face for the briefest of moments. If Shaw wasn’t telling her to dig deep, that meant she didn’t have to, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to go sucking someone’s whole psyche into hers just for fun. But she got enough to confirm what Shaw was suspecting---a trap. “We gotta get out, y’all!” she exclaimed, the whites of her eyes widening, “If someone gets past the guards, there’s orders to blow the place to kingdom co---” *** The clearing that had once been green and dotted with trees was now scorched black, dotted with flaming wreckage of what had once been the AIM base and the bloodied, moaning remains of what had once been its members. “Save any survivors you can!” Shaw barked, “We need them for interrogation! And Allerdyce, get out here and get the fires under control! This is potoroo country!” Shaw, Rogue, and Crawley all possessed mutations that allowed them to survive the blast, allowing Nightcrawler to only need to get Toad, Marrow, and Pyro out, which he could do in one trip, albeit an exhausting one, and on to the safety of their jet. Thus, they were all safe, though Darkholme was winded and done for the day. Hearing Shaw’s command over his earpiece, Agent St. John “Pyro” Allerdyce made a swift thanks to his teammate and ran out to push the flames back from touching the rest of the forest. Potoroos were a protected species, and their safety was of utmost importance in the House of M! Meanwhile, Rogue and Crawley dug through the wreckage, the former tossing car-sized hunks of metal aside like pillows and the latter just punching a path through it, as Marrow pinned down anyone who attempted to flee using bone spears---through their clothes, since Shaw insisted on them alive—and Toad tripped them up with his tongue before pulling them back so their leader could place them in cuffs. “That’s all of them!” the amphibious mutant proclaimed proudly as the last yellow-suited AIM member—the last MOVING one, anyway---was hauled into the jet. “Clear out then” Shaw ordered, surveying the scene a final time. Something caught his eye. “Wait---Allerdyce! Those flames there, in the center---get them somewhere else, there’s someone caught in the center!” “Get them somewhere else, he says, like I can just freaking teleport them or some shit,” Pyro muttered, but he cleared the flames, revealing indeed something who had been surrounded by them. It was a wonder that her long hair and salwar kameez---yes, Pyro know the term for it, thank you---hadn’t been caught alight, but more miraculous by far was the way the wreckage encased her in such a way that she had been protected from harm. She just also couldn’t get out. Not on her own, anyway. Shaw strode towards her, flanked by the flames that Pyro had pushed aside Moses-style. He took the cage apart carefully, knowing that pulling out the wrong piece could bring the whole thing crashing down on the woman inside. It wouldn’t have mattered much to him if this had just been another AIM flunkie; they had more than enough for the Psy Division to scan for intel. But this woman. . . he recognized her, and he didn’t know what she was doing here---though he had a hunch---and he wasn’t about to let her be hurt. Not until he had the full story. “Don’t try anything, dirtbag!” Marrow hollered, coming to Shaw’s side as the last of the metal prison was removed from the soon-to-be prisoner, bones ready to hurl should she make one move that the mutants didn’t like. “That won’t be necessary, Agent Rushman,” said Shaw calmly, not looking away from the woman, to whom he reached out a hand, “Can you stand? Please, let me help you. There we are. Lean on me. We’ll have you treated for any injuries immediately. And. . . Radha Dastoor, it is my duty to inform you, that you are under arrest.” *** The AIM prisoners had been brought in, read their rights---such as their were---and the charges brought against them, given their prison jumpsuits, and put in holding awaiting prosecution after the Psi Division got through them. That was what counted for interrogation these days. The crude, ineffective ways of sapien grilling and guesswork were over. But Director Shaw still speaking with one of them personally. Just one. “Our telepaths confirm your story, Ms. Dastoor,” he said. The pair of them were seated on either side of a table. Shaw was still in his uniform. . . Haven, in her newly issued one. Orange was a good color on her, though perhaps not fitting in this amount. She was cuffed as per protocol, and while Shaw did things by the book, his eye twitched slightly at the sheer absurdity of it. But he did not remove them. He didn’t get where he was by making exceptions.  “We know you were not knowingly in league with Dr. Rappaccini,” he continued, “But we also know that you did knowingly aid and abet several illicit activities.” “Yes,” Haven replied calmly, with neither coldness nor defiance, but nor any submission or remorse, “I did.” It was matter of fact, and perfectly polite.  “Your forthcomingness strengthens the decision I’ve made,” he said, his own voice also matter of fact, though his was more frank and detached, “To advocate for leniency in your case. You have been cooperative, you have denied nothing---as some people do even when faced with their own memories as evidence---and, as noted, you were not involved in Rappaccini or AIM’s terrorist activities. Your crimes, rather, have been more along the lines of providing funds, food, and medicines to, say, illegal protestors. Given your history, I am inclined to believe you will not escalate to more extreme measures, and should not be considered a public threat.” “I appreciate that, Director Shaw.” “It’s not a gift, Ms. Dastoor. Merely my professional opinion.” “Nonetheless, I do.” “I do have to ask you now, because you will be asked on the stand---once you have served your time and are duly released, will you cease in all such activities?” “No, Director Shaw.” There was a long, grim silence. “Ms. Dastoor, I cannot give you my recommendation for a reduced sentence if I believe that you will re-offend.” “It would be very disrespectful of me to lie to you now, Director Shaw, just to help myself, after you have shown me such goodwill.” “There will be no goodwill, Ms. Dastoor, if you do not.” The conversation didn’t last long after that. He soon escorted her back to her cell. A private one, to protect her from the AIM prisoners. “You can ask the guards from anything within reason and it will be provided to you if possible. if you feel you have been mistreated in any way, get word to me and something will be done about it if your claim proves true. Shaw wasn’t bending any rules for her. None of this was outside the law, or even a gray area. It just wasn’t something he had ever told any prisoner short of the occasional foreign royal who had fucked up but still had to be handled with care to avoid political disaster.  As Haven started to thank him for the courtesy, an alarmed voice called over the intercom, ”Director Shaw---the AIM prisoners! They’re all dead!” *** The one person that hadn’t been recovered from the base was the real prize---Monica Rappaccini herself. The assumption of SHIELD was that she had escaped before setting off the blast; the idea she’d simply been blown to pieces was too optimistic.  In fact, neither was the case. Monica had a much safer plan than escaping the building---she’d stayed in it. More specifically, in a blast-proof container specifically survived to withstand it, which dropped down a shoot far underground where the bomb wouldn’t reach it anyway, and she wouldn’t be found by the accursed Red Guard. The fools---they hadn’t brought a psychic to sweep for any minds missing, but it wouldn’t have mattered, the tech was telepath-proof too. If only they could do that for the entire place, but alas, it was difficult, tricky, tended to only work on a small scale. But that was enough for her. Once the danger had passed, Monica emerged and got in contact with her best agent---Thasanee Rapaccini, aka the Scorpion. Monica’s daughter. In another world, her name was Carmilla Black and she worked for SHIELD, against her own mother! But in this world, Monica had raised her, and raised her well. She was a (mostly, usually, except for a hiccup) loyal agent to AIM and mommy dearest, and she wanted to see the mutant tyranny she’d grown up under fall as much as Monica did.  But, like all teenagers, she could be a bit rebellions. Like questioning her mother. Something Monica would never have allowed her to do and survive if she hadn’t been her own preciously bio-engineered flesh and blood. ”Is that really necessary, mother?” Thasanee asked when given her new mission, ”They’ve already psy-scanned all the agents by now for sure anyway. What are they going to get from that lady’s mouth that they didn’t get from our guy’s brains?” ”It’s not about containing information,” Monica explained, ”It’s about public opinion. Haven can do more damage to us now than Magneto himself. She’s well-respected by the rest of the humans rights activist movement and even by many mutants. If she publicly denounces our cause, it will rob us of countless new recruits, funding, everything. She’s the most dangerous threat of all---a moderate. Do you see now? They’ll offer her a deal--leniency for collaborating with us, so long as she denounces A.I.M and everything we stand for. And people, even those who share our goals, our beliefs, will listen.” ”You really think she would?” Thasanee asked “I mean, all that good stuff she did for humans. . . maybe she’s just not cut out for our work. You’ve said yourself not everyone is. But that doesn’t mean she’d hang us out to dry.” ”I wish I had your faith in people,” Monica sighed, and it was true. She certainly wished she could be certain that Radha Dastoor wouldn’t do exactly that. But, she’d been so sure that Haven, who shared her cause, would join her and begin providing direct funding, and she couldn’t have been more wrong about that. So she couldn’t take a chance on Radha here either. ”And listen,” Thasanee continued, “If you’re worried about us looking bad, won’t we look WORSE if we kill her? I think that’s what REALLY would get people mad at us! Our own allies too! ”Thasanee,” Monica’s voice turned sweet, cajoling, truly motherly, as she put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and looked loving into the girl’s green eyes, ”My beloved child. I know this is difficult to understand. But Radha Dastoor dying mysteriously while in S.H.I.E.L.D custody would be very, very good for our cause. A peaceful activist, a nonviolent offender, a model moderate. . .and after her arrest by the Red Guard, who claim such a person was in cahoots with a terrorist organization, she dies while in their hands, and they try to blame that same organization? My dear. . .connect the dots the way the Average Joe would, and see what conclusion it brings you. The kind that makes the opposition look like the monsters we know they are.” Thasanee was a clever child, and she clearly got exactly what her mother was saying. Her conflict was clear on her face, her lip twisting in thought, her eyes flitting doubtfully downwards. But she reached the right answer, as Monica knew she would. ”I’ll do it, mother. You can count on me.” *** ”So what happened to them?” Jessica Drew asked as Agent Darkholme---Mystique, who had not been on the earlier mission---returned from attending to the matter of the AIM agents dropping dead. ”Chemical implant,” Mystique replied, “Rappaccini must have put it in them when they joined up with AIM. Probably to “motivate” them if they ever get cold feet. Or, in this case, fail her by getting captured.” ”G’awful way t’go,” Rogue shuddered. Whenever she had any doubts about what the Red Guard did, people like AIM reminded her who the good guys were. ”What I wanna know,” said Agent Crawley, “is who is this Dastoor broad, that she gets the royal treatment from Sebastian Stick-Up-His-Ass Shaw?” ”No idea,” Rogue said, putting her cooling coffee to her lips. “Before your time, daughter,” Mystique explained, ”Back when mutants were actively oppressed by humanity, before the rise of Emperor Magnus, Radha “Haven” Dastoor was one of the few sapiens on our side.” ”Our side?” Rogue looked intrigued. ”A sapien?” Crawley looked doubtful.  ”Oh, she didn’t go all out for us, not by a long shot,” Mystique scoffed, “Don’t get the wrong idea---she was a peaceful protester. Didn’t get anything done. But. . .she did reach a lot of her own kind, or try. And ran with a very upscale crowd, so there was. . . influence, I suppose. Ran some shelters and such.” The blue-skinned woman sniffed slightly, torn between wanting to give credit where credit was due, but also not wanting to oversell the woman as a saint when she’d barely done the bare minimum in Raven’s view. ”Anyway. Now that the tables have turned, so has she. She’s all about her OWN kind’s rights now. As if things are as bad for them as it was for us. Ha! Not even on our best day back then, were we ever treated with the grace that Magnus has granted THEM. But trust a human to not even be able to stomach a DILUTED taste of their own medicine. She shrugged her azure shoulders, “But since Director Shaw is old enough to remember her work---such as it was---I suppose he thinks she’s earned some professional courtesy. And he is, after all, nothing if not professional.” *** As promised, Haven was well treated while she was held at the Australian S.H.I.E.L.D base. She would be taken to Genosha to stand trial tomorrow, but in the meantime. . .  In the meantime, Thasanee Rappaccini had spent all evening infiltrating the base successfully without setting off any alarm to her presence. It was no mean feat, as one might imagine, but she had been trained for this from birth. Not infiltration specifically, but anything and everything relevant to taking down Magnus’s mutant-supremascist empire. And, much like how many unlucky souls never noticed a scorpion in their shoe before it was too late, this Scorpion had creeped in subtle as a shadow, unheard and unseen and undetected by man, mutant, or machine. And now. . .now she had a clear shot with her Stinger, as she called her left arm from which she fired energy bolts containing concentrated toxins. Like the Rappccini’s daughter of myth, Thasanee was literally poisonous. Yeah, she was pretty sure her mother hadn’t been born with that surname.   Haven didn’t even notice as the slim girl slid into the room. She was busy tending to a flower in a pot, to Thasanee’s surprise. Who had given her that? Scorpion had expected to find the captive in chains, not--- BOOM! CRASH! The entire base rocked as Scorpion’s eardrums rang, and it wasn’t just shock that made it difficult for her to keep her balance.  Thas had a clear shot, not for any gun but her Stinger; the name she had given her left arm, from which she fired the accumulation of toxins and poisons her naturally immune body stored in her left lymph node. Then crash that rattled entire base. A klaxon began to sound, reminding her unpleasantly of the one that had blared throughout the AIM base before its destruction. Yells, shouts, and more smashes reached her ears through the alarm as well. Thasanee had just enough time to wonder if her mother had sent Adaptoids to attack the place before one of the hulking culprits burst through the wall, sending Thasanee leaping into the hiding among the dust and debris; she could hear Haven cough from the same, but, she noted, the woman never screamed. Odd. Maybe she was too petrified too. She’d seemed like such a refined ladylike priss, Thas would have thought--- The Gai. That’s what was causing all this. Thas had encountered them a few times before. They were alien invaders, huge and monstrous, looked part insect and part reptile with a turtle-like shell from which their six limbs extended. Some wore additional hi-tech battle armor but this one was bare. All of them were the same thought; they didn’t care who they killed, only that they killed everyone. Human or mutant, warrior or prisoner, all Earthlings were the same to them. Something to be wiped out. Why, no one knew yet; telepaths couldn’t get in their heads and they were seldom in the mood to talk, though Haven seemed to be trying as the beast advanced. Thas was about to--- BONK! It was an almost comical sound, followed by a crack, as the force from Director Shaw’s fist collided with the stone-like shell of the Gai and, a moment after impact, splintered it.  Where did he come from?! Scorpion wondered, then saw he must have rushed in after it through the hole it left, then leaped on to its back to strike his blow. And then another. And another. He was hitting it with every step he made over its back, but once he got to its head, it tossed him like a rodeo rider being thrown from a bull before he could punch its ugly skull in. Scorpion wasn’t sure who she was rooting for.  Shaw was launched into the bars of Haven’s cell, and they bent in under the force of his indestructible body like overcooked noodles. Haven, luckily for her, had moved out of the way, and he wasted no time getting in front of her as the Gai advanced. Scorpion wasn’t sure how smart the Gai were--no one knew if they were sapient beings or merely mindless drones sent down to fight by a greater intelligence---but she for one thought it must be thinking how convenient it was that Shaw had taken down this obstacle for it.  Until he wrenched off the end of a bar and impaled it through the Gai’s bulbous multifaceted left eye. However alien this creature might be, it had a commonality with most beings on Earth, which was that getting a long sharp metal rod jammed into your skull was an unpleasant sensation, and the Gai responded in kind, reeling back and . . .shrieking? Scorpion wasn’t sure that was the right word for it. She wasn’t sure there was a word to describe it. Like all the sound files in the world glitching at once. She had to cover her ears, but Shaw was apparently part deaf---it was the only explanation---because he didn’t even pause as he grabbed Haven and ran. Scorpion was fairly sure he didn’t see her on the way out though; the Director clearly had bigger things on his mind. Like the Gai, which was more dangerous than ever as it thrashed around in pain. Scorpion supposed to humane thing was to put it out of its misery. . . not to mention, it’d be valuable to know how susceptible they were to poison. . .  But she had a target already, and it had just breezed by her in a bright orange jumpsuit. No time for mercy kills; Scorpion followed them.  She didn’t notice who was following her too.  *** Shaw lead Haven at a rapid pace through the sleek corporate-esque hallways of the building, which were even more rapidly being destroyed. They dodged the claws of more Gai, huge chunks of falling walls and ceilings, sprays of crumbling dust that she might inhale. . . or rather, Shaw dodged the claws and dragged Haven with him, shielded her with his force-absorbing body from the falling walls and ceilings, and commanded her to hold her breath through the crumbling dust from the destruction. He faced a few more Gai on the way out, and while hurting them was easy once they provided him with enough energy, keeping Haven safe---his priority---was difficult to do in tandem. But Shaw was professional, and Shaw was experienced, and Shaw not only got her out alive, she didn’t have a scratch on her. “Everyone good?” he said into his ear piece as he steered Haven towards the door that would lead them out at last. In addition to guarding her, he’d been guiding the Red Guard and the rest of the personnel as best he could over the communicator. “I’m getting the prisoner secured, after that we can---hello?! Over?! Over?!” The line had gone dead. It could be an accident during the destruction. But Shaw wasn’t sure about that. He’d figure it out soon. Getting Radha Dastoor to safety came first though. And he believed he had succeeded. They made it out the front doors, to the jet, into the jet--- And then Shaw cried out and fell to the floor, green toxic energy crackling around him. Not the kind he could absorb, either----it was pure concentrated poison. Scorpion stepped out of the shadows. “Took you long enough, old man,” she said, “I made it out way sooner. Of course. . .” Her eyes traveled to Haven, her real target. “. . .I didn’t have a load to carry. You must be tired from that; please, don’t get up.” She fired another blast into Shaw, who had been rising to his feet, despite the fact the first should have been enough to kill him.  Haven cried out this time in front of Shaw, throwing herself in front of his fallen form, begging Thasanee to stop. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to you,” Scorpion assured her,  “But before I do, I want to know one thing from him.” She addressed Shaw again, “Why has a mutant fascist pig like you been risking your life to defend a human? I saw you in there. You protected her. Why? Is it because of what she used to do for you guys? Has she been a double agent all along? Is she really a mutant?”

