#on the one hand humans are just another organism and art is no greater an ability than flight or whatever

[frankensteincest]

A large portion of Vonnegut’s oeuvre has been concerned with metafictional issues that arise from the creator role of the author. Vonnegut constantly makes his readers aware of his position as author and the constructor of the tale he tells. Sometimes he does this by making reference to his own writing. At others, he uses gimmicks such as the starring of names of characters who are shortly to die, as he does in Galápagos. Breakfast of Champions features ‘Vonnegut’ sitting in a bar surrounded by and manipulating his own characters, even revealing himself to Kilgore and telling him outright that he is a creation in Vonnegut’s fiction. Vonnegut’s unique mixture of autobiographical details—or rather the acknowledgment of his autobiographical detail—with his fiction, and his insistence on using an ambiguous ‘I’ persona in most of his novels, has meant for both him and his readers that they continually confront the artifice—and reality—of fictional creations.

Throughout Galápagos, Vonnegut deliberately undermines human acts of creation, art among them. When, for instance, Vonnegut writes that science fiction is just another ‘arbitrary game’ that the human brain plays, he impugns both his profession and his novel. Moreover, the symbol of human art in the novel, the handheld computer Mandarax which acts as a repository for all the literary quotations thought worth saving for posterity, can offer only ineptitudes which are of no practical value at all. Vonnegut’s last word on it is emphatic: he has a great white shark eat it. Such undermining isn’t unique to this novel, but he goes one step further in Galápagos when Leon reveals that he has ‘written these words in air—with the tip of the index finger of my left hand, which is also air’. The reader already knows that human beings of the future are unlikely readers; not only do they spend most of their lives in water, but they also no longer have the big brains or the dexterous fingers needed for reading.

So who is Leon writing for? If he is writing on air with air, his story—and Vonnegut’s—will, quite literally, disappear into thin air, a conceit which Bo Pettersson has rightfully described as Vonnegut letting ‘man, in his regained innocence, forego much of what makes him unique.... The end of evil must entail the end of human creativity’.

So there is a suggestion of another kind of apocalypse here: that of the worlds that the written word creates. It may be that Vonnegut means to imply that art, like everything, is ephemeral, or even that it is itself in the process of evolving into a new form. Certainly, Vonnegut’s distinctive style—brief paragraphs, doodles, and catch-phrases such as ‘And so it goes’—could be interpreted as an evolution in novel form. But what seems more likely, given the eschatological and evolutionary timbre of Galápagos, is that he intends to place human art in its proper anthropological and apocalyptic context.

Todd F. Davis argues that ‘At no time does Vonnegut become comfortable with the notion that humanity represents the highest achievement of some mythical creator’. In the evolutionary and anthropological sense, art is no more or less permanent than the species which makes it. Leon shrugs off the impermanence of his words, saying, ‘my words will be as enduring as anything my father wrote, or Shakespeare wrote, or Beethoven wrote, or Darwin wrote. It turns out that they all wrote with air on air’. Art merely creates another ‘comforting lie’ that humans can tell to make their world a better place in which to live.

But as a postmodernist, Vonnegut is playfully engaging in a paradox here. While Leon’s work will disappear within the fictional confines of Galápagos, it lives on through Vonnegut’s work in the real world. Moreover, it is our big brains that allow us to read and consider Vonnegut’s point about the uselessness of big brains. Because of this paradox, Peter Freese describes Galápagos as ‘a hoax, a verbal game built upon the premise of its very impossibility’. Great art will endure as long as humans do, Leon says. Its impermanence matters little if the ‘lie’ it creates makes our lives better while we are here.

ELIZABETH K. ROSEN, Apocalyptic Transformation: Apocalypse and the Postmodern Imagination

[birthdaycakeplate]

Hi there, hope you're doing well! Let me start by saying I love your art, your style is super cute! Your writing is also amazing, it's so well written and always a joy to read! The art and fic you made of Optimus in a polyship with Megatron, Strika and Lugnut is something I never would've thought about but it's super cute and sexy and you've got me hooked. I'd love to see more, fics or art is totally up to you!

💕Zombie LISTEN, I didn’t know which ship you like the most, so I threw my two main ships at you at once 😭😭

This is Blitzbee/Megop with the ‘Cons being accidentally very soft and making the ‘Bot boys emotional for it. I would sum this up as, ‘crack treated seriously’.

You made me so emotional with your message zombie 🥺 like what a compliment?!! Thank you, you’re so dang sweet😞

This is the longest thing I’ve made on here, so everyone *please* be prepared when you click that ‘read more’ down there. It’s 33,200+ words, so I broke it into ✨2 parts✨

💕Warnings are in the tags💕

(Canon is skewed all to slag, and is set during ??????? in the timeline.)

——- ————- ——

Terrorizing the locals was just a bonus and not necessarily Blitzwing’s end goal. The organics were easy to ignore -would be easy enough to squish, if they ever got under pede one day. Quite beneath his notice.

True, he did delight in the distant screams below, as the humans ran for cover, scattering like ants. There was a certain appeal to being the most powerful, impenetrable force around. Particularly when there was a mech like Megatron to come ‘home’ to an the end of each cycle, and be forced to remember where exactly you were on the food chain.

Thrill or not, it was all very unremarkable when there were greater things at stake than scaring a handful of blithering gnats. It wasn’t like it was some kind of chore to put the fear of Primus in the little things and anything but a challenge.

He’d hardly noticed all the times he’d flattened a car -or 12- while walking through the city at rush hour.

He hadn’t noticed when a wing tip had sliced through an office building on a fourth floor once, either.

All very commonplace for a mecha of his size and stature. All very easy to overlook.

But this time was.... different....

Leaking Energon from a lateral line in his thigh, Blitzwing was searching every dark alleyway for the little bug bot that’d gone and stung him good enough to sever it. He’d been caught off guard long enough for the minibot to bolt for cover. Of course, he wasn’t fairing much better either after a blast of ice to his center chassis.

Guerrilla tactics were somewhat of a welcome change to Bumblebee’s usual ‘strategy’ of standing around, spouting off rude nonsense, and trying to land a blow. Tamer, less destructive blows than anything Blitzwing could do to the minibot under his massive strength, of course.

Having him get a solid hit in for once and then running off to cower someplace, forcing Blitzwing to make himself a target for more competent Autobrats while he staggered about wounded, still had its own appeal -such as hunting down the dirty bug for sport and shelling him of his metal casing right then and there.

What a thing to look forward to. Perhaps he’d have the scalp of his helm mounted in his quarters.

Blitzwing pulled up the unsuspecting cars that’d been abandoned in the middle of the street, looking for an insignia. Bumblebee had at least proved smart enough not to hide in plain sight.

With no sign of the charming, little idiot Blitzwing was becoming more erratic- it would only be a matter of time before Bee emerged from the shadows to attempt another attack while Blitzwing had his back turned.

“Come out from hiding, jou little scrap!”

So he could push that flimsy frame into all sorts of interesting shapes. ‘Origami’, he’d heard it called.

An answering shriek came from somewhere below.

Far, far below.

So far below, that Blitzwing had to stop, face spinning back to blue as his processor tried to collect itself beyond mindless rage, and stooped down to one knee to better study the source of said shriek. And it definitely wasn’t Bumblebee.

An organic about the size of Sumdac’s offspring was stood there with a wet face, mouth agape, and struggling to vent inward.

A crying child. Blitzwing became immediately uninterested.

He stood again and made to continue his search when the tiny thing cried out.

“I-I-I lost my m-mom!” It wailed. Dripping all sorts of lubricant from various holes.

Blitzwing surveyed the path he’d left behind him for a glimpse of yellow lurking and waiting to make a move. There was nothing. No slimy, stupid minibots.

It wasn’t often Blitzwing scared this bot badly enough to stay hidden.

Or perhaps that blast to the chest had simply proven more fatal... He’d hate to be robbed of draining the little one’s life force himself, if he came across a corpse.

“I want my mom!” The child, who didn’t seem bothered by the tonnes of lunatic in his audience, outright sobbed, catching Blitzwing’s attention again. His voice caught and choked on the words.

“I can’t- I can’t- I can’t *f-find her*!”

His sobs distorted the words, but they were clear enough to pick out. The child’s voice high and whimpering.

The boy stood there, twisting his shirt up in his fists- a failed gestured to self-soothe.

Blitzwing then noted the creature was very pointedly looking up at *him*. Perhaps hoping to make his case that he was very much a helpless thing, and that that may somehow appeal to a sort of humanity in the alien, metal monster before him.

Illogical.

“Mom...” the child whined, hanging his head and leaking fresh globs from his opticals. He looked very close to entering some sort of tantrum. A loud one.

Blitzwing scowled at the pathetic display.

“Vell, vhere did jou last put her?” His voice, too sharp, caused the boy to flinch.

“Me?” He asked. His confusion enough to deter his panic for the moment.

“I... I’m not... I don’t ‘put’ her, um...”

It sounded like a question. Mostly because he was questioning the absurdity of an adult -what looked like an adult- asking him nonsense.

~WHIRR~

“She does not have handles for easier carrying?”

“W-What? No!” The kid said in absolute bewilderment. But the ridiculousness of the question was enough to soften the edge in his tone. And that crimson smile the giant terror wore was a surprisingly small comfort.

Tantrum avoided, Blitzwing allowed himself some crassness, as it’d seemed to have prompted the child’s natural playfulness, and stabilized his mood a bit.

“Jou don’t just tote her around from place to place, zen?”

“No!”

“Take her vith jou on field trips?”

“No!”

“Not even to ze zoo?”

“No!” The tiny organic was laughing now.

“I can see how jou lost her!”

Blitzwing trained his features back to blue and reconsidered himself. Then made his decision.

“Oh. Vell zen... Zat iz an oversight, don’t jou think?” He then bent to scoop the child up and bring him to chest level.

There was plenty of terrified shrieking yo accompany the move, but it didn’t last. Soon the boy was looking up at him with absolute awe. Marveling at the sudden position he’d found himself in- being held in the gargantuan hand of an unusually hospitable beast. One he clearly hadn’t understood the danger of, despite seeing him plenty on the emergency news stations.

“Can jou see her from up here?” Blitzwing asked, ignoring the strange gushing from his thigh wound, as well as inside his chest at the boy’s amazed, “Coooool!” upon looking out at the view.

The child looked out over the streets below, several blocks now visible, and a tiny frown began to slowly stretch his lips. Suddenly remembering why he’d been so fretful a moment ago.

“No... I don’t think... I don’t think I see her.” He sniffled and wiped at his nose with a sleeve.