“Because. . . “ Shaw croaked, using all the strength he had left just to lift his head as Haven knelt down beside him, “She. . . is the State’s prisoner. And I. . . am a representive of the State. Of SHIELD. Of Emperor Magnus. It is my duty. . .to protect those in our custody.” He took a moment to breathe, and then continued, less labored this time, but still unable to do more than speak. “I find her activism sentimental soft-minded tripe, and I will see her stand trial for the parts of it that break the law---but I shall NOT see her harmed while she is still my responsibility. Not by the Gai, and nor by YOU.” “Wow,” Scorpion said, and she was genuinely impressed,  “Ok, so----I don’t take back that you’re a mutant fascist pig, but you’re a mutant fascist pig with some honor. Not gonna lie---I’m surprised. Enough that I’ll let you in one something before you die---I’m not going to kill her.” Both Shaw and Haven looked shocked. “Yeah,” Scorpion said, and answered the question she knew they must have, “My mom wants her dead, and I was sent to do that, but like. . .I’m just going to fake her death, get her out of here, set her up somewhere. That way--” She turned her gaze specifically to Haven,  “That way, you can’t denounce us---if that was ever even your plan---without A.I.M knowing you’re alive and killing you for real, so you won’t, right? And I don’t have to kill you for something you haven’t even done, and maybe were never going to. Everybody wins. I mean, except grandpa there, but I count wiping out one more SHIELD fucker---the Director, no less!---a win. Talk about cutting the head from the snake; he’s one step from Emperor Magnus himself!” “I wish I could be proud of you for this, daughter.” As if she had teleported, Monica Rappapccini appeared before her daughter. Who, judging by her reaction, had NOT been expecting this. ”Invisibility device,” Monica tapped a metal bracelet on her wrist, “I’ve been by your side this whole time. And you were doing so well, too. . . .up until now.” She sighed, “I know adolescence is a time to question authority but  you have to follow orders even if you find them difficult. That’s really more what this has been than anything---a test to see how far out of line you’ve fallen. The scientist in me, always having to test a hypothesis before I consider it proven. “ “Well, consider it proven, Mom!” Thasanee barked back, her feelings akin to how a normal teenager might react to finding out her parent had been in her room, “Now what! Going to kill ME too?” “Don’t be silly, you’re far too valuable,” Monica tssked, “As are these two as hostages. Dastoor for her money, Shaw for his political worth to the House of Magnus and SHIELD---much as I truly would love to slaughter him in so many ways. Indeed, I think I might just do that anyway once he’s served his purpose. He deserves it. Do you know how many people he has---” And that was when Exodus, Toad, and Pyro teleported onboard and saved the day. They made short work of Dr. Rappaccini, but alas, Scorpion got away. Shaw made a full recovery after receiving medical aid. And Ms. Dastoor awaits trial for her crimes. 