He stood on his tiptoes in Blitzwing’s substantial palm, searching for a sign of his mother, but nothing came to view.

Worry was creeping over him again.

“I can’t find her.” He sniffled, whimpered. Looking close to fresh tears.

“I-I can’t find my mom!”

“Zen ve march onward.” Blitzwing quickly amended.

He held the child closer so he could move deftly through narrow, scraping buildings.

“Vhat does she look like?”

“Well, her hair is brown and curly.” The child began to recall.

“And, um, I think... she had a bright pink sweater thing on. Um...”

Blitzwing scanned the streets.

“Sveater thing?”

“It doesn’t, like, zip up?” The boy tried to explain.

“Oh, and her name is Rebecca!”

As if that could help in anyway. Blitzwing didn’t just keep the names of every organic on this pathetic dirtball planet on file.

“And I’m Jamal!” The boy shouted up at him, despite being well within audial range now.

Blitzwing’s normally good sense didn’t stop him before replying.

“Hello, Jamal.”

He had to slow his pace down to better study the crowd of confused, panicking people below for any pink sweater things attached to any women with curly brown hair.

How exhilarating his day was proving.

With no sign of this mystery woman, the child -Jamal- began to shiver. Seemingly affected by the difference in wind currents at this height all the sudden.

“Is my mom...” He trailed off out of fear of finishing the thought. But with the general chaos of the city, the distant and random screams and clanging from the two alien factions engaged in battle in the distance, he really didn’t have to.

Blitzwing’s wing struts tensed at the insinuation, and he surprised himself with how immediately he felt the need to correct that sentiment.

“Not hardly. I hear earth carriers are invincible.” Which he had, honestly. They were rumored to have eyes on the back of their heads, and a supernatural sense of knowing when their young was in danger.

The child’s mother was likely in a far more frantic state than he at the moment, searching for her little sparkling.

That gave Blitzwing an idea.

“Rebecca!” He suddenly shouted, his empty hand cupping close to his lipplates. “Rebecca!”

Getting the idea, Jamal chimed in shouting, “Mom- Mama! Mama!”

The two surely looked an outlandish pair, as they pattered between busy streets and circled around blocks, shouting at the top of their vocalizers. Blitzwing caught an optic full of Lugnut at one point in a chokehold with Bulkhead in the distance, laughing all maniacally and stupid.

The sun was reaching farther in the sky, prompting Blitzwing to hike a wing out towards his side to hold Jamal beneath it, under its shade.

They were walking closer towards the center of the battle Bumblebee had led him away from.

“Rebecca! Rebecca!”

~WHIRR~

“Rebecca, please come to ze front of ze store! Jou have a Jamal here vaiting for jouuu~”

No sooner did he make his little quip did the booming voice of his *leader* -fragging Primus- rise above the clash of metal and somebot’s glitching, robotic shriek.

Megatron of all mechs wouldn’t be particularly pleased to find him aiding a human, especially in the midst of a battle. And Blitzwing, in a moment of self reflection, wasn’t too happy to find himself aiding a human under *any* circumstance either.

He wavered, about to fit himself between two buildings and make his self-preserving escape when another voice was quickly accompanied by his commander’s.

“Watch where you step! My baby could be down there!”

“We will find your blasted mechling-“ Megatron grit out, discreetly taking better care of where he was now stepping.

“Not if you keep stomping around like that!”

“He will readily make himself known before that! You’re far too loud for him not to hear!”

As prophesied, Jamal jumped upright, twittering and bouncing precariously close to the edge of Blitzwing’s fingertips. “Mama?! That’s my mama!”

Blitzwing followed the voices -escalating in both threat and volume- to Megatron toting a woman in a closed fist -a silent promise to crush her- and seemingly searching the streets for something.

Jamal.

“My Lord?” Blitzwing yelled less than a block away. Somehow finding the courage to make his traitorous predicament known now seeing Megatron in a similarly mortifying state.

Megatron whipped his helm his way, bristling the slightest bit at having been caught, before he saw the tiny thing skipping about his palm like a flea.

“Mama!” It shouted.

“Jamal!” The woman cried.

Blitzwing felt relief wash over him at the sight of the boy’s mother. This problem *finally* out of his servos.

“Take me to him!” ‘Rebecca’ barked at her captor/rescuer, and Blitzwing answered her command on his lord’s behalf. Rushing over and bending to place Jamal back to his pedes next to where Megatron had lowered his mother.

They embraced one another in an instant, drawn together like magnets. Never having been meant to be separated in the first place.

And Blitzwing stared in abject horror at the thing he’d just done.

....A good deed...

“Vell... zis is terrible....” He mumbled at the sight of the unbridled affection below.

Megatron watched with him, humming in agreement. A painful clicking in his vocalizer when he tried to reset it.

This didn’t look good for either of their reputations as sinister, sparkless terrorizers.

Unbeknownst to them, completely beyond their normally keen eyes, two curious little bots had seen the near whole display in absolute shock.

———- ———-

It’d kept Optimus and Bumblebee up for cycles afterward.

“He was so... *nice*.” Bumblebee whispered into the quiet of another restless night. Optimus resting his chin in his palm, leaning over his berth, nodded absently. Inviting Bee to his room to practically obsess -not that they’d ever admit their secret fascinations of two war criminals was such a thing- had made Optimus considerably more lax and informal as time passed. Though, just barely.

“You should have seen his faceplates- he was even joking with the kid at one point. I *think* to make him *feel better*.” Bee sounded a little too much like he was awestruck.

Optimus gave a noncommittal noise, thinking distantly instead of his own bizarre memory of a certain, doting warlord.

“Should we like... tell the others?” Bumblebee posed then.

Besides Prowl and Ratchet being unlikely to believe them, there was really no reason to tell anyone anything.

They couldn’t suddenly go easy on the Decepticons in battle- the war builds could easily deliver swift punishment over them, if they were close enough, as it was, but then with the Autobot’s favor? Their hesitation? They’d play them all for suckers and steamroll them. It wasn’t like taking advantage of others wasn’t a delirious percentage of the Decepticon’s day to day operations.

The only motivation behind spreading the marginally good news that they possessed a spark under layers of all that tyrannical vengeance was if they were going to use it for *their own* advantage. Most likely a ceasefire of sorts. And that was-

Optimus stilled.

Well... Maybe that *could* work, actually...

Maybe.

Not usually one to take slim chances, unless the situation was dire, Optimus was up calculating the effectiveness of such a thing when he didn’t much of an incentive to offer the opposing faction to do so in the first place.

Much of his potential success depended on tapping into that bizarre, unlikely kindness in their sparks a second time. Somehow. Still unlikely. Still doomed to fail, if the teachings in the academy were accurate about war type psychology.

But as the cycle turned into dawn, and Bumblebee’s rambles began to muddle his processor with fantastical ideas of a peaceful Cybertron, Optimus found the thought more and more appealing.

The proposition was made in the morning, hoping to catch the others in a good mood and hear some more sensible opinions that weren’t sleep addled.

“Is it *worth* the effort?” Prowl instantly challenged. Bulkhead behind him stood there uselessly, looking plain shook to the core after hearing the whole story.

Prowl had a point, of course, and Optimus didn’t honestly know how to answer.

Was it? *Was it* worth it?

He supposed if it....

“Well...” Optimus sighed, processor beginning to overheat with exasperation and all the ‘what if’s he’d been cycling back and forth through all night.

“If it saves lives then... yes? I think it’s worth *trying*. I don’t expect a miracle. I just, maybe... expect... *something*?”

Something as surreal as a moment of compassion from the ‘Cons that’d risked their time and effort to satisfy the needs of two *human beings* again. A very tall order that was.

But as he considered Prowl’s words, a rare moment of optimism possessed him, and Optimus unwisely allowed himself to rely on the memory of the impossible sight he’d bore witness to that day to justify his decision.

That woman, ‘Rebecca’, had been very forthright and demanding of Megatron. Optimus had seen most of the display between keenly aimed swings of a sword, before Lugnut had come rushing him to the ground and separating him from Megatron.

When he’d next seen him, there was Rebecca. Helpless and in a dire state.

Optimus could only *imagine* what a woman scrutinizing the authority of a power junky like Megatron -who hated a pushy subordinate, much less a menial, disposable human- had done to appeal to the ruthless brute.

She’d stood there, eyes welling with tears, screaming bloody murder for ‘her baby’. Begging for help from terrified people trying to make themselves scarce.

“Please! My baby is missing! He’s just a child!” She’d screamed at Megatron, rightfully assuming another misstep of his in the direction she’d lost her child would mean ‘her baby’s’ immediate death.

Megatron ignored her easily for a time, stopping to aim his cannon at a hyper vigilant Prowl’s helm from a distance. But as her screaming turned into the wails of a wounded animal and she was near clawing at the ground, trying to shuffle through a crowd of chaos to find her helpless, innocent thing, *something* had apparently shifted within the mech.

Something...

However in the infinite universe that *that* ‘pathetic’, ‘weak’, groveling’ display had attracted the sympathy of *Megatron*, Optimus couldn’t fathom. He really couldn’t.

He didn’t even believe his own optics when he’d seen it at the time- Megatron stooping and trying to reason with the woman to recall the child’s recent permanence. What the child looked like.

Offering the oddest sort of ‘comfort’ by ensuring a child with similarly strong vocals would be capable enough of signaling his mother amongst the masses.

‘They aren’t Cybertronian’, Optimus had wanted to remind him. They couldn’t send out matching frequencies for their missing parent.

He’d wanted to take that woman and scour the city with her himself- make sure both of the helpless things remained unharmed.

Instead, he fluttered behind them some distance away in an absolute daze. Resetting his optics, trying to make sense of things. Trying to pinch himself awake from the inconceivable dream he seemed to be stuck in. Surely wasting away in a trauma induced hallucination after Lugnut’s assault.

What he was seeing just couldn’t be *real*. Especially not when the woman trying desperately to keep up with Megatron on foot had ended up in his servo, as he began to carry her to hurry things along. A rather unfriendly gesture- curling his fist around her and handling her with far less care than an Autobot would have.... Save for Ratchet...

But he’d done it all the same- Had left the frontlines of *battle* to search for a human sparkling and hadn’t wavered from his mission once in the several hours it’d taken them to find ‘Jamal’.

He kept Rebecca shaded beneath the curve of his sturdy chest plates, offered small assurances that the child had survived the city’s onslaught when the sudden, pesky tears began to flow, and became a beacon of patience when those tears never stopped.

She grew restless and angry when she seemed to remember the misery said giant warlord had caused her by endangering them all in the first place. And Megatron snarked back with harmless threats and a sharp tongue, all while searching for her child.