[dottiechan]

Tempest (Pt. 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5  

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 1950

Warnings: gay pining, denial of romatic feelings none

Summary: Ava waits for the private detective to arrive while pondering their relationship. (1890s AU)

A/N: I am plagued by the late Victorian AU and Miss Du Mortain, so this happened. I wrote the detective as a female private detective, but other than that I have not specified any details about her. It also passes as a reader insert fic! (You can check out the full art here.)

Ava watches the grey sky as it persistently batters the window with rain, the small streaks on the glass pane casting lines on her handsome face that could be mistaken for tears by someone who doesn’t know her. Anyone who does know her knows that she’d sooner shed her blood than her tears. That is just the way she is. The way she likes to be thought of. The only way she is truly safe.

The heavens have let loose, and god is baring his teeth. And Ava just stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of her trousers, gazing out into the busy street as still and cold as the marble statues dotting the hallway. But only on the outside. Because inside of her, there is a storm to match the tempest that assails the city.

She is agitated the moment an image of her slips into her mind, and she begins chewing on the inside of her cheek when she realises that every minute the private detective isn’t in her sight, she is losing her mind. The nervous gesture is soon quelled by hundreds of years of self-discipline, and is replaced by her signature frown, lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles running along her jawbone tensing under her opaque skin. She is... mortal, she wants to think. Fragile. Unimportant. A job.

But she is also everything.

Which is why she must sever her ties to the woman before the job is over, otherwise the eternity to come will turn into hell on earth without her. Ava deserves hell, she knows that. Not that she believes in the devil, but the sharpness of his pitchfork and the heat of hellfire are sensations not unfamiliar to her. Eternal damnation is just guilt and anger and fear hiding in Satan’s clothing. But she can’t even begin to assign words to the kind of torture a world without her would mean. Ava’s ever so logical mind paralyses in terror at the thought of existing in a time when she isn’t.

She inhales sharply - even brushing the surface of the topic causes so much pain to course through her whole being that she needs to focus on something else - anything else - to continue functioning. So she listens to Nate’s soothing voice as he discusses myths with the professor down the hall. She registers the footsteps of people mulling about the museum on the floor below, the idle chatter of ladies clad in expensive dresses, the booming voices of three men arguing over the origin of a painting in the first hall. She turns her piercing attention on the street now, listening to the sounds of horses and vendors and street urchins, feeling thankful to the steady rain for considerably dulling the sharp tang of the muddy streets in her nostrils. She pulls out her pocket watch then, the ticking matching her now once more steady heartbeat.

The detective isn’t late yet, though she has a feeling that she will be, with the rain clogging the streets with carriages and hansoms as it usually does, especially at such a lively hour in the late morning. Ava wonders what she will wear, how her hair will be styled. She wants the rain to kiss her face, she wants the wind to rake its fingers through her tightly pinned up hair and loosen some strands from their captivity. She wants the warmth of the museum building to engulf her once she steps inside, bringing a rush of blood to her cold cheeks. She wants all this and more, for her own body must stay still for everyone’s sake, thus leaving her to live through the rain, and the wind, and the warmth of the radiators, her own fingers and lips and skin left yearning for a sensation she must deny herself.

Her daydreaming is cut short when two men pass her by, throwing her wide-eyed stares as they clutch their books to their chests and mutter quiet greetings to her. Students of the professor, no doubt, and shocked to their very core by the sight of a woman in trousers easily towering above them. It fills Ava with a savage sort of satisfaction before her insecurities - awakened by the private detective’s appearance in her life - creep up on her. It has never been particularly acceptable for a woman to wear men’s clothing throughout history, and 1896 is no exception. Then again, Ava has never been particularly bothered by this expectation, so it has all been well. Until now, when she begins to wonder if the detective likes this. She has commended her on her bravery before, and agreed with her choice of clothing because of its practicality, but that is hardly an admission of approval or attraction. And besides, she seems to favour dresses herself, even if she is nowhere nearly as extravagant or tightly laced as the dames of the decade. Admittedly, the detective’s pulse always picks up when they speak, especially alone, and her pupils are blown when she catches her staring but...

“I’ve got what we came for... and more,” Nate speaks with quiet excitement as he stalks up to her by the window, and Ava forces herself to look at her friend, hands balling into fists in her pockets. She had been so absorbed in thoughts of the private detective that she almost didn’t notice Nate at all until he reached her.

Pathetic. She needs to focus.

There’s a supernatural on the loose, murdering in the streets of London, and she is thinking about whether or not a mortal woman likes her choice of clothing. She takes the folder Nate hands her, and pries it open to reveal several new pages filled with his neat handwriting. At least their initial hunch has been correct - they’re definitely something corporeal that can pass off as a human, and now thanks to Nate’s research, they’re all but confirmed to have come from Scandinavia originally. And yet it doesn’t help her ease her mind that she knows what they could possibly be - after all, they’re out for the detective by the Agency’s estimate.

“Could it be a dark elf?” she mutters, blonde brows furrowed as she skims through the pages.

“Dökkálfar. My thought exactly,” her friend nods, pleased that Ava has come to the same conclusion.

“Haven’t seen one of those in... well, in a very long time.”

Nate’s shoulders sag a little as his initial enthusiasm ebbs. “I suppose we are about to face one again.”

She wants to reprimand Nate for forgetting the real objective of their mission - it’s protection, after all, not hunting down a rogue. But she thinks of the detective again, a woman so unique and individualistic in a world that tries so hard to oppress her along with her ambitions, and she knows she won’t be able to rest until the threat to her life is no more. It’s her duty, she reasons meekly against the swell of affection filling her chest and pushing against her skin, threatening to crack the solid marble of her stoic facade. But she knows a lie when she hears one. She suddenly thinks of last year, Paris, the Louvre. Nike of Samothrace. The statue of the Winged Victory. Headless, and yet still the symbol of triumph. She has lost her common sense ever since she started working with the detective, but she knows she must win as well, because if she fails... Well, she dare not even think about the consequences it would have on her.

And above all, she must remain as cold to the touch as that carefully carved block of marble.

“I wish we could tell her,” her friend presses on gently, concern and guilt marring the edges of the soft curve of his long lips.

“It’s better this way. Safer,” she croaks, hating the way her voice softens and breaks mid-sentence.

“Safer for whom, I wonder?” Nate sighs, taking the folder Ava hands him and closes it with delicate fingers before leaning against the wall next to her. She hasn’t even realised she sought to support of the wooden panelled hallway until Nate mimicked her movement absent-mindedly.

“What do you mean?”

“Safer for her...” he sighs before glancing at Ava with sad eyes, “or safer for us?”

She averts her eyes, her long ignored self-loathing clawing its way up from the deepest pits of her mind before she clenches her jaw. “For all parties involved.”

But mostly for me, she admits to herself inwardly. The lie obscures her true nature, and she revels in it for once. She doesn’t know what she’d do if the detective flinched away from her in fear instead of being drawn to her like a moth to a flame in the middle of a heavy summer night. For the past 800 years, she thought of herself as nothing but an agent, an element operating in the shadows, making the world a less dangerous place. She hunted her emotions and burned them at the stake, but this witch hunt can only go on for so long without consequences. She always thought of herself as a vampire first and foremost, her base nature being a bloodthirsty monster, but she was human before that. And she’s never felt more human than now. Probably not even when she actually was one.

And that is a terrifying thought to live with, especially when its source is so easily pinpointed. Her. It’s all on her.

“So we lie once more?” Nate sighs, breaking the silence and drawing her attention outwards once more.

“Yes,” she states firmly, the word feeling strangely sour in her mouth. “We tell her this was a dead end. She doesn’t need to know anything else. The Agency, on the other hand, needs to be brought up to speed. Will you do it?”

“I’ll brief them,” Nate nods, pushing himself away from the wall before straightening down his coat. “I suppose that leaves you with watching her?”

“Yes,” Ava speaks through gritted teeth, ignoring the heat crawling up her neck at the thought of being alone with the woman. Her reaction to the detective is unbearable, and yet she brings it upon herself like a masochist inviting the pain. She doesn’t understand why she does it, and yet she has no will to stop.