Shocking as it was, nothing had prepared Optimus for Blitzwing’s emergence. Carefully chauffeuring Jamal with a hint of softness in his face plates at the boy’s sudden outburst when the organics were reunited.

Two ‘Cons. Standing there in mutual silence as they observed the flittering of limbs, wrapping around one another and rocking together in an embrace.

Mother and child. Creator and sparkling.

That surely must have awakened *something* in them.

A sparkling was a millennia rare thing. A treasure, no matter what faction you came from.

Optimus felt that, coupled with the lingering image of the ‘Cons watching over the little pair, was enough to push things forward. To indeed agree that this idea of his was ‘worth the effort’, as Prowl had questioned.

What kind of Autobot could just ignore such a thing?

——- —— ————-

Megatron didn’t know what to make of the absurd spectacle, other than it was possibly the greatest assault on him and his forces he’d ever been met with. Greater than the Magnus rounding them up during the DRA in an attempt to exterminate their masses.

“I think you can see reason here, Megatron.” Optimus spoke with all the confidence of someone thinking rationally, and not insane enough to call a criminal warlord to trial.

“All I’m asking for is your cooperation.”

Which was as insulting as asking him to do tricks for him.

“*You*,” a lowly, little Prime- “Are asking *me*,” the leader of an entire faction- “To give up my cause.”

That was the fist of it anyway. No matter how he spun it....

This much too young, much too.... optimistic.... *fool*.

Incapable of understanding the physical impossibility of agreeing to *anything* even slightly ‘reasonable of their factions’, if it meant conceding to the will of an Autobot. Who cared who benefited? It only equated to a war frame being asked to go belly up and ‘behave themselves’ for their ‘tiny masters’.

And even if he was exaggerating or being a bit preemptive, he most definitely actually was not.

No. Megatron didn’t think so.

“You are in no position to ask a thing of me, Autobot. You are in no *position* at all.”

Optimus relatively agreed with this. He wasn’t important enough to be speaking to a faction leader about a truce of any sort. He wasn’t even a figure head- he was a captain of a maintenance crew, and one that could often hardly be bothered to heed his orders, despite their great respect for him.

Optimus swallowed, Megatron tracking the movement even from this distance. He was making the fool nervous- Good.

How dare he make such a pompous, arrogant, egotistical-

“I- I believe you’re capable of compassion.”

Weeeeiird the Autobot had taken *that* stance, but Megatron was too gobsmacked to beat him into making sense at the moment. So, he just stood there with audials at full volume to be sure he next heard him right, with patience fluctuating.

At least the Prime’s fellow Autobots looked of mind enough to seem concerned with his word choice, too. Optimus couldn’t turn back now, only press on.

And press on he did with a horrible, even worse accusation.

“You showed a certain amount of... ah, care when you... assisted those humans.”

Oh, so that’s what this was about. He’d seen that unfortunate error in judgement, had he? No matter. This puny bot hardly amounted to more than a stubborn thorn in his side. Megatron would undo any further misconceptions he might have about his cold, blistering spark by alighting the nearest medical center in a tower of flames. Really set the record straight.

“I believe moments of kindness should always be acknowledged.” The Prime continued to run his mouth.

“And rewarded?” Megatron snarled, unable to help himself. Tone clearly unbelieving. This *was* insane, after all.

So much so, that he felt the compelling urge to turn his wide optics towards a very pale, obviously flustered Blitzwing to try and share in the burden of his pure disbelief.

Optimus could recognize the disgust the Decepticon felt having interpreted his words as patronizing and condescending. To a ‘Con, kindness surely would seem as such. What a pity.

Even so, Optimus began to think of how he could make amends. He could admit now that he’d been maybe hoping too much for something magical to happen in all his excitement- which was the first time he’d done anything so whimsical in eons, daydreaming included, and he quickly chastised himself for it. He’d lost his optimism long ago from the many hard lessons life had routinely taught him.

Megatron turned his piercing gaze on him then, all fire and vitriol.

“If I wish to cease the hysterical, endless bellowing of one creature too incompetent to watch their young, so that I might aim my canon unhindered at your witless underlings, that is my Prerogative, *little Autobot*! And *you* will do well not to turn attention to anything less insignificant than the extinguishing of your loved ones’ sparks!”

Wow, ok. Optimus had struck a nerve and delivered them all a death wish.

Some self sacrificing might be his only saving grace here- Actually, leaving right now and calling this a very badly failed experiment was probably the best thing to do-

“It was sweet.” Bumblebee, who’d been under strict orders *not* to speak, then said. Much too firmly, much too loudly, much too certainly. Much too unbothered by how inappropriate it was.

All optics locked like heat seekers on the minibot, but he only had his sights set on Blitzwing. Blitzwing who flicked his wings, his face spinning several times over before finally settling on blue again. A look of plain horror in his features. Then his optics averted as the ground became all too interesting -though not interesting enough to keep him from questioning his entire existence, or why it’d been the focus of the minibot’s just now.

It was a pitiful display of ‘Con-ness, and Megatron was about ready to pull off a wing and beat him back into a figure of dominance in front of their enemy forces with it.

Lugnut, who went from terribly confused to mortified at the news, stood there open servoed and gawking between the Lieutenant and his High Commander. Megatron pressed finger pads to his temples.

Wonderful.

This whole thing had surely become the greatest, most embarrassing blunder in the entirety of Autobot and Decepticon history.

To whatever was left of the neutrals in the galaxy, this whole thing would read like something out of organic adolescent literature -Where the lead girl going through an emotional crisis would call out the moody, bad boy for having a soft streak. And his moment of self reflection and kindness would come off as charming and redeeming. Not to Decepticons, it wouldn’t -In this book, such a thing ended with the ‘bad boy’ snatching away the spinal strut of the accusing Autobot and disposing of it.

Optimus, correctly, knew an embarrassed ‘Con was a self conscious one, and one likely to cover their insecurity up by crushing down the source of it.

Blitzwing seemed to choose that moment to come back to himself and refute Bumblebee’s claims of their misperceived altruism, and that it was ‘sweet’.

~WHIRR~

“Ze only thing sveeter vould be ze taste of jour Energon, spilling from jour throat! I vill twist jour head right off jour shoulders, Bug Bot!”

Bumblebee didn’t even flinch. If anything, he looked more determined.

“You can decapitate me, but the memory file will always right here!” Bee promised, poking a finger against his helm at his brain module- making a far greater affront to Blitzwing’s person than the threat of being beheaded ever was.

It earned shocked, awkward silence from everyone -everyone except an increasingly steadfast Optimus. But especially the flushing triple changer whose face had finally settled back to blue. His least erratic headspace, though undoubtedly his most conniving.

Truly, Optimus hated how intimate this had weirdly become, if only because the Decepticons were the ones who had taken it in this direction. They did a good thing, it deserved acknowledging- at least because it bred the potential for peace. Even the temporary kind.

But then that had to be twisted into some outrageous personal offense on their characters. As if slogging through the wreckage they regularly left of the city wasn’t a far worse offense to Optimus and his kin for the blatant and intentional disrespect. They’d earned their titles as bombarding thugs, and somehow proving themselves of having healthy morals made for a worse reputation in their book.

Bumblebee stood with fists clenched, completely determined to see this through. If he had to say the hard things for everyone’s sake, which would likely result in the humiliation of a bunch of destructive war frames 4 to 6 times their sizes, then he would. Whether it ended with his untimely deaths via crushing and dismemberment or not.

He was going to tell it like it was, slaggit!

Blitzwing hadn’t had to shelter Jamal in the shade of his wing. He hadn’t had to search the city for one useless organic. He hadn’t had to waste all that time while he was leaking from his wounds and making himself a greater target for a successful ambush. He hadn’t had to be gentle. He hadn’t had to comfort the child or try to make him laugh. He hadn’t had to raise him above his helm when he fitted between tight spaces with his massive frame to avoid the child becoming claustrophobic.

Blitzwing hadn’t had to do anything, but be his natural, chaotic self and revel in a forlorn little boy’s terror and misery. And he hadn’t done that, either.

Bumblebee felt his purpose anew. A wave of courage reached him then- the smallest amongst his peers and enemies, yet with possibly the loudest voice.

“You were really fragging nice for, like, *no reason*! You’re telling me we can’t *try* to work something out?! You’re all clearly capable of listening!”

Bumblebee was trying to capitalize off of what Optimus had opened with. ‘You and your kin are sensible bots, Megatron.’ 

Which that was actually a little questionable, but if it wasn’t actually *true*, Megatron wouldn’t have known when to accept good advice and come to this sudden arrangement to meet in person without his guns blazing and swords swinging in the first place.

So there was that at least...

And there’d been no counter attacks thus far into this painful blight, or any secret ambushes waiting. He hoped... which made Bee wonder what Optimus had said exactly to get the leader of deceptive, deceiving, untrustworthy ruffians to come peacefully into this rendezvous in the first place. He’d have to ask him when they inevitably vented about this later in the privacy of his room.

Optimus had always been suspiciously quiet about his thoughts on Megatron as a mech and his peculiar kindness during their little midnight get togethers....

But enough of that. Blitzwing was three shades darker than Bumblebee had ever seen him, and even less, had thought him capable of.

“I mean, *I* want to work this out!” He continued on boldly, as no one of sound mind thought to stop him.

“I’m ready to make a change!”

“Obviously, little fool. It is for *your* benefit!” Megatron barked, finally finding his voice.

Bumblebee didn’t take the bait.

“No, screw that! I’d just like to actually see you guys being cool for once!” Which was as close as he could get to saying, ‘I’d like to be friends’, since Bee wasn’t the ‘friendship is magic and beautiful’ type, and he wasn’t particularly starved for friendships.

It was just that the actual idea that they could potentially coexist on this terrible planet without running at each other with stingers and cannons raised at every encounter was more appealing to him than anything right now.

And maybe.... Yes. Yes, having a ‘Con for a friend did sound appealing, too. The first instance of such a thing in the records of their heavily doctored history books? Frag yeah!

And friends with Blitzwing? It was surreal, impossible sounding. Bee would never dispute that.

He could only attest to how much it’d burn him if the obvious potential for something good to finally happen since his wayward academy days -after an entire lifecycle of enduring problem authority figures who’d easily dismissed his own potential- just standing right here in front of him, both in person and in perfect memory banks, went to waste.

For it to all slip away from them just like that, regardless of how close they were or weren’t to making a real step towards change... The first possible ceasefire in their history- the first possible recording of Decepticon hospitality maybe! He certainly hadn’t heard anything of it before.

He couldn’t let it go.

And all Bumblebee could do was thank Optimus, despite his flaws and insecurities and endless worries, for thinking it worthwhile to extend a kindness of his own to the admittedly most undeserving of mechs.

Now this Optimus was the one he could follow. Bumblebee made a mental note to be more responsive to his comms when Optimus called, and be attentive to his leader’s requests of him. No matter how boring they’d undoubtedly be -like monitor duty. Optimus clearly meant well.

Bumblebee looked from Optimus, unaware he’d been staring at the blue mech, to Megatron. Hoping to find some kind of positive feedback.

What he got was beyond surprising.

A destroyer of worlds looking suspiciously calm all at once.

“If you truly expect us to end hostilities between our factions for the remainder of our time on this putrid planet, you are asking for the truly impossible. We have an agenda and a schedule to keep.” Megatron looked like he was making to reach for his sword before his servos then settled on his hips. Chin jutting up in defiance. And then-

“Regardless, I will consider it.... It’s unlikely to be considered seriously, however.”

“Fine.” Optimus said before Bee could embarrass them all anymore and undo this tremendous, *tremendous* -and vague- progress.

“Take all the time you need- so long as you don’t forfeit this agreement by endangering us or the locals in anyway.”

Megatron had already turned his back to them, ready to take flight. He stopped to throw a deeply insulted look over his shoulder.

“It isn’t an ‘agreement’, Autobot. You haven’t promised us anything in return.”

“We promise not to intervene in your world domination, so long as it doesn’t harm anyone.” Optimus smiled the slightest bit. Clearly being a cheeky afthole on purpose.

Bumblebee wanted to ask how that was somehow better than any annoying thing he’d just had the gull to say, but the ‘Cons were gone with the concept of a possible truce in the making, and Optimus so rarely smiled like *that* that Bee couldn’t think to badger him.

In the pleasant silence that followed -a silence born of pride and relief that’d they’d managed their first ever negotiation and survived- Ratchet was the first to speak.

“What the entire hell, you two?”

And Prowl agreed.

———- ———— —————

“Zey vant us to avoid ze humans.” Blitzwing stood there in confused shock, stating the obvious because of it.

Back in the safety of their lair, Megatron felt more freedom to cycle between mustering up his absolute outrage and allowing it to dwindle into careful consideration. He didn’t stay either angry or placative for long, twisting between the two so furiously, he was soon at the point that the feelings were indistinguishable, and he was closely approaching a sort of agreeableness born purely from stubbornness.

Stubbornness, of all things, that he might prove himself as capable as ever of standing tall and unmovable against the most impossible, unlikely insanity Primus might throw his way. 

This...whatever this was..... was a different sort of challenge, though- not one he felt compelled to bend to. He had plans to conquer the universe after all, and with ambitions like that, it left little room if any to entertain the idea of peace for the sake of peace for even a short amount of time.

Why should he bother? The Autobots weren’t worth a truce- this starry eyed Prime wasn’t worth one. Never mind that he had been the first Autobot in Megatron’s long lifecycle to offer his respect enough to negotiate this -as impossibly unrealistic as it was, or as ridiculous as he’d been to do so.

Never mind, either, that a Prime at least had much greater authority to consult the Magnus about the real possibility of an official truce, should things go accordingly.

...Or that this particular Prime had attempted to make peace with him rather than incite more mindless violence without a thought to Megatron’s conscious capabilities -Think him little more than a primitive killing machine.

Still, Megatron didn’t want peace this way- he didn’t want peace at all.

He wanted victory. He wanted to *win* the war, not talk his way out of it. Not bow to his audacious oppressors. Especially one barely onlined a thousand stellar cycles ago.

He turned towards a blushing Blitzwing, no doubt recalling the events of that living nightmare and the utter embarrassment he’d suffered just hours ago. Stood there drowning in his own creeping horror.

Strika could never hear about this. Not that any of them would be eager to tell another Decepticon soul, of course.

“Fine.” Optimus said before Bee could embarrass them all anymore and undo this tremendous, *tremendous* -and vague- progress.

“Take all the time you need- so long as you don’t forfeit this agreement by endangering us or the locals in anyway.”

Megatron had already turned his back to them, ready to take flight. He stopped to throw a deeply insulted look over his shoulder.

“It isn’t an ‘agreement’, Autobot. You haven’t promised us anything in return.”

“We promise not to intervene in your world domination, so long as it doesn’t harm anyone.” Optimus smiled the slightest bit. Clearly being a cheeky afthole on purpose.

Bumblebee wanted to ask how that was somehow better than any annoying thing he’d just had the gull to say, but the ‘Cons were gone with the concept of a possible truce in the making, and Optimus so rarely smiled like *that* that Bee couldn’t think to badger him.

In the pleasant silence that followed -a silence born of pride and relief that’d they’d managed their first ever negotiation and survived- Ratchet was the first to speak.

“What the entire hell, you two?”

And Prowl agreed.

———- ———— —————

“Zey vant us to avoid ze humans.” Blitzwing stood there in confused shock, stating the obvious because of it.

Back in the safety of their lair, Megatron felt more freedom to cycle between mustering up his absolute outrage and allowing it to dwindle into careful consideration. He didn’t stay either angry or placative for long, twisting between the two so furiously, he was soon at the point that the feelings were indistinguishable, and he was closely approaching a sort of agreeableness born purely from stubbornness.

Stubbornness, of all things, that he might prove himself as capable as ever of standing tall and unmovable against the most impossible, unlikely insanity Primus might throw his way. 

This...whatever this was..... was a different sort of challenge, though- not one he felt compelled to bend to. He had plans to conquer the universe after all, and with ambitions like that, it left little room if any to entertain the idea of peace for the sake of peace for even a short amount of time.

Why should he bother? The Autobots weren’t worth a truce- this starry eyed Prime wasn’t worth one. Never mind that he had been the first Autobot in Megatron’s long lifecycle to offer his respect enough to negotiate this -as impossibly unrealistic as it was, or as ridiculous as he’d been to do so.

Never mind, either, that a Prime at least had much greater authority to consult the Magnus about the real possibility of an official truce, should things go accordingly.

...Or that this particular Prime had attempted to make peace with him rather than incite more mindless violence without a thought to Megatron’s conscious capabilities -Think him little more than a primitive killing machine.

Still, Megatron didn’t want peace this way- he didn’t want peace at all.

He wanted victory. He wanted to *win* the war, not talk his way out of it. Not bow to his audacious oppressors. Especially one barely onlined a thousand stellar cycles ago.

He turned towards a blushing Blitzwing, no doubt recalling the events of that living nightmare and the utter embarrassment he’d suffered just hours ago. Stood there drowning in his own creeping horror.

Strika could never hear about this. Not that any of them would be eager to tell another Decepticon soul, of course.

“We will play along.” He said at last.

“We will convince these self-important zealots that we are willing to pursue peace within our factions, only to strike when the time is right.”

Blitzwing seemed to be lost to himself- unnervingly set on a single blue face. Lugnut at his side raised his servos in an ‘All hail our glorious leader!’. Not assuming to question his greatness, even when it was well within questioning.

Where was Starscream when you needed her?

——- ———— ——- -

Evidently, Starscream was around just inconveniently enough to ruin much of Megatron’s plan.

Starscream was anything but a team player, and when she’d caught wind of a truce, of Megatron’s presumed compliance, Megatron was suddenly pressed with the issue of whether or not to let her in on his little conniving plan, in fear she may undo all his potential work in an effort to expose and eliminate him, or if he should allow her to believe a bit of it and go on a rampage telling every possible Decepticon comm frequency within range about their exuberant leader’s sudden bout of madness.

“I told you all he was going senile, but you didn’t listen to meee~ Did youuu?” She’d mock. She’d flutter her wings and puff out her chest plates, striking a pose similar to the one she’d assume during her imaginary inauguration as the new Decepticon leader.

Thinking about it was boiling the Energon in Megatron’s fuel lines.

No matter how he played this, he was losing his respect somewhere. He supposed upon further contemplation that it’d be easier to win his legion’s faith in him far easier than it’d be to come across this sort of precious opportunity again. There wouldn’t be another extension of kindness on an Autobot’s end for the rest of history after this, and it was a wonderful thing to take advantage of.

“So it’s *true* then?!” Starscream screeched, voice ringing through every twisting tunnel inside the cavern. Megatron felt his optic twitch.

“You’ve gone and made *friends* with the cushy little Autobots?!”

Starscream then tucked a claw under her chin and seemed to reconsider this. As Megatron had initially -and unsurprisingly- imagined, a wicked grin began to stretch her sneering lips.

“Why Megatron~ Won’t your loyal followers be *thrilled* to hear the good news... A new golden age on the horizon for Cybertronians everywhere. Even the ones who’ve been *banished* from their home world.”

Lugnut made to defend Megatron’s honor and correct the punishable offense that was assuming their grand leader’s compromise to the Autobot cause when the ex-gladiator promptly silenced him.

“Am I to assume that you will be the one to deliver this good news?” It couldn’t hurt to look vulnerable in front of Starscream when it was to lower the air headed seeker’s guard. It’d worked every other time.

“Why *yes*, it’d be my honor in fact! My ‘Dear Leader’~”

Not that Megatron had actually needed that confirmation. It was good to get a general sense of the basis of what false accusations would come against him though -and quite soon, he imagined.

He supposed damage control wouldn’t be too impossible a thing to maneuver if the transgressions his lot would perceive were as unlikely -and possibly even dismissible, coming from Starscream- as his defection to the Autobots.

Those who’d even believe it to be true would be doubly ingratiated to him when his plans inevitably succeeded. Renewing their faith and encouraging them to grovel for forgiveness- remembering then who they owed trust and loyalty to.

Starscream cackled like a hag and fluttered off, taking her sweet time on the way out. Certain Megatron was beyond all his cognitive functions at this point and wouldn’t chase after her.

Megatron watched her go, distantly hoping something as preposterous as her catching her broad shoulders between the rock clusters in her leisurely escape would happen to entertain his processor from the mounting stress of having his hard earned reputation soon sullied. No matter how temporary that relief would be.

——- ———— ———

He was forced to put everything into motion immediately after that. Luckily, the Autobot Prime didn’t have any reservations with this- nor any added stipulations. Just ‘keep the human populace out of harm’s way’.

Of course, that being exactly what Optimus had asked for was in itself the most audacious request anyone had ever made of him. And Starscream had once asked to have his throne for the duration of her report upon returning from the outer sector because ‘her thrusters hurt’.

This unlawfully sassy firetruck was essentially asking that he give up all his rampages and aerial strikes -and the fated Cybertronian battle as a whole- as there was practically nowhere they could go and nothing they could do about their efforts to undo the Autobot forces that didn’t directly disturb the lives of the humans infesting this gritty globe.