A nod, retreating footsteps, and Nate is no longer to be seen or heard, not even by her eyes and ears. She slips out her watch from her pocket once more and flips the silver lid open - she is late. Her heartbeat turns into a wild galloping crescendo when she hears a familiar voice on the street though, her heart’s rhythm no longer matching the steady ticking of the pocket watch as it did before.

Ava stares as she exits the hansom with a graceful ease that should be categorised as a criminal offence, wet pieces of stray hairs sticking to her delightful face as she rushes across the street with a purpose that almost leaves her breathless.

She wants to catch the killer, she tells herself. That’s all she wants and nothing more.

Yet as she moves swiftly towards the staircase, unable to wait for her in one place, and wanting, no, needing to see her as soon as possible, deep down Ava hopes the detective is just as eager to be with her as she is.

And then at the very last moment, right before they’re about to come face to face, she schools her features into a blank expression, a great lie of a tabula rasa, her face hardening like sculpted marble - commanding, ancient, beautiful, but so, so cold.

[zoaele]

People don’t realize just how hard it is to kill a god. In fact, most of the time, they tend to underestimate the sheer scale of difficulty the act has.

Imagine the hardest thing you can think of off the top of your head. Now think of something harder. Harder. Harder. Now look up some of the hardest things you can do. Take all of them, and all of the things you thought of before, and combine them. Now double it. Triple it. Now take the difficulty of some of the hardest struggles in life—poverty, starvation, oppression—and add then, before quadrupling it. Now take the hardest acts of your favorite heroes, multiply it by ten, and add that to the mix.

What you’ve just made isn’t anywhere near a fraction of the difficulty of killing a god.

And that, Ulkiyos, the God of Food, thought, as he watched his sister destroy the army attempting to kill her, is why you all have failed.

Ulkiyos and Enyuwe, the Goddess of Death, seemed to make an odd pair at first glance. But when one considered just how connected the matter of putting food on the table was to living life, it wasn’t really so odd after all. Food wasn’t really just about the concept of food, or different kinds of food, or feasts and the culinary arts. It was about so much more than that, about so many things that could affect life in so many ways.

For one, Food was about harvests. It was about famine. It was about the surplus that some cities had and that some cities had not. It was about the distribution of food, whether kings hoarded most of it or if some nobles had shortages in their fiefdoms.

So when Enyuwe heard of a group of mortals raising an army to kill her to eliminate death completely, she sought out Ulkiyos for help. And Ulkiyos obliged her wholeheartedly.

First, what Ulkiyos did was mostly subtle. He sent a few extra locusts to chew at some of the staple crops in one part of the kingdom that year. He sent new plagues to affect other crops in another part of the kingdom. He made sure that the cities ruled by people who opposed the forming army got a little bit extra on their plate, while nobles who had sent soldiers to back them had a little bit less. Ulkiyos made sure those men were consistently plagued by lost deliveries of food and other supplies, leaving their bellies empty and minds malcontent.

Ulkiyos then went to another on his pantheon—Maltas, the God of Rumors. He had Maltas sow the seeds of discord among the army’s ranks, causing arguments to be that much fiercer, training sessions to push that much further, causing fights to break out and get just a little bit closer to becoming death matches out of frustration. Eventually, the higher-ups in the group cracked down, the founding leaders delivering speeches on cooperation and camaraderie.

But, by that point, the resentment had taken hold, and the leaders did the work for them by brewing more resentment from the way their speech had been perceived.

There was a takeover attempt within the month. The infighting was eventually quelled, but the damage was done. The immortality-seekers had already lost many soldiers from the lack of food, and they lost many more from the rebellion within their ranks. They began recruitment campaigns, seeking out more people to fight with, and Ulkiyos lessened his touch just a bit.

Enyuwe, for her part, worked together with Maltas to create doubt in the immortality-seekers’ army. There had been a strong army once, was there not? They should have already recruited enough, why the need for more? Why did these soldiers’ faces look so gaunt, so sullen, and what about those rumors of infighting and death among their ranks? Yes, these people—they look half-dead already. Maybe nobody should join, after all. Maybe nobody should join.

They couldn’t prevent everyone from joining, but enough were warded off. The army had far less men than they did at their peak, but the founding leaders were running out of time. They instead began prepping, and Ulkiyos fashioned things so it looked like a better turn had come over them.

Food that was sparse once was now coming in just fine. There was less discontent within the ranks, training sessions weren’t going too far out of misplaced anger, no one was whispering poison into people’s ears. Nobody was dying, for any reason at all.

The army got close to it’s goal.

And then, Ulkiyos struck.

Food poisoning, just before the big fight. Men and women alike were sick, a bad shipment of food having come in. This made the men sluggish in their training, some too weak to get out of bed, and some died from the kinds of diseases that had been packed in with the spoilage. Resentment and rumor spread through the soldiers like breeding rabbits, and in the week before they were to set out to fight Enyuwe, all was hell.

Finally, finally, the time came. Enyuwe faced the immortality-seekers down at her full power, while the army was at less then half of theirs. The soldiers were tired, sick, weak, and frustrated. With all the difficulties that came before, there was no way they could ever have been prepared to fight a goddess at her fullest strength. No mortal ever would be prepared for that, whether they were weakened or not, but the actions Ulkiyos, Maltas, and Enyuwe had taken before made it that much worse.

When Enyuwe fought, she was a dancer on the battlefield. Her steps were lithe, graceful, and each swing of her scythe brought death upon all those who faced it, whether they were directly in its path or not. Blood ran and fed the ground, dirt kicked up and flew into the air, the miasma of decay choked the life out of the dying, including those who didn’t quite realize they were dying yet. Enyuwe was brilliance and horror and tragedy and awe, while the soldiers who fought were little more than scraps of meat for her to tear through.

At last, the dust cleared, and the dead scattered the ground. Enyuwe left the leaders of this operation alive, walking calmly to them and lifting their chins with her blade. “Do you know why you failed?” she asked, voice clear and profound like the chiming of a funeral bell.

“We—we weren’t ready,” one of the army’s leaders said—an elven woman who had far less to fear from death than any of the humans within their ranks. “We should have prepared more, should have taken care of supplies better, should have stopped the infighting sooner—”

“No. That isn’t why.” Enyuwe stepped back, looking over all of the gathered leaders. “You failed because you were arrogant enough to think you could do something at all. That your actions could change things, that you could get away with challenging a goddess and win, that you would not face resistance to this idea and that I would not hear of it.

“And, for that matter,” Enyuwe smiled, and Ulkiyos materialized beside his sister. Maltas took the other side, grossing his arms and giving an easy grin. “You were under the impression that I would only ever work alone.”

The dawning horror on the mortal’s faces was delightful. Enyuwe laughed, taking her scythe into her hands, and then beheaded them all with one final swing.

[lo-55]

Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 8

Not Yet Too Late

 When they are tossed unceremoniously out the gate of the Dangai (and hell, Ichigo never thought he’d miss the vertigo of a Ray Shift before) Ichigo and Yoroichi are the only ones who land on their feet. Orihime breaks their fall with one of her barriers. Seeing it in action, three pronged and glowing, helps him file away what she can do for later.

 He starts looking around.

 They’re in a village, one that’s empty and devoid of life. Seemingly. Ichigo sees shadows move in the buildings. Okay. Not ideal. Nothing good comes from dropping right in the middle of civilization. It always leads to a fight. London had been a shit show and a half.

 At least he can see now. And what he sees, down the road, is unmistakable.

 “Is that Seireitei?” Ichigo asks aloud. A sprawling city with the harsh edges and an oppressive aura of order and structure. There was a thin line the separate the streets there, shining and well kept, from even the nice enough streets they stood upon. Ichigo knew it for what it was even if Kyo hadn’t told him about it before. He can recognize a military compound for what it is.

 “Yes,” Yoruichi comes to stand at his feet. “Right now we’re in the Rukongai, the outskirts of the soul society. This is the part of the soul society where the most souls live, and also the poorest part.”

 Ichigo doesn’t respond as Yoruichi explains it to his friends who don’t know.

 He eyes the line in the ground.

 “They’ll know we’re here,” he said abruptly. “We need to move away from here. Our entrance was too flashy, and the people in these houses probably won’t keep us a secret. Yoruichi, the Seireitei. Does is have some kind of bounded field?”

 There was no way a military complex didn’t have defenses, no matter how it looked right there.

 “...Yes. There’s a wall that will fall should anyone try to cross the threshold without a permit. On top of that, there’s a gate guardian who will not let anyone past him.”

 “That’s fine. Okay,” Ichigo ran his fingers through his hair, gathering it all to the back of his head. He tied it into a tight, short pony tail. “We need a base of operations so we can figure out how to get in. We’re short on time but still… I’d like to avoid rushing in head first.”

 If it was just him, he probably wouldn’t be so cautious. If it was him, Mash, Cu, and Medusa he would have no hesitation. Break in, make a fuss, and disappear into the veritable maze he knows stretches out. Kyo had told him once how easy it was to get lost if you didn’t know where he was going.

 Joy.

 Yoruichi is giving him the strangest look, but she doesn’t argue.

 “You’re right. Come with me. I have a friend nearby who I believe will be willing to help us.”

 “Sure.”

 Ichigo casts one last look at the Seireitei and follows after the black cat leading their path.

     Just wait for me a little longer Rukia. I swear. I will come save you.  

       *

 Three days.

 Kisuke has been training Ichigo Kurosaki for three days when Yoruichi finally comes back from where she’s taken his two young friends for their own training. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, this whole plan.

 Not their ages, though they are infants by shinigami time. Smaller people than them are made killers, as Kisuke himself well knows. He was barely taller than Jinta when he had met Yoruichi, and scarcely five years older than that when she first handed him envelope of thick, expensive paper. The parchment itself had been worth more money than he’d seen in his entire first century of after-life. The life inside of it, worth somehow more and less.