When he’d used the term ‘audacious’ every time before, he’d really meant ‘boundless, unlimited, unequivocal entitlement’. Even worse than Straxxus and Starscream.

The Prime thought he was being smart by working around that one ‘simple’ demand -leave the fauna and humans alone. As if it was a small request and entirely reasonable. It left Megatron powerless to do *anything* and rendered his efforts in every personal goal of his useless.

Which led him to wonder if Optimus was *actually* seriously expecting him to agree to that. Really, honestly, truly.

How stupid could he be? How blindingly hopeful?

“This is, er, surprising, I’ll admit...” The Prime murmured, having the unfortunate lack of awareness that Megatron wasn’t being any bit genuine enough to be flustered by this, too.

So young...

It’d be endearingly naive, if Megatron wasn’t easily reminded of the absolute absurdity of the whole thing -including his own contribution of such with this little plan of his that’d better prove beneficial- weighing at the forefront of his processor.

Really, even after his success, this would haunt him for vorns to come. He’d never been so foolish to waste time on such a speck of a sparkbeat before.

“I suppose, um, we should get started.” Optimus murmured

That perked Megatron’s attention, wondering what was more was to come now that’d he’d falsely agreed to this.

“And you are referring to...?”

“Hm?” Optimus blinked up at him then.

“Oh. Further negotiations.” He explained.

Megatron had to tamp down his honest confusion at that. Firstly, how important did this self-righteous Prime think he was? ‘Further negotiations’? Did Ultra Magnus -the old, fragger- even know about this? He couldn’t have, or else the matter of this entire operation would be thrust over to the appropriate authorities and squashed within moments. Did Optimus think himself a revolutionary?

Secondly-

“You said there would be no further stipulations.”

“There’s not.” Optimus affirmed. “But this is a historical moment for our people.” Optimus sounded like he actually believed that. Like he actually believed any of this...

“And this will require a delicate approach. I need to be certain you are being genuine, and that you intend to take this seriously.”

Well, Optimus was smarter than Megatron was giving him credit for, he guessed. He supposed he should know somewhat better by now. The Prime had proved a worthy adversary a couple times now, if he was being... never mind. He’d rather ignore any credibility this little mech might have.

Optimus continued obliviously.

“In order to ensure that, we need to discuss the needs of you and your comrades for the short term, and what you’ll need going forward to transition into peace time. Your people obviously have different needs than our own, how can we make them comfortable amongst civilian frames?”

Oh. Oh, he *was* serious.

Legitimately serious.

Oh, how utterly adorable~

Megatron could hardly contain a grin.

It was interesting the Autobot had chosen to address the needs of the imposing faction before the doubtlessly disrespectful conditions of his own people first. Conditions like ‘flight frame restrictions’ and ‘requirements for tank types to keep their hefty frames off the main roads’. 

And there was such a sincerity in those bright blue optics that Megatron thought he might laugh right in the young mech’s face and ruin this moment of welcome insanity. He somehow refrained. Somehow.

“Please proceed, Autobot~” Megatron purred, like an incorrigible bastard. Optimus didn’t seemed too disturbed by this, and certainly not enough to dissuade him from lifting his chin and looking him dead in the optics.

“I’m aware that agenda you spoke of before includes heavily conflicting ideas with our own.” Which was an unusually nice way to put it- unusual for the rather blunt Prime. He normally had no qualms being upfront with others. He did say this was all very delicate, so blissfully ignorant to the reality. How disappointed he’d be.

Megatron truly struggled to believe him so naive. Maybe he truly *did* know better and simply hoped to change Megatron’s mind with his authenticity. He could certainly try.

“I ask that you try to push those ill intentions aside for now.”

“You want me to stop planning to overtake our rightful place on the very planet we were given life and then pushed away from, along with any thread of worth we were left to claim for ourselves when your leaders assured you all we were undeserving of it. You want me to pretend to forget all of that for the time being and demonstrate some level of generosity for *your* benefit? You, who serves these leaders. Maybe pretend  I’m not attempting the overthrow of an entire government and its people, too? Is that right?”

To his credit, the smaller mech didn’t budge. 

“Your crimes will have consequences one way or another. That’s unfortunately what’s right for everyone.”

“Oh?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re going to be written out of a future on Cybertron- or your kin. I wouldn’t allow that.”

Well, this was reaching a god complex of some kind, surely. Megatron smiled down with wide optics, embracing the madness of it all. It was for the cause, he reminded himself. If nothing else, it was slagging entertaining.

Though maybe Starscream was right to call him mad.

Megatron pressed him.

“*You* wouldn’t allow it, hm?”

“No, I would not.” Optimus said seriously. Radiant, standing proud, optics turning bright and irritated. Good. What fun for Megatron.

Just to twist a bit, Megatron decided to prick a claw into the little bot’s processor.

“Oh, the Magnus must be *so* pleased with your work here, little one~ He must think you a hero.”

At that, Optimus went eerily quiet.

Ha! Just as Megatron had thought.

“Whatever Ultra Magnus’ feelings may be, you are Cybertronian, and you deserve your citizenship, should you accept a ceasefire.”

Megatron stopped smiling.

“And I’m sure you would agree,” Optimus’ finials twitched with the effort not to droop.

“That Ultra Magnus can be inflexible at times, and often unreachable.” Especially when it was Optimus who was doing the reaching.

The little mech was struggling all at once to meet the other’s gaze.

Megatron subconsciously leaned into him. Surely making a terrifying spectacle of them both to their ever watchful followers gathered at a distance in the event of an altercation. But his razor sharp claws remained carefully at his sides and easy to spot.

“That’s why I’m trying to ensure that this arrangement won’t be immediately turned away when I inform him. I’m taking quite a risk involving my team as it is.”

“So, perhaps, this isn’t worth the risk.” Megatron said, echoing Prowl’s consistent advice on the matter.

Optimus took it in stride, choosing not to let fear, and doubt, and inexperience decide for him how brave he could be when it was clearly needed of him. Or keep Megatron from taking the easy way out of this. Change would require constant effort on both their parts.

This was a once in a lifecycle opportunity.

And while really anyone else would be better suited for this position -Prowl with his unbothered confidence, Bumblebee with his strong sense of spark to lead him, Bulkhead with his compassion and understanding, Racthet with his logic and practicality, and even Sari with her determination- Optimus was going to try to make this work. Because he’d gotten them all into this and he was going to at least put himself at blame when it all went up in fire. The fire of their sparkless shells, most likely.

He looked to Megatron, optics speaking of anything but certainty or that idea the warlord had had of self righteousness, and said simply,

“It’s worth it.”

——- ——- ———-

Megatron hadn’t said when exactly they were going to ‘strike’ the Autobots down, but upon the third ‘negotiation’, Blitzwing was starting to wonder if they were in this for the long haul. What a heist this would be when it was all over.

Megatron’s earlier display of his outstanding patience being held captive on a foreign planet without use of his own body was proof of his ability to endure and resist- it certainly nothing to scoff at. He could wait as long as necessary for the perfect moment to strike.

He hadn’t led an army with such masterful precision and skill for millennia by fluke.

Truly, his confidence in himself was a live and dangerous thing, and it spawned many acts of the greatness you’d find in the honorable Decepticon literature of their leader. But upon their return to base from the fourth negotiation, there was a stifling, unsettled air about the mech. Primus only knew what abhorrent things the Autobot Prime was attempting to demand of them.

Under Lugnut’s curious prodding, Megatron shut him down with a very strict, “Confidential”.

Which that made zero sense at all.

They were plotting to overthrow them eventually, weren’t they? The details certainly didn’t matter -So why protect them?

What Megatron chose to keep private was his business, and the rest of them would do well not to disrupt his thin tolerance for the questioning of his authority. But Megatron also had never had a reason to lie to any of them about their plans to dominate and destroy- Starscream was the only bot that deserved and regularly earned his deception. Something he didn’t turn on his own people much if ever these days. Not with the stagnant state of things after the war.

Blitzwing tried not to dwell on it, which was easy enough when he was forced every few days to come and stand on guard with a bunch of Autobot lackeys, soaking up any free processor power he might have to feel conspiratorial. One such Autobot consisting of that dreadful bug bot...

He always stood much too close. Always talked for damn near the entire affair.

An abysmal affair at that- the lot of them wasting away in either wind or rain or the blistering sun. Forced to get along for the time being.

Unlikely, so long as Bumblebee and Prowl existed within the same space as each other, arguing about nature and technology -*of all things*- while their very reality was crumbling around them. And clearly this was a frequent discussion of their’s.

Blitzwing hadn’t met a mech such as Prowl so infatuated with the organic matter in the universe. Even Blackarchnia, half organic, was looking to rid herself of the affliction.

“You would be happier if this planet was completely technological in makeup- if nature had never existed here.” Prowl ‘observed’.

Bumblebee scoffed- as if having come loaded on a camping trip with computerized junk in his chassis once didn’t prove just how deeply his disrespect for nature ran.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying!”

“Hmph. What a boring existence that would be-“

“*We* are made of technology, you half processored-“

“If the universe was devoid of this organic phenomenon on every planet, in every star system-“

“Do you believe in the Big Bang theory, Prowl?” Bee side blinded-on purpose- using a term he’d heard Sari only ever use once for study purposes and with only half the context for what it actually was.

Prowl knew a Bumblebee-setup when he heard one, and he wasn’t about to do battle with Bee’s straw man.

“I’m not familiar with it -Or how it *correlates*.”

“Basically these giant rocks crashed together 13 billion something years ago, and it sparked the entire universe into being!” Bumblebee looked ready to pull him into some kind of nonsensical ‘gotcha moment’.

“I don’t think that’s right, firstly. And I don’t understand how that correlates, still.”

“Just answer the question, Prowl! Do you believe in it?” Bumblebee rambled, refusing to make sense of things first. A mech of immediate satisfaction, and wishing mostly to hear that he was right about Primus knew what.

“I mean Cybertron is supposedly 10 billion years old, so that lines up with the timeline.”

“It does not.” Blitzwing huffed, unable to stay uninvolved in their madness. The Radom slice of himself, buried in the back of his subconscious, was itching to scream into the insanity presenting itself. He just couldn’t waste an opportunity...

Miraculously, Blitzwing didn’t give in to that side of his processor, only endeavoring to scratch that itch well enough to silence the urges.

“Zere is debate about the planet’z existence before zis, but ve know for certain zhat ze Allspark was a permanent fixture before time even began”

“Y’all are giving me a crisis.” Bulkhead mumbled mostly to himself, having sat through plenty of Prowl and Bee’s bickering to his breaking point before. But there was a genuine tremor of something like fear in his voice.