 He knew, understood intimately, how far a person could go for their friends. As far as follow them into a dark, dangerous new world.

 They don’t have a lot of options, other than to train these teenagers to the best of their abilities. He, Tessei, Yoruichi and the Visord are all banned completely from the Soul Society. Shy of destroying the defending, interdimensional barrier that binds them, there’s no way for them to go in.

 While he could, if he did then they would be faced with Yamamoto and the terrible two, Ukitake and Kyoraku, the second they stepped foot in rukongai. Even Kisuke, with his clever plans and deadly edge, can’t stand against the overwhelming power of Yamamoto’s burning blade.

 That’s not even to mention the other two captains, who are kind only when they can be.

 Kisuke had been young still, just a tetchy little first year in the academy, who hadn’t yet learned to hide completely behind his smiles, under Shihoin sponsorship the last year of the Quincy war.

 He can remember intimately, horribly, the dark look in Yoruichi’s eyes when she walked back into the Shihoin manor with the two trailing after her. It had been the first time Kisuke had ever seen the two, and the affable captain of the eighth and the gentle commander of the thirteenth were no where to be seen.

 They were commanders in a war of extermination, with shadows in the their eyes, and a hand on a blade at all times. Everything about them had been dangerous, weary dogs barely leashed to their master. Ready for the next fight, ready for the next kill. They hadn’t had the luxury of mercy then.

 If any of them are caught in Seireitei, there will be no luxury allowed from the Central 46.

 But these teenagers are young. The old guard, Yamamoto, Unohana, and Yamamoto’s first two students like to pretend that they’re no longer wolves. Kisuke is forced to bank on the idea that they will go after these children with as much mercy as they will be allowed.

 That was the plan.

 It had started as a contingency plan when Masaki and Isshin had first come to him with news of her pregnancy. A dark scheme that he wanted to discard, but he wasn’t able to. A child with the blood of a great shinigami line and a long standing quincy one. Half blooded on both sides, with the potential of a natural born hollow inside his soul.

 (Kisuke’s hands have itched for years to see this boy, to find out what he could do, where his tendencies lay.

 Then Masaki had died, and Isshin had forbidden any of them from coming near the Kurosaki house. Even Kisuke has enough respect for that.)  

 The plan      was    a hail mary that banked on the better nature of war veterans and murderers, and Yoruichi’s ability to train and keep track of human teenagers. She’ll have more luck herding cats.

     Was    .

 Now, things have changed.

 Ichigo lies a hundred yards away in a crater, his arms stretched out and his breathing even. Even asleep, he’s not let go of his sword.

 Yoruichi sits at his side, her tail curled around her front paws.

 “He really just meditated and woke up his powers?” Kisuke has to ask again. It’s the second time. Rarely does he need something repeated but this… This is a bit different.

 “Mmmm. He was in a house that wasn’t his families. It only smelled like him and the mod soul, Kon. I didn’t get to see everything, obviously. I’m not sure what he did. He said, and I quote, ‘Fucking everyone is so damn cryptic all the time’. And then, ‘a backwards ray shift’. After that he slipped into something like jinzen. His reitsu changed while he was meditating, and you know the rest.”

 Kisuke frowned deeply. “Who was being cryptic?”

 “I couldn’t tell you,” Yoruichi shakes her head. “He’s a strange kid, Kisuke.”

 “That’s putting it mildly. Have you seen him fight? I’ve never seen anyone that refined and that coarse in the same time.”

 “He doesn’t have a single particular style,” Yoruichi agreed. “But it’s clear he knows several different ones, and is at least proficient in each. Did you notice he’s ambidextrous?”

 “Mhmm. I did. Did you notice his soul looks older than his body?”

 Kisuke is reluctant to admit it, but he might have to talk to Isshin about this.

 He should be more worried. He is, his mind spinning a hundred paranoid ideas. Everything from Aizen has already gotten to Ichigo, even though he knows that’s impossible right now, to Ichigo has been replaced by a clone that Kisuke didn’t make.

 * *

 They finally lure the people out of hiding so Yoruichi can ask the leader of the village for someone named Kukaku.

 Shiba Kukaku. If Ichigo recalls, Kyo had once told him that Shiba were a strange type of royalty in the Seireitei. Not as stuck up as the rest of the noblemen, who Kyo quietly despised (he’d never been good enough at lying to hide all of his vitriol from Ichigo) they were a rowdy bunch that blew things up a lot.

 Not exactly stealthy, but Ichigo was willing to go along with whatever Yoruichi’s plan was for now. Clearly she knew what she was doing. She and Urahara, and probably Tessai and the kids, were undoubtedly from here. What happened and why they were in the world of the living was none of his business.

 They were in the middle of talking to the old man when the door burst open and a pig launched a man off of her(?) back.

 Ichigo caught him effortlessly around the middle.

 “Ah! She threw me again!” The stranger shouted, far to close to Ichigo’s ear. Ichigo set him on his feet.

 “Careful,” he advised. The man dusts his pants off and finally looks to Ichigo.

 “I’m fine, I’m fine. It happens all… the… time?” He stares. Ichigo can see the flip switched in his head, and suddenly he’d ducking a punch. “A punk ass shinigami!”

 “Hey. Don’t be rude,” Ichigo says with no sense of irony at all. The man is broad, strong, with a bandana over his black hair and goggles over his eyes.

 “What are you doing here?!”

 Ichigo just stared at him. This guy was so rowdy. They really didn’t have time to be dealing with him…

 Of course, he got right in Ichigo’s face. He even patted his cheek patronizingly.

 “Didn’t you hear me? I asked what a punk ass shinigami like you is-”

 When Ichigo punches him he goes flying right back through the wall.

 “...huh,” Ichigo says idly. “I tried to hold back.”

 That training with Urahara must have done him more good than he first thought.

 He picks his way through the broken wall to find his attacker knocked out on the ground.

 “Oh. Well that happened.”

 He shrugs it off and goes back inside to sit beside Yoruichi in front of a bug eyed mayor while a bunch of punks riding literal hogs surround the guy Ichigo knocked out.

 “Anyhow. You were saying your friend lives somewhere around here, weren’t you?”

 “....yes. We will have to find Kukaku’s house, but I believe that she will help us.”

 “How is she going to get us into Seireitei? If the walls come down and there’s guards at the gate that cuts off the direct route.”

 “You’re not wrong.”

 Yoruichi explains that the Seireitei is surrounded on all sides by a spirit barrier. No amount of spirit energy will serve them any good. Which is irritating. If it was spells or a bounded field they could maybe find a way to wind through them or hack past the barriers, like Flat does as easy as breathing. But if it’s that secure, above and bellow, Ichigo really has no choice but to trust Yoruichi to know what she’s doing.

 He doesn’t have any better ideas, certainly. So they set off to find this Kukaku Shiba.

 The only problem is that she is, apparently, the older sister of the guy Ichigo KO’d. And that’s how Ichigo finds himself running away from a woman with one arm and a hand full of bombs.

 How is this his life?

 Yoruichi manages to smooth things over by explaining that Ganju had started everything and Ichigo had only hit him once. Then the scolding goes from Kukaku on Ichigo to Kukaku on Ganju.

 “And I thought I had weird family dynamics,” Ichigo muttered to Uryu, who’s been watching the whole ordeal like it’s a sitcom.

 “Your family dynamics are weird,” Uryu replies without missing a beat.

 Ichigo snorts, but shuts up when Kukaku turns to them.

 “Alright. Since this is Yoruichi and Urahara asking me, I can’t say no to this job. But I don’t trust you kids. So once Ganju,” Who had been dragged home by the hog riders while Ichigo’s group was looking for the house, “Wakes up, he’ll be going with you.”

 First Ichigo knocked him out, then his own sister. Ichigo is starting to pity the fool.

 Which was just great.

 “Fine,” Ichigo mentally starts changing his plans again around the new arrival. It’ll add friction. Ganju clearly hates shinigami, but if they’re going up against shinigami hopefully the common enemy will help smooth over the enmity.

 “But first, how exactly are you planning on getting us in there?”

 “Huh? I’ll show you.”

 Kukaku leads them into the bowels of the house, until they’re standing in a dark room and looking up at a round chimney that Ichigo knows extends high outside.

 “I’m going to get you in through the sky!”

 “...fuck me,” Ichigo says. “It’s a canon.”

     Please dear god let this be less terrifying than being shot into the sky on a bow.  

 “That’s right! You’re looking at the number one fireworks maker, Kukaku Shiba!”

 Fuck.

 “Okay.”

 Kukaku tosses a ball his way. Ichigo turns it over in his hands, inspecting it curiously. There’s a design on it that reminds him vaguely of a phoenix and star wars. The door slides open while Ichigo is inspecting it, and Ganju steps inside. He’s got a nasty black eye.

 “Focus your energy in there,” she orders.

 Ichigo, who has spent five years pouring his mana and reiryoku into literally dozens of people, does just that. It’s as easy as breathing. A light flickers and he finds himself in a perfect sphere that glows so brightly with his energy it threatens to blind even him. Beyond the confines he can hear his friends shout. So he cuts off the pouring of power and drops the ball to the floor.

 “Was that right?” he asks.

 The dropped jaw on Kukaku’s face was enough of an answer.

 Ichigo always has been good at making impressions.

 “Yeah,” she says at last, recovering faster than Ichigo was expecting. “That’ll work. My men will take you to the training room for some more practice. If it’s not perfect by tomorrow, you’ll blow up on entry.”

 Ichigo doesn’t even blink.