Blitzwing thought it was certainly odd to meet a bot who was squeamish about an existential subject. They were a practical people about such matters like life and death- for the most part. Even Starscream had seemed relatively unbothered by living on without a spark to bring into the afterlife. If perhaps she would simply cease to exist without one at some point.

Bulkhead, apparently, was less content with this topic.

Lugnut, who was watching Prime outright bark at Megatron like a yappy, little lap dog, his master answering with a laugh of shocked amusement, tuned into their squabbling just in time to hear of Bulkhead’s peculiar discomfort.

“I understand your despair, Large One.” He  turned to him and placed a servo to his chest. 

“I cannot imagine my life without Lord Megatron in it again! An uncertain existence is a terrifying thing!” And everything without Megatron’s guidance meant uncertainty to him. Blitzwing had seen how he’d faired the single time he thought his master actually dead.

“You’re one to be throwing ‘Large One’ around like that.” Bumblebee grumbled.

Bulkhead seemed rather thankful for the massive menace throwing his two cents in all the same.

In a strange sort of camaraderie, Bulkhead felt compelled to expand upon that.

“How did you meet Megatron?”

He wasn’t sure they’d had enough neutral interaction to actually receive a civil response from the bomber plane, but Lugnut was clearly thrilled to have the chance to enlighten them all about Megatron in any capacity. There certainly wasn’t anything about this in the Autobot’s military profile of him.

“Over 6 million years ago, I had the grand and marvelous pleasure of first meeting Lord Megatron in the gladiatorial arena, and I was promptly acquainted with the depths of my ineptitude! He ‘wiped the floor with me’, as the organics say!”

Bumblebee -leaning against Prowl, who was sitting against a tree- bolted upright.

“Whoa, whoa- wait! How *old* is Megatron?!” He squeaked when he’d put it all together. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had lessons on this in the academy. Megatron was a popular subject. The most popular subject probably.

Prowl waited patiently for Lugnut to rock his educationally delinquent world.

“It does not matter! Lord Megatron believes his life only truly began when he found his cause, leading the Decepticons! 14 million years ago!” Lugnut bellowed, eager to sing praises of his master and doing so entirely too loudly. It earned the attention of their respective leaders from afar- finials pricked high on the Prime’s helm. 

Optimus didn’t know what that was about, but the outburst served as some kind of reminder, as those finials then dipped low, as he regarded the towering figure before him once more. A mech roaming the plane of existence for far longer than he maybe ever would, if these negotiations ended violently.

Megatron, however, just looked perfectly annoyed.

“You seem to be in love with the guy.” Bulkhead said then, and it was so far removed from him to make a joke in a time as tense as a faction wide peace treaty, one ready to end in bloodshed the second one of them got too friendly and crossed a line. A peace treaty that was teetering on the edge of a total collapse, as the other Autobots were half convinced the ‘Cons were taking Optimus for a joy ride.

All of them except Bumblebee.

“Jesus!” He squealed, when he successfully reset his vocalizer. “Frag! You bots are *ancient*!”

“And you thought I was old.” Ratchet grumbled. Servos crossed, as far removed from their chaos as possible, as they stood there waiting.

If they could only do this somewhere more comfortable with someplace to sit....

“You *are* old.” Bumblebee assured him. “Why aren’t *they* falling apart like you are?”

“I *am* in love with him!” Lugnut then shouted in response to Bulkhead, choosing to say so much too loudly once more. This time Megatron hid his face in his hands.

Blitzwing excused himself from whatever *this* conversation was to stalk about the edge of the invisible line the two faction leaders had drawn, in an attempt to keep some privacy to these negotiations. Optimus surely assuming Megatron would be more open to talking that way.

This Prime hadn’t accounted for Megatron’s magnificent crassness when it came to speaking his truth, then. After the words ‘brainless floozy’ had once left his vocalizer without even the excuse of being overcharged, Blitzwing knew he wasn’t worried about his brash etiquette in public, and that he himself would never have to censor his tongue around the mech.

Regardless, Blitzwing kept his appropriate distance and remained quiet. He only needed a moment away from all the noise, finding himself frequently overwhelmed by such. The struggle to remain cordial in a time where it was necessary a constant battle.

When the voices in his head became too loud, it was easy to direct his frustration on another equally frustrated being- like any other Decepticon at arms length. This pretend peace treaty left him grasping at straws as it was -despite the art of deception frequently requiring the uncouth and undesirable in any strategy his sort devised- and it was becoming a challenge to keep a grip on his sanity in order to appear collected and patient.

An effort at the best of times.

Naturally, Bumblebee chose that moment to come over and make it worse- had the audacity to roll up on the heel of his wheels and look bored with everything.

“Dude, I get it. Those guys are so annoying.” The minibot said, waving a servo back at the others in the purest lack of self awareness to ever exist.

“*Oh, do jou*?” Blitzwing ground out, honestly baffled. He should just turn away right now before he reached the point of no return and flattened the little scrap.

He had enough reason to as it was for outing him before. In front of *everybody*... Like he wasn’t haunted with the inescapable reality of his actions in the dead of the night cycle.

Lugnut naturally overlooked their glorious leader’s involvement in the whole debacle, but *Blitzwing*? Oh, no. He had to suffer some serious mockery over his comm link for his pathetic display. As if he wasn’t disappointed with himself enough already.

Bumblebee either didn’t care about how totally pissed off he was making the giant, or his obliviousness was astonishing.

“Yeah, I totally do! Here,” He said, reaching into his sub space which jingled ominously with the sound of far too much junk for one little chassis to hold safely. If Blitzwing stepped on him, would he pierce his stabilizer on something sharp that shouldn’t be in anyone’s sub space, let alone a compact model? Did he have woofers in there?

Bumblebee pulled out a handheld device and turned it on one servoed, his other kept digging. Blitzwing was equal parts impressed and disgusted.

“This is what I do when the chaos gets to be too much.” The bug said, handing him the device -a game console. Likely the one Blitzwing had caught him playing around on many times before when he was supposed to be patrolling the streets.

“Iz zere ever zuch a time for jou, jou little pot stirrer?” Blitzwing snapped, unable to keep up the pleasantries with his broken peace of mind. If he had to stand here and play buddy-buddy with the source of his greatest humiliation yet -worse than sleeping through a mandatory aerial strike before he’d even earned a designation for himself- he might break his beloved game device over the point of those horns.

“Slag, yeah, definitely- Bossbot is the greatest mech I know, and I’m not just sayin’ that. But he is the tensest, most boring, most painfully stoic fragger in the universe. Getting him to smile is a chore, and I’m the funny guy around here.”

Bumblebee reached over and did something with the device, and the screen flickered on, making sure to mute the volume. This was supposed to be a serious occasion and all.

“Zen leave him in peace and don’t bother him.”

“Nah, I can’t do that.” Bee said seriously.

“I care about him way too much to see him waste away into whatever’s wrong with Ratchet.”

Blitzwing snorted, unfortunately very amused by all this. He allowed the minibot to fiddle with the thing in his hands and stand much too close to him. Like he always did.

“The goal is to collect spraycans and deface the city with ‘em.” Bumblebee instructed when an avatar appeared on screen. Blitzwing was quietly delighted by that objective and decided he could indulge the little fool this. It wasn’t a terrible way to whittle the time.

Until the bot started talking again -just as Blitzwing mastered the controls, of course.

“You missed a whole row of them!” He whined.

Blitzwing was infinitely less invested in doing well at this than him, but his already flaring temper made it hard not to take offense.

“Zis is just a game, jou know.”

“That you bite at.”

“I’m sure jou can do better, and zat iz good enough reason for me not to take zis seriously. Anyzing jou might have accomplished can’t pozzibly be vorth celebrating.”

“You would do so well in Fortnight.” Bumblebee said with a distant look in his optic.

“I’ll have you verbally destroy all the raging neckbeards on there. It’s mostly a children’s game, though, so spare the kiddos.”

“What are jou even saying?”

“Hit X! Brake this window for 15 points!” Bee shouted, by some divine intervention not attracting Megatron’s wrath to them with it.

Blitzwing did as told, maneuvering the joycons as best as he could with the immense difference in the size of their servos.

“Vhat do ze points do, exactly?”

“Oh! I’m saving them up for the ninja costume. Uh.... Don’t tell Prowl. Don’t want him thinking he’s cool, ya know?”

Blitzwing wondered for just a moment if he was actually having fun doing this. In the comfortable small talk that followed, he was able to forget this little creature beside him was his enemy and that he was stuck in the hot sun pretending to be a peaceful ‘Bot lover for an undefined amount of time. No doubt a laughing stock with a pretty, red target on his helm from whatever ‘Cons out roaming the wild had gotten an audial full from Starscream. It was admittedly hard to recharge with the thought of thousands of other Decepticons thinking he’d defected, even though it was perfectly likely, too, no one would even believe what Starscream had to say. Whoever she’d reached in her travels.

“Are you gonna start playing this when we come out here?” Bumblebee asked, possibly sounding a smidge too hopeful the other might say yes.

At Blitzwing’s curious look, Bee corrected himself.

“Tryin’ to figure out if I can just keep your points or if I have to make you an account, too.”

“I don’t vant ze points- or an account.”

“Ok, good-“

~WHIRR~

“Unlez zere iz a bird costume!”

Bumblebee made a strangled noise.

“A what?!”

He nearly swatted the things out of Blitzwing’s grip with how quickly he turned on him.

~WHIRR~

“Like a bird.” Blitzwing continued, unfazed.

“Wh-why...? That? I don’t...”

Blitzwing shrugged.

“I vant ze vings.” He said simply.

“Like mine.” And flicked his wing struts out to illustrate.

Bee looked him over. Probably thinking much too hard about the significance of this strange moment.

He failed to keep the mocking from his voice when he said, “Well, I mean. Hm. There is an *angel* costume you could wear.”

Blitzwing considered. This little avatar Bumblebee had made, scooting around on speed skates and stealing spray cans, breaking public property, then wearing an angel costume. And the wings...

Good enough.

“Ja, ja, I’ll take it.” Blitzwing nodded enthusiastically.

Bee, despite the loss of his months worth of accumulated points, smiled. Happier than he thought he’d be to forfeit them in order for Blitzwing to get those stupid wings.

“Ok, dude. They’re gold and stuff, too, so they’re actually pretty cool.”