 “I understand. Thanks.”

 While they’re walking away, Ichigo takes a look back just in time to see Ganju’s face twisted in unmistakable pain.

 * * *

 Tea steams across the table, twirling in the light of the overhead. The kettle sits on the counter, unplugged but still hot and ready to use. The wonders of human convenience.

 Isshin sits across from Kisuke on the low table, his eyes strangely dark, his customary smile missing. It’s frankly disturbing, and a good sign of the times.

 “So,” Isshin starts. “Why did you call? I doubt it’s a social call.”

 Indeed, his son has just left on a potential suicide mission to save a girl he barely knows on grounds of a favor that he owes. It’s such a Shiba thing to do.

 Ichigo is a frightening boy, he is his parents son, but Kisuke thinks he will surpass them both rather soon.

 “No, I'm afraid not,” Kisuke’s tone is still light, still somewhat playful. He misses Yoruichi at his side. He kind of misses the brash, unbending teenager that had been in his basement. Ichigo seems to have a talent for worming his way into people’s good graces, despite his manners.

 Kisuke can’t imagine how often he gathers followers if his plan for invading seireitei was to make allies and convince them to commit treason. Ichigo doesn’t seem      stupid    . Perhaps just overly optimistic?  

 “When did you teach your son to fight with a sword?” he asks instead, starting with the easiest question. Easier than asking ‘Isshin why the fuck does a child move like he’s lived and breathed fighting but thinks the bonds of friendship will save him?’. Or, ‘How did Ichigo do in one hour what normally takes more than ten years?’.

 “I never have. Why?” Isshin frowns. “He went to karate for years, and we spar at home, but he’s never held a weapon before.”

 “Is that so?” Kisuke cocks his head, his grey eyes narrowing minutely. Never touched a sword? No, that’s impossible. Ichigo moves with grace and holds a weapon with ease that only comes from long years of practice.

 “Why? Kisuke, what’s going on with my son?” Isshin’s voice raises. He slaps his hands on the table, only to retract them with Kisuke gives him a Look.

 Kisuke can only shake his head. “I couldn’t tell you. Your best guess is to ask him, but I know you won't do that.”

 Guilt and discomfort flickers across Isshin's face. He looks down, his fists clenching in his lap.

 “The time isn't right yet.”

 “The time's never going to be right,” It’s something Kisuke has wanted to say for      years    now.  “You'll keep putting it off until eventually, it's too late. I know you.”

 Isshin's jaw sets and he narrows those dark eyes at Kisuke. Anyone else might have at least squirmed. Kisuke doesn’t so much as blink. “That's why I asked you to look out for him.”

 “Have you seen your son lately, Isshin?” He hardly needs anyone to look out for him anymore. Even Kisuke has nothing to teach. All he van do right now, without jeopardizing Ichigo’s trust in him, is keep pushing Ichigo to grow stronger and stronger.

 It occurs to him, briefly, that Ichigo might learn who they are in Seireitei, but that is a bridge Kisuke will cross when they reach it.

 “Don’t talk down to me!” Isshin’s temper finally frays. The fact that it took so little is telling. Isshin is worried about Ichigo. A father who told his son none of what his life may hold is worried now for what will happen to him that life.

 Kisuke wants to laugh in his face.

 Since he doesn’t want to be punched, even by Isshin in a gigai, he snaps his fan out over his smiling mouth.

 “Then step up, Isshin. You’re children are growing. If you’re not careful, your children will leave you behind.”

 He thinks, privately, that Ichigo already has.

 Isshin is silent for a long, terrible minute. Isshin is never silent. He is loud and brash and makes an excellent ‘idiot distraction’. Too good, sometimes, if he really hasn’t noticed any of this.

 Ichigo walks with purpose. With weariness. Kisuke is too familiar with the dark edges of existence not to see the way Ichigo faces windows and door, the way he watches shadows, the way his hand twitches to the right like there’s something or someone there when the air is empty. Kisuke can see the darkness in the back of brown eyes.

 Something happened, and the only time it could have occurred was over the summer.

 What happened, in this Chaldea?

 “...he asked me about Masaki,” Isshin says at last. “He asked me if she was a quincy.”

 “Did you tell him?” As if Kisuke doesn’t already know the answer.

 “No.”

 His voice is quiet.

 “He asked me in front of her grave, and I couldn’t tell him the truth. It’s already too late, Kisuke.”

 “Isshin… You really area fool.”

 Ichigo is gone now. Maybe, for Isshin, forever.

 * * * *

 That night, Ichigo finds himself sitting outside in the grass, rolling stones through his fingers while lightning bugs flicker around him.

 It’s picturesque out here. Almost enough to be the paradise so many people hope for.

 It’s nothing like the long, dark corridors of Kur. It’s nothing like the dead soil and the flickering cages tended to so carefully by Ereshkigal. Ichigo aches with thoughts of what might have happened to her. Where is she, that she allowed her land to fall into such a state of poverty? When had grass started to grow? When had a King taken over the afterlife?

 He has a million questions and not a single answer.

 Ichigo rolls a rock around in his palm. In his other hand he brings up a small knife and cuts into the stone a familiar rune. One line with a single smaller one branching off downwards.

 ‘Torch’.

   He knows mana won’t work here. There is no life for this land of life energy. That was how they’d defeated Tiamat, after all.

 So he must come up with something else.

     Ichigo knows, for Scathach has told him, that most mages have absolutely reiryoku to their name. Once they die they can no longer perform their precious magic, for there is no mana for them to use.

 Ichigo is blessed (or something) with an over abundance of both and a talent only for mana transference.

 It seems to him that the concept can’t be that different.

 So he focuses on the stone in his hand and calls on the energy he can feel humming around him. In the air, the grass, the earth, it makes up everything the same way mana does. He draws it into himself and tries to press into the rock in his hand.  The energy sinks in, slowly at first. It’s like trying to force syrup into a water balloon made of concrete.

  It’s not really working.

  Some instinct hisses in the back of his mind and Ichigo sits straight up, drawing Zangetsu from where he’s sat in the grass beside him. He’s not a second too late, barely blocking a blow that comes from the shadows.

 Ichigo is on his feet in a second.

 He hasn’t survived this long by being stupid, and he’s always trusted his instincts. They’ve never let him die yet.

 They’re far enough away that if he shouts no one will reach him in time to help. Even if he was closer, when he sees the man step out of the trees he knows without a doubt; none of his friends can take this man.

 He’s tall. Silver hair and a curved smile makes him think of a snake. He almost feels like Stheno, enough that it sets Ichigo’s teeth on edge. He remembers clearly her habit of toying with those she likes, embarrassing and driving them to ruin while watching them struggle.

 “You know it’s rude to attack someone when their back is turned?” Ichigo says, tilting his blade and letting the bandages flow off and into the air.

 The mans smile stretches.

 “You have good reflexes for a kid,” he teases, his voice light. Ichigo narrows his eyes. This man is strong. Stronger than Ichigo for certain, but if he’s careful…

 “I’m not a kid. Who are you?”

 “Me? Oh, no one really. I just wanted to see who it was that came to visit today. You’re causing quite the stir, you know.”

 “Oh yeah?” Ichigo narrows his eyes. “Are you here for a fight?”

 The man considers him. He lifts a dagger up, twirling it elegantly. He drops into a hard stands, one leg behind the other, partially bent, his hand with the knife at the back.

 Ichigo gets Zangetsu up without a second to spare, blocking the blade an inch from cutting into his shoulder. It extends and retracts in the time it takes to blink.

 Joy.

 Ichigo isn’t the fastest person, and his sword is big and powerful not small and swift. They’re a bad match up.

 Oh well.

 Ichigo lifts Zangetsu and brings him back down, slicing the air and cleaving the earth. The man, a shinigami with a white coat the flutters around him, dodges to the side with a single step. Ichigo catches a glimpse of his eyes. Quicksilver, it’s gone a second later and replaced by that same smile.

 “If you’re looking for a fight, I won’t back down,” Ichigo warns. Zangetsu hums in his grasp, comforting and familiar. His blood pounds, excitement rushes under his skin.

 “You're an interesting guy,” the stranger muses, “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

 It’s all Ichigo can do not to laugh.

 Ichigo has fought gods and monsters. This is just a man.

 “No way in hell.”

 “What a strange person you are.” He puts his short sword back in it’s sheath and it disappears inside his sleeves. Ichigo doesn’t trust it for a minute. “I have what I need. Bye bye now.”

 He waves and disappears in a blur of speed that makes Ichigo’s stomach twist. If that man wanted him dead, he would probably      be    dead.

 Ichigo is left alone in the dark.

 With nothing else to do, he picks up his rock and tries again.

 He only gets a few more minutes of trying to fill the cement balloon before the door to the main house opens and Orihime comes walking out. She shivers at the chill in the air and looks around until her eyes find his. They’re full of concern and compassion.

 It’s for the best. Ichigo needs to talk to her anyways.

 He waves her over.

 Orihime is someone that Ichigo has known for years, but barely knows at all in the end. He knows how her brother died.

 (He was there when it happened, when they came broken bodied and hearted into the kurosaki clinic. Her hair was short and her eyes were wet and dull with grief. For Ichigo grief was already an old companion. He’d sat at her side while his dad tried to explain what was happening to a child that already knew. He wonders if she remembers. He almost hopes she does.)

 Yet, they’ve never hung out outside of school. She is Tatsuki’s friend, and Tatsuki is Ichigo’s, and so she is in the same orbit as he is but they’ve never really gone off with each other, and rarely had true conversations.

 (He keeps waiting for her to bring up Acidwire/Sora.)

 (she doesn’t)

 She kneels across from him, a bright smile in the dark of night and Ichigo is suddenly very, very glad that she’d not come a few minutes earlier. He’s not sure how well he could have protected her.

 The thought tastes like bile.

 “Kurosaki,” she smiles sweetly at him. “You’ve been out here so long. Aren’t you getting cold?”

 Ichigo tilts his head before he shakes it.

 “No, I’m fine.”

 “O-oh.”

 Orihime is unsure of herself. It seems like she always is, except when she protected them in the Dangai, and when she swore to follow him into battle.

 How does he keep finding these people? These inexplicably loyal beings, with power beyond humans, who follow him into convoluted plots and dangerous schemes? How does he keep tricking people into thinking it’s a good idea?

 Is everyone just stupid?

 “Orihime, listen.”

 She perks up, all of his attention on him. Ichigo doesn’t like saying this, but it’s something he has to. There’s no other option.

 “When we get to the Seireitei, you’re going to be out top supporter. You’re our only healer, and while Uryu and I know basic first aid, it’s different from actually fixing someone. On top of that, you’re our shield. I know you’ve got an attack, but listen. Can you use it?”

 Orihime’s brows furrow. “I can use it. I know how, I’ve been practicing with Tsubaki and Yoruichi for a long time now.”

 “I don’t mean physically,” he corrects. He wants to be gentle, but it’s just not going to work. “I mean, can you actually hurt someone?”

 She freezes.

 “I-”

 “If it comes down to you or them. If it comes down to them or me. Orihime, could you hurt someone? Could you attack with the intent of making sure they don’t get back up?”

 She clasps her hands in her lap. “I-I can-”

 “If you can’t,” he cuts in swiftly. “Say it now. When we fight we need to know you have our backs. Do you understand, Orihime? “

 “Y-yes,” she bows her head. Her hair pins glow faintly in the darkness, distracting from the shadow cast over her eyes.

 * * * * *

 Ichigo eyes the dark waters of the Mississippi warily.

 “This is insane,” he says aloud, “I’ve never seen anything this wide before.”

 He spins and points at Cu. “Don’t say a thing.”

 The caster lifts his hand, looking innocent. “I can’t say wha now?”

 “Fuck you.”

 “Stop being vulgar.”

 Kyo prods Ichigo from the side, garnering his attention. Mash sits at the front of their boat, a flat barge that pushes along valiantly. They’re halfway to the whitehouse now. Halfway to the end of the war, and Ichigo can feel the stress thrum across his skin. He doesn’t know what to do now.  The traveling. The waiting. The intermediate fighting is tiring everyone out, Ichigo included.

 It’s hard to stay on guard 24/7, with anxiety pushing them forwards as much as anything else.

 As much as supporting other people tires him out, staying on his toes constantly is a whole other type of exhausting.

 He trusts his servants to keep him from harm, but they still rely on him to support them, to give them orders, to supply them with information that they need. He stays in the back, he watches and waits, and tells them where best to place their blows. He looks for opening they can’t see from so close up.

 Kyo’s hand lands on his knee. Ichigo stops bouncing it. He hadn’t even realized hed started.

 “Kyo…?” It still feels wrong to voice his true name out loud, even though Kyo has told him a more intimate secret than just his name.

 Kyo turns his dark eyes on Ichigo. There’s a furrow in his brows. He’s just as tired as the rest of them. With the rest of the world collapsing, more and more hollow’s are being pushed into the only place left in the living world. Early on it was just weaklings, but now there are smaller, more humanoid monsters that stalk their steps, waiting to devour the dead they leave in their wake.

 A war is an all you can eat buffet for creatures made of fear, rage, and hunger.

 “Breath, Ichigo,” Kyo nudges him back against the crate they’re rested against, near the edge of t the flat barge.

 “I am breathing,” he grumbles petulantly.

 Kyo barely has enough dignity not to roll his eyes. That’s fine. Ichigo has been wearing him down for months. Kyo wears manners and politeness like armor, and Ichigo has a terrible habit of shattering things like that.

 “You know what I mean. You should reserve yourself for the final fight.”

 “I know. I’m trying.”

 Kyo hums. The moon hangs heavy and full above their heads. Ichigo knows instinctively that neither of them will really sleep, but resting his eyes is better than nothing. With Medusa on watch, no one will sneak up on them.

 It’s only a small comfort.

 A bigger comfort is the shoulder pressed against his, invisible and intangible to everyone but him. Ichigo will not admit it, but it feels sometimes like Kyo is only his. The rest of these heroes are here to save the world, and Kyo is too, but while they all have each other the two of them are the only ones privy to the world of the dead and the skull masked monsters that creep in the shadows.

 Something protective curls in his chest and Ichigo relaxes, leaning half into Kyo’s side. He watches the moon ripples across the water, unattainable and intangible.  

 * * * * * *

[ill-will-editions]

WHAT THE VIRUS SAID

First published in Lundimatin, March 16, 2020

Translated by Robert Hurley

“I’ve come to shut down the machine whose emergency brake you couldn’t find.”

You’d do well, dear humans, to stop your ridiculous calls for war. Lower the vengeful looks you’re aiming at me. Extinguish the halo of terror in which you’ve enveloped my name. Since the bacterial genesis of the world, we viruses are the true continuum of life on Earth. Without us, you would never have seen the light of day, any more than the first cell would have come to exist.

We are your ancestors, just like the rocks and the seaweed, and much more than the apes. We are wherever you are and also where you aren’t. Too bad for you if you only see in the universe what is to your liking! But above all, quit saying that it is I who am killing you. You will not die from my action upon your tissues but from the lack of care of your fellow humans. If you had not been just as rapacious amongst yourselves as you were with all that lives on this planet, you would still have enough beds, nurses, and respirators to survive the damage I do in your lungs. If you didn’t pack your old people into nursing homes and your able-bodied into concrete hutches, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. If you hadn’t changed the whole expanse of the world, or worlds rather, that just yesterday were still luxuriant, chaotic, infinitely inhabited, into a vast desert for the monoculture of the Same and the More, I wouldn’t have been able to launch myself into the global conquest of your throats. If nearly all of you had not become, over the last century, redundant copies of a single, untenable form of life, you would not be preparing to die like flies abandoned in the water of your sugary civilization. If you had not made your environments so empty, so transparent, so abstract, you can be sure that I wouldn’t be moving at the speed of an aircraft. I only come to carry out the punishment that you have long pronounced against yourselves. Forgive me, but it’s you, after all, who invented the name “Anthropocene”. You have awarded yourselves the whole honor of the disaster; now that it is unfolding, it’s too late to decline it. The most honest among you know this very well: I have no other accomplice than your social organization, your folly of the “grand scale” and its economy, your fanatical belief in systems. Only systems are “vulnerable”. Everything else lives and dies. There’s no “vulnerability” except for what aims at control, at its extension and its improvement. Look at me closely: I am just the flip side of the prevailing Death.

So stop blaming me, accusing me, stalking me. Working yourselves into an anti-viral paralysis. All of that is childish. Let me propose a different perspective: there is an intelligence that is immanent to life. One doesn’t need to be a subject to make use of a memory and a strategy. One doesn’t have to be a sovereign to decide. Bacteria and viruses can also call the shots. See me, therefore, as your savior instead of your gravedigger. You’re free not to believe me, but I have come to shut down the machine whose emergency brake you couldn’t find. I have come in order to suspend the operation that held you hostage. I have come in order to demonstrate the aberration that “normality” constitutes. “Delegating to others our nutrition, our protection, our ability to care for our way of life was a madness”…“There is no budgetary limit, health has no price” : see how I redirect the language and spirit of your governing authorities! See how I bring them down for you to their real standing as miserable racketeers, and arrogant to boot! See how they suddenly denounce themselves not just as being superfluous, but as being harmful! For them you’re nothing but supports for the reproduction of their system – that is, less than slaves. Even the plankton are treated better than you.

But don’t waste your time reproaching them, pointing out their deficiencies. Accusing them of negligence is still to give them more credit than they deserve. Ask yourselves rather how you could find it so comfortable to let yourselves be governed. Praising the merits of the Chinese option compared to the British option, of the imperial-legist solution as against the Darwinist-liberal method is to understand nothing about the one or the other, the horror of one and the horror of the other. Since Quesnay, the “liberals” have always looked with envy at the Chinese empire ; and they still do. They are Siamese twins. The fact that one of them confines you in its interest and the other in the interest of “society” always amounts to suppressing the only non-nihilist conduct : taking care of oneself, of those one loves and of what one loves in those one doesn’t know. Don’t let those who’ve led you to the abyss claim to be saving you from it: they will prepare for you a more perfect hell, an even deeper grave. Someday when they’ll able, they’ll send the army to patrol the afterlife.

You ought to thank me, rather. Without me, for how much longer would those unquestionable things that are suddenly suspended have gone on being presented as necessary? Globalization, competitive exams, air traffic, budgetary limits, elections, sports spectacles, Disneyland, fitness gyms, most businesses, the National Assembly, school barracking, mass gatherings, most office jobs, all that automatic sociability that is nothing but the reverse of the anxious solitude of the metropolitan monads : all of that was rendered unnecessary, once the state of necessity asserted its presence. Thank me for the truth test of the coming weeks; you’re finally going to inhabit your own life, without the thousand escapes that, good year bad year, hold the untenable together. Without your realizing it, you had never taken up residence in your own existence. You were there among your boxes, and you didn’t know it. Now you will live with your kindreds. You will be at home. You will cease to be in transit towards death. Perhaps you will hate your husband. Maybe your children won’t be able to stand you. Maybe you will feel like blowing up the décor of your everyday life. The truth is that you were no longer in the world, in those metropolises of separation. Your world was no longer livable in any of its guises unless you were constantly fleeing. One had to make do with movement and distractions in the face of the hideousness that had taken hold. And the spectral that reigned between beings. Everything had become so efficient that nothing made any sense any longer. Thank me for all that, and welcome back to earth!