——— ————- ———-

Megatron knew he’d receive word one way or another -whether via assassination attempt or comm link- when the others had heard about this giant misunderstanding. This excruciating, preposterous misunderstanding that Megatron was *truly* slated to change his ways for the Autobot cause, only made worse by the Prime’s genuine concern for their future coupling as a people, all with movements for equal rights pushed more aggressively upon each ‘negotiation’.

Megatron had decided after that tremor in Optimus’ vocalizer when he’d tried to assure Megatron, as much as himself, that they could teach the civilian builds to trust in their core that they were all sentient beings with sparks deserving of nurture and acceptance that it was time to strike. It was time to end this.

This was becoming painful, and it shouldn’t be.

It should only be a fun little game for him of how far he could push this stuck up stick in the mud before the Prime either denied his autonomy out of frustration, as most were keen to do, or labeled him a classless brute beyond reasoning and earned himself a severed limb.

It never came to that, though, no matter how much Megatron pushed, and no matter how much Optimus pushed back. The disrespect or even the fundamental mistreatment associated with the Cybertron elite never came. He never thought to back out of this attempt at a ‘future together’. 

Optimus never even felt those unfavorable ways about him in secret, probably...

Maybe.

That was hard to consider- it felt foolish to, almost like Megatron was hoping it true. But it seemed eerily likely. 

Megatron had had enough- this game had lost its appeal.

Eager to end it, he prepared to deliver some amazing plan to his underlings that didn’t give away how much of a waste of their time this had all been, now that he was unwilling to go through with it. And then, like Primus was real and spiteful as the day Megatron had first onlined his optics, waiting for this exact moment to deliver swift justice upon him, Megatron finally received word of the deeply terrifying consequence from his people for his actions.

Without a sub space communicator to reach anywhere far enough to contact his forces, it was all very horrifying that it was Cyclonus who was the first to contact him *in person*. Having apparently traveled at break neck speed all the way from the Magnokor Asteroids through mysterious means to reach him. Unlikely, and exaggerated, but he was here wasn’t he?

He was here...

Oh, Spark....

Megatron almost faltered right there at the sight of him slicing through wind currents, his metal frame still scorching upon his impact with the Earth’s mesosphere. He stopped just shy of the ground, projecting the sort of deranged panic with his abrupt landing and transformation into bipedal mode that only he could.

Megatron steeled himself for a madness rivaling Blitzwing’s.

“Lord Megatron! Lord Megatron! I came as quickly as I could!”

“Are there others close by?” Megatron asked. He would like to know how many times over he’d have to explain himself if there were. And how many mechs might be aiming something at his spark chamber right now.

“I operate alone!”

Typical. That was one less thing, though, he suppo-

“Team Athena.” Megatron whispered hoarsely. If Cyclonus had heard the horrible news, Strika had, too.

*Strika*. *Not*... *Strika*...

She wouldn’t let him hear the end of this extravagant screw up. Also typical that Cyclonus had left her and the rest to come bother Megatron while he could have him all to himself. If only Cyclonus’ interest in him was something as definable as blind loyalty like Lugnut’s.

“Commander Strika is making the appropriate accommodations.” Cyclonus said then, as Megatron must have said something of her out loud. He could hardly be bothered by looking out of sorts in front of his soldiers, though, when the words at once began to form a truer and darker meaning.

‘Accommodations’?

*Strika* of all his faithful kin was about to revolt against him? And she’d believed so *easily* what only Starscream could have shown her of their ‘conversation’.

So Cyclonus had come here to side with his leader and forewarn of her treachery?

Megatron had heard of greater betrayals in his time as a leader. He’d only served lifetimes of it through Starscream. Who else, but Starscream....

Cyclonus was still rambling about something he realized.

“All rebel forces that would act independently are being closely monitored and are under strict orders. Though I can assure you myself, my Lord, they shall *not* challenge your great vision! Commander Strika will see to it herself if she must!”

Megatron then shut his hanging jaw hinge and stared.

“I wouldn’t speak for the blithering masses- ‘Commander’ Starscream, for example. But I have complete confidence that they are as grateful to follow you as I! Your loyal Cyclonus!” Who was suddenly proving his loyalty far more blind than Megatron’d imagined.

Inevitably, Lugnut would have some mild questions about this, and Blitzwing would begin to have his doubts in him. But Megatron could handle two Decepticons versus an entire army who were- *apparently*- ready to accept whatever insanity he’d created for them all.

That was what Cyclonus was telling him in this instant, yes? That the idea of a truce was somehow believable and even worth attempting?

That’s what Optimus had been trying to tell him. 

“....What sort of accommodations is Strika making?”

——— ————-

Optimus felt lighter. Another negotiation under way and Megatron had approached it with far more sincerity then all the ones previous. Meaning they were making progress.

Was it possible Megatron was playing them all for senseless little fools? Optimus would have needed extensive convincing from Primus himself to believe otherwise.

He hoped beyond all his years, full of doubt and little faith in even the most tangible ambitions he’d once had, that he could reach a mech of such horrors as Megatron somehow- if only because he’d witnessed for himself that the mech was capable of some level of benevolence. But this hope he held a bit too closely to his spark -the first hope he’d had for anything since the loss of Elita- was bordering something like delusion.

He knew this. The realist in him knew this.

But that hadn’t squashed the stupid nagging optimism he’d been named after from blossoming in his chest. This optimism, the curse that it was, he’d long since abandoned. Or maybe it had abandoned him.

As they came to meet at an odd hour much later than their usual meetings, beside a riverbank miles outside the city, Optimus was just lucid enough coming out of another sleepless stasis to push his random giddiness at having been contacted aside.

This could be an attack- it was the first time Megatron had ever reached out to *him* for anything since they’d started all this.

He kept that thought in mind when he found the other waiting for him in an almost serene state, stood by the river’s edge, servos crossed. Watching the flow of water, basking in the moonlight. His back fully turned to a very obvious threat. Optimus liked to think himself one, at least...

They’d brought their respective colleagues. If only because Megatron couldn’t shake Lugnut for anything now that he had him, and Blitzwing was oddly competent in handling Optimus’ crew. Ratchet didn’t waste anytime complaining about the hour all the same.

Optimus thought it another small victory that Blitzwing readily agreed with him and assumed their places at a distance, rather than feeding in to any snide comments they’d send each other in the beginning.

Optimus approached the foreboding figure by the bank- reminded vaguely of a jungle cat from one of Prowl’s documentaries when his hips shifted their weight, moving fluidly like the swish of a large tail.

Optimus hadn’t thought about the fullness in his frame before beyond his larger mass. About the additional plates and cords it took to move a mech of such bulk. What kind of power the seams interlocking those weighty plates were capable of to function as effortlessly as those of a gentler frame.

And he continued not to think about that, as he came to a stop behind him.

When Megatron didn’t answer, he bristled at the thought that this might be one of his little power trips by ignoring the Prime. Then he spoke to him with an edge in his voice that Optimus had never had the privilege of hearing before.

It sounded distant and casual- like he was musing with an old friend.

“Much has changed since we began these senseless negotiations.”

Optimus did bristle then, finials sharp.

“They *aren’t* senseless.”

They’d already proven in about 6 of these meetings, depending on if you counted the first proposition, that they were absolutely capable of behaving themselves -cultural and ideological differences, and all.

Megatron sighed, but his tone hadn’t changed.

“You can promise me nothing. For all your efforts, this amounts to little more than a lot of cheap talk.”

Optimus felt vulnerable in that way he’d found that only Megatron could make him feel. When Sentinel reminded him of his value to Autobot society as a defunct and irrelevant piece of it, it was easy enough to ignore. Sentinel was just as incompetent. What good was a Prime that rolled happily in corruption?

When Megatron did it, Optimus could only accept that a capable, experienced general of an entire people knew what he was talking about- Had had to root out the frayed ends of their chain of command and done away with the useless, straggling bits of it himself. Regardless of how violent their actions could be.

Optimus was there, at that straggly bottom.

He’d be the one Megatron would toss away into repair crew duties -if he didn’t kill him. The major flaw of their people, acting frequently in absolutes.

Only.... Ultra Magnus did a lot of that, too.

It was the other way around, he supposed. Meant to be for the good of all, and what was best for Cybertron. It still left many bots damaged and forgotten.

Optimus wouldn’t say he was one of them.... Exactly.

Then Megatron turned, and when he spoke, that edge to his voice that never quite reached whatever emotion it faintly projected struck Optimus deeply, and reminded him painfully without even intending to of his place.

“I will not settle these matters with anyone who can not promise me change. If that person is not you, I am not interested.”

Which sounded also *vaguely* like a compliment. Maybe. Or maybe Optimus was reading to far into it. When Megatron was actually offering those, they usually doubled as insult.

“You just said much has changed.” Optimus tried. That had been his exact phrasing.

Megatron looked to be considering his words extremely carefully then. Likely filtering much of what he wanted Optimus to hear.

“My people have taken some surprising liberties.” He agreed.

Optimus perked. Fear and excitement mingling together.

Megatron continued.

“However, with nothing to ensure these great ideas you have for their future,” the mention of Optimus personally constructing the futures of a people did sound like he was taking liberties.

He flushed.

“Then I must put a stop to it. I cannot allow this to go any further.”

“W-What kind of changes?” Optimus pressed. His spark was beating so hard that his throat felt tight from the Energon pumping through the lines.

‘Change’ could mean anything- but Megatron putting an end to changes that endangered the lives of Autobots everywhere was unlikely.

So, ‘good’ changes then. He wanted to stop something good -for the *Autobots*- from happening, and Optimus couldn’t even process fully that anything positive was actually coming from these negotiations well enough to imagine what kinds of changes those could be. Only that he had to stop Megatron from stopping their progress. No matter how small.

“It is irrelevant.” Megatron said firmly.

“Because you want everything to stop now- Tell me what your kin are doing. We can talk about this-“

Megatron rolled his optics. The most patience he’d ever had for Optimus after he’d clearly struck a nerve. In this case, it was likely him demanding answers of him that would ultimately sacrifice his authority and admit that Optimus was in any way important enough to weigh his opinion on it.

Which they both knew wasn’t true.

“Autobot-“

“My *name* is Optimus Prime.”

“There is nothing more you can do for me. You made an admirable effort for a cause you believe in- I commend you for this. But it’s time we move on. These means are ineffective, and I won’t waste my time further.”

“So, this is over?” Optimus *tried* not to immediately encrypt this into another section of failures he kept on file by instinct.

He gestured towards their respective cohorts having a not so respective conversation about Blitzwing’s vastly developing video game skills, as Bee defended being bested on his high score. It involved the use of many inappropriate hand gestures.

“What will we tell them?” He asked bravely. Or stupidly. They both knew Megatron hadn’t a concern in the entire universe for their thoughts on the matter.