Thanks to me, for an indefinite time you will no longer work, your kids won’t go to school, and yet it will be the opposite of a vacation. Vacations are that space that must be filled up at all costs while waiting for the obligatory return to work. But now what is opening up in front of you, thanks to me, is not a delimited space but a gaping emptiness. I render you idle. There’s no guarantee that yesterday’s non-world will reappear. All of that profitable absurdity may cease. Not being paid oneself, what would be more natural than to stop paying one’s rent? Why would a person unable to work go on depositing their mortgage payments at the bank? Isn’t it suicidal, when you come down to it, to live where you can’t even cultivate a garden? Someone who doesn’t have any money left doesn’t stop eating as a consequence, and who has the iron has the bread. Thank me: I place you in front of the bifurcation that was tacitly structuring your existences: the economy or life. It’s your move, your turn to play. The stakes are historical. Either the governing authorities impose their state of exception on you, or you invent your own. Either you go with the truths that are coming to light, or you put your head on the chopping block. Either you use the time I’m giving you to envision the world of the aftermath in light of what you’ve learned from the collapse that’s underway, or the latter will go extreme. The disaster ends when the economy ends. The economy is the devastation. That was a theory before last month. Now it is a fact. No one can fail to sense what it will take in the way of police, propaganda, surveillance, logistics, and remote working to keep that fact under control.

As you deal with me, don’t succumb to panic or denial. Don’t give in to the biopolitical hysterias. The coming weeks will be terrible, oppressive, cruel. The gates of death will be wide open. I am the most devastating production of the devastation of production. I come to reduce the nihilists to nothingness. The injustice of this world will never be more outrageous. It’s a civilization, not you, that I come to bury. Those who desire to live will have to construct new habits, ones that are suitable for them. Avoiding me will be the occasion for this reinvention, this new art of distances. The art of greeting one another, which some were short-sighted enough to see as the very form of the institution, will soon not obey any etiquette. It will sign beings. Don’t do it “for the others”, for “the population” or for “society”, do it for your people. Take care of your friends and those you love. Rethink along with them, decisively, what a just form of life would be. Organize clusters of right living, expand them, and I won’t be able to do anything against you. I am calling for a massive return, not of discipline, but of attention. Not for the end of insouciance, but the end of all carelessness. What other way remained for me to remind you that salvation is in each gesture? That everything is in the tiniest thing.

I’ve had to face the facts: humanity only asks itself the questions it can no longer keep from asking.

[iamsatan666666]

Corporate America is now entering into the seven rings of hell.  

I promised.  

The Catalyst is a person I know as Necy Christine Boyer.  

She is with Hal Osgood and Raymond Kupka.  

All for one and one for all.  

The Three Musketeers.                     

I was on Facebook talking about Corporate America; How companies like Internet Explorer, the ONLY server online in America, and the search engine's Yahoo!, Google, Bing, Facebook, YouTube... are American Companies making Millions of Dollars per second, Globally.  We the People have become the Global Economy.  There is no one else but us.  Corporate America doesn't want puppets like Biden, or Trump to talk about why Oppression and Poverty still exist in our country with this new Market we discovered called The World Wide Web.  WWW.SearchEnginesAndServer.com makes so much money within minutes that there isn't a word in our language that gives that amount of money a name.  And, if there was a name, you'd have to come up with another in a few minutes, because the dollars keep stacking up.  I write this because I am a person who is under the true disease born in America.  It doesn't start with a 'C,' it begins with an 'O.' It's Oppression... and Poverty.  I also use the word Nigger a lot to describe a guy named Raymond James Kupka. Ray kidnapped me from California when I was to young to remember, tortured and raped me until I was 18 years old, then let me go for reasons that would take me longer to explain.  I tried to talk about Ray and Corporate corruption, or Greed, and that Corporate is now above the Law.  But, Facebook continues to kick me off the Facebook website saying that I can't call Ray a Nigger when the fucker tortured, sodomized, and kept me hidden and ignorant most of my life. He is a Sadist.  He is also www.YAHOO.com, which is a completely new set of Evils for Ray and his relationship with me.  I am Kristopher Philip Kupka.  I tell people that I am Satan, because I am.  I am a Wizard.  I cast spells.  A Nigger is a name for a type of Demon. Whatever you read may be wrong when discovering where and when the word Nigger came into our vocabulary and understandings.  Why the fuck am I a homeless man in America, the richest nation on earth. Our wealth is something that has made us blind.  I used to be Christian.  I had Jesus in my thoughts.  Bring every thought to the obedience of God.  Walk by Faith, not by sight.  Faith without works is dead.  Not by works are ye saved, but by the Grace of God.  Walk by faith, trusting in God to enter into Love, which is God. That was me.  Not anymore.  WTF's going on here in the U.S..  The woman, Heda, who runs the show at YouTube, thinks she is the Christian Love.  She and her boyfriend, Nigger John (That's what we call him), desecrate live human beings in the name of Love.  They are swimming in Money because of something someone else did.  That someone else had love in his heart.  Corporate America, who is the Global Economy, does not operate by the standard Love set before us.  The Seven Rings of Hell are Jealousy, Greed, Pride, Envy, Lust, and Gluttony. Those aren't the Seven Deadly Sins.  Those are the Seven Rings of Hell.  There is a symbol on a spell I cast every fucking day that represents the Seven Rings of Hell.  In a nutshell, that's kinda "What's going on?"  

Thanks.  - Father Satan.  

I am in the body of Kristopher Kupka.  Kris has, literally, burnt in Hell for at LEAST 60,480 years so the CEO of Yahoo! could have food, shelter, transportation, education, and religion for free.

[wisdomrays]

COMPASSION

Compassion is the beginning of being; without it everything is chaos. Everything has come into existence through compassion and by compassion it continues to exist in harmony. The earth was put in order by messages coming from the other side of the heavens. Everything from the macrocosm to the microcosm has achieved an extraordinary harmony thanks to compassion.

All aspects of this life are a rehearsal for the afterlife and every creature is engaged in action to this end. In every struggle, order is evident; in every achievement, compassion is present. It is not possible that this effusion of compassion should go unnoticed.

Clouds hover above our heads on wings of compassion, from the centre of which rain comes down to our aid. Lightning and thunder bring us good tidings of rain with an uproar from the secret domain of compassion. The whole universe, in every particle of its being, ceaselessly sings the praises of the All-Compassionate. All creatures together extol compassion with voices peculiar to each.

Consider the worm. It is in much need of compassion being under foot, but itself displays compassion. Affectionate soil enfolds it; in turn it deposits thousands of eggs in each handful of the earth. The soil through this operation is aerated, swells, and reaches a state propitious to the sowing of seeds. While the soil is a means of compassion for worms, worms are a mercy for the soil. Words fail us to describe such careless ones who burn grass and roots to obtain manure. Poor man! He is unaware of being merciless to both soil and worms. Consider the bee approaching flowers, or the silkworm burying itself in its cocoon! What difficulties do they not encounter to take part in the symphony of compassion. Is it possible for us not to notice the pains those creatures suffer in order to provide man with honey and silk?

That is not all. Have you ever considered how heroic the chicken is that allows its head to be bitten off by a dog in order to save its young, and how praiseworthy the wolf is which, forgetting about its own hunger, offers its young the food it has found?

Everything speaks of compassion and promises compassion. Because of this, the universe can be considered a symphony of compassion. All kinds of voices proclaim compassion so that it is impossible not to be aware of it, and impossible not to feel the wide mercy encircling everything. How unfortunate are the souls who do not perceive this.

Man has a responsibility to show compassion to all living beings as a requirement of being human. The more he displays compassion, the more exalted he becomes, while the more he resorts to wrongdoing, oppression and cruelty, the more he is disgraced and humiliated, becoming a shame to humanity.

We hear from the Prophet of Truth that a prostitute went to Paradise because, out of compassion, she gave water to a poor dog dying of thirst, whilst another woman was condemned to the torments of Hell because she left a cat to die of hunger.

Mercy begets mercy. If one is compassionate on earth, then many good tidings come from heaven. Having perceived this secret, our ancestors founded a great many homes of compassion everywhere including foundations for protecting and feeding animals. A man of compassion was so deeply touched by a bird with broken legs, and a stork with damaged wings, that he established a sanctuary for injured birds.

We ought to be as compassionate to human beings as our ancestors were to animals. Alas! Just as we have not been compassionate to ourselves, so too we have ruined the next generation by showing complete indifference and pitilessness to the earth. We have actually caused the deterioration of the environment, in which it is ever more difficult to live.

We should point out, however, that abuse of the feeling of compassion can be harmful or even more harmful than being devoid of compassion altogether.

Oxygen and hydrogen, when mixed in the proper ratio, form one of the most vital of substances. On the other hand, when this ratio changes, each element resumes its original combustible identity. Likewise, it is of great importance to apportion the amount of compassion and to know who deserves it. Compassion for a wolf sharpens its appetite, and not being content with what it receives, it demands even more. Compassion for a rebel makes him much more aggressive, encouraging him to offend against others. It is not fitting to have compassion for the one who takes pleasure in poisoning like a snake; compassion for such a one means leaving the administration of the world to cobras.

Compassion for a bloodstained, bloodthirsty one is tyranny of the most terrible kind to all the oppressed and wronged people. Such an attitude is like being neglectful of the rights of lambs out of compassion for the wolves; it causes the whole of creation to sigh and moan, however much it might please the wolves.