Optimus tried, though.

“The truth.” The bigger mech shrugged.

“The reality is quite simple.”

Optimus didn’t comment on how nice it was seeing everyone in one place, free of violence. Of course that’d appeal to a cushy, little civil frame.

“So now we go back to fighting and just forget everything we’ve accomplished here?” Optimus knew he was dangerously close to sounding plain petulant, and less suited for strategic truce talks.

“What have we accomplished Autobot?”

“Whatever your people are doing, it’s something good! It’s something we can stand behind and build upon, I’m sure of it!” Optimus tried not to sound desperate.

Megatron didn’t look nearly as heated by all this.

“You’ve no idea what they have planned.”

And Optimus wasn’t dumb enough to ask twice. Instead, he took a moment to calm himself and level his straining vents to work at an appropriate speed. It wouldn’t do to hyperventilate because of a shouting match, and come away from this looking like an upset sparkling. Especially because that would mean admitting he’d allowed his hope to consume him and all his rational thought.

This was indeed over, and he would be feeding into that childish optimism again, if he tried to negotiate any further.

He took one last look at Lugnut nodding enthusiastically to whatever Bulkhead was saying and said goodbye to the image of their factions dallying quietly away together until their leaders had finished. This would be the last time, and he’d been ridiculous to think a future like this was achievable with people like Megatron and Ultra Magnus in power of saying otherwise.

“Alright.” Optimus swallowed. It was an effort to.

“Is it too much to ask that we walk away in one piece now?”

Megatron thought killing them all right here and now would make this final exchange and the disappointment he’d be leaving behind in them all much easier. But that would be a great disrespect to Optimus’ work here, and he’d been the only Autobot Megatron could admit he’d had the pleasure of taking seriously.

The only one possibly... definitely worthy of his respect.

“It is not.” He agreed, and he watched Optimus leave with a stiffness in his backstrut that looked nearly painful.

———- ——————

He didn’t think it’d come to this. For Strika to act so absurdly, one of his most sensible commanders and perhaps, honestly, his most trusted. For his ridiculous little plan to spiral so madly out of control. For the Autobots’ and that audacious little Prime to turn something sickening in his chassis when they left that night.

He didn’t expect for it bother him...

Optimus had been an enormous fool, but, unfortunately, a virtuous one. A visionary, even if he didn’t know it, and a fine diplomat.

Ultra Magnus had better be proud of him and more protective of him in the future. Though Megatron knew all too well that was unlikely the case.

He sent Cyclonus away to send word to Strika, whenever it’d reach her, to lift the bans on taking Autobot captives and every other horrible thing she’d done to lessen the destruction of Autobot forces, and to stand by for further instruction.

He didn’t expect to see Cyclonus again after that, but when he did, he was carrying an urgent message from Strika with him, looking beyond exhausted from everything he’d just put his frame through for the last couple weeks, flying until his engines rattled even when he was stationary.

Megatron took it and clicked it on to read ‘Play stupid games, win stupid prizes’ written boldly enough for his pitiful vision to see from space. All in all, Strika seemed rather unbothered by everything that’d transpired this past month.

It was then Megatron realized those orders she’d issued to evacuate Autobot territory, and release captives mostly unharmed, and abstain from pillaging their much need resources, *weren’t* because freedom for all and a world where their people thrived in togetherness had appealed to her. Had moved her to the core or even licked the smallest flame within her spark to seek peace. Of course, not.

Strika’s job wasn’t to fall over herself doting on her master, or turning a blind optic to his shortcomings to save face. Or remaining silent in fear she might say enough blasphemy in one breath offering him council to get herself shunned to the ‘Megazarak table’.

It was to highlight his stupidity when he was exercising it.

She’d done so excruciatingly... and yes, this was definitely her most blasphemous, disrespectful display of doing so, yet.

Megatron felt thoroughly reprimanded. He’d give her a raise for being the first mecha alive to humble him.

Feeling petty, he sent Cyclonus away for good this time with a message of his own.

‘Wasting resources and presuming to undermine me publicly was a greater mistake than the one I made. Starscream is to be brought to me alive for her torture and execution.’

“That is not for your optics.” He warned Cyclonus, and sent him on his weary way. Worried he might fall right out of the sky seconds after lift off.

It was time to get his hands on that subspace communicator and resume those tenacious plans of world domination. He was suddenly reminded of those weird, disproportionate cartoon mice Blitzwing watched sometimes at the thought.

Unfortunately, setting those plans into motion meant dismissing every rule Optimus had tried to set into motion for him since their negotiations had begun. It’d mean running into him and his odd little crew, coming face to face with the Prime and brazenly announcing he was back to pursuing grinding them all into iron filings.

He reminded himself that that was only the logical conclusion to the unfortunate end of things, and that this would not affect him.

Only inconvenience him.

——— —————

Optimus knew with the nonexistent truce off, the people of Earth would be a target again. How would Megatron get anything done without enacting a hefty does of chaos and genocide? And how would he do either without risking the lives of innocent, easily squashed organics?

Optimus thought bitterly of Rebecca and Jamal.

Remembering the past was a waste of his energy. What had happened must have been some random blip in their coding. That marginally explained why both Blitzwing and Megatron were affected at once.

Except, it actually didn’t explain anything.

They’d had enough time to fall back into a somewhat normal routine since their parting on such abhorrent terms. Failure still a bitter taste on the tip of his glossa.

Optimus couldn’t help but actually admit to Bumblebee that he felt stupid for thinking things could be different for so long. Rather that he’d *hoped*, and that was a more punishable offense than going behind the Magnus himself to arrange all these peace talks ever could be.

Bumblebee had taken to moping around his room with him when the others were asleep. A mutual disappointment of the events that’d turned the tides in their favor for such a short time being lost to the winds now. A little taste of victory- hardly even that- but the memory of the lot of them coexisting in quiet and having legitimate conversations with each other was still fresh in their processors. Bumblebee unwilling to let it go, and Optimus unable to forgive himself he’d lost them such a irreplaceable gift.

“It would have been so fraggin’ nice not to have to fight each other all the time.” Bee sighed.

“Well, that goal was unrealistic anyway. There will always be those that oppose change like that.” Optimus stared miserably at his hands in his lap.

“We can’t make everybody happy all of the time.”

Bee scowled at him from across his berth, his chin propped up on one servo.

“That’s some advice you should live by.”

Optimus’ finials twitched. That wouldn’t particularly sound like an accusation, if not for the face the minibot was making at him.

“Care to expand on that?” Optimus asked slowly. A few octaves too low for friendly.

That was one hell of an invitation for a boisterous, unrepentant Bumblebee when he felt he had something he needed to say.

He did seem to stop a moment and consider his words before Primus possessed him with the same foolish courage he’d needed to out a couple of ‘Cons for their soft-sparked squishy moment all those cycles ago.

“I mean.... All due respect, Boss, you aren’t known for your strong backstrut.”

Actually, that was the opposite of ‘all due respect’, and Optimus wasn’t dumb enough to roll over and take it for maturity’s sake and prove him right.

“You’re out of line, Bumblebee.”

The minibot gestured helplessly around him.

“Were you in line when you tried to negotiate peace talks with the fraggin’ Pit Spawn himself?!”

Which was hypocritical when he’d *obviously* encouraged it -had even suggested it. And he’d completely supported Optimus’ choice to do so, too.

But he had a point to make here.

They were both rule breakers, and Prime wasn’t as straight laced as he tried to make himself out to be.

Trying to fit himself into the mold of a good, little, mindless cog in that ever churning machine -Bless him.

Optimus stood and rounded the berth on him. His size admittedly terrifying when his engine was rumbling like that.

“What *exactly* do you want to say to me?”

Bumblebee was only just brave enough to pretend he was more angry than disappointed by everything they- he- had just lost and was misdirecting it on the only other mech who’d been just as hopeful.

“You should stick up for yourself more.” He said plainly. But it was the challenging glint in his brazen stare that spoke of the true viscousness in his words. The kind of look Sentinel often turned his way.

Optimus used all of his patience as a leader, and the nagging responsibility he had to look out for his crew, to train his features into something reprimanding rather than the uncomfortable dread pricking beneath his plating. 

“You think that would have won the Decepticons over? You think I wasn’t confident enough in my convictions?”

Bee knew he should have stopped there, even as he was opening his mouth.

“I definitely don’t think you should have *walked away*.”

Which how could he make that call? He knew he was speaking mostly senselessly with the sole goal of landing a driving punch somewhere on the other. But he’d wanted it so bad at the time, much more than he’d realized he had, that he likely would have stayed and pushed the futile issue if it had been him in Optimus’ place. Which was why he *wasn’t* in his place.

“Out.” Optimus said coldly. The bill of his helmet was tipped down so he couldn’t meet the other’s optics.

Bumblebee was just upset enough to let anger keep him from apologizing and assuring Optimus he was everything he could hope for in a leader and more.

‘More’ definitely including the safe place he’d made just for Bumblebee to come vent about a nefarious war frame without repercussion. Now he’d just have to pretend like none of that mattered to him anymore, as well as Optimus’ peace of mind....

————————-

Sari was plenty ruffled to learn much, much too late that her friends had purposely not included her in this whirlwind slag storm. Surprisingly, she was  more forgiving about what exactly that whirlwind slag storm had actually consisted of.

Trying to level with Megatron and his crew sounded like a genuine enough endeavor, and she couldn’t fault them too much for reaching towards a future without having to kick ‘Con butt every time they wanted to catch a drive-in movie.

“I could have told you that making friends with ‘Cons would end terribly.”

“Youuu aren’t old enough to have an opinion on anything.” Ratchet insisted.

Sari sat on a spare tire in the medbay, kicking her feet and trying her hardest to blend in with the background while Bumblebee got his tune up and Ratchet fussed at him. She was picking up bits and pieces of this incredible slag show, and Sari had finally gotten enough to, indeed, form that opinion of her’s. At least on the matter of Blitzwing- since he’d only come up about 12 times.

“Jeez, Bumblebee.” Sari said thoughtfully.

“You sound like you’ve got a crush on the guy.” Then proceeded to snicker at her friends immediate outrage.

“I- I- W-WHAT?!”

“Ha!” Ratchet snorted. Probably thinking much the same, now that she’d said it.

Bumblebee pushed off the slab, shoulder joint still loose, and looked ready to run out of there at any moment in both fear and betrayal. Clearly Sari had hit a little too close to home there.

Of course, he’d never admit something like that -if her half hearted jest was any bit true. Surprising as that’d be.

So, Sari spent that afternoon poking Prowl and Bulkhead for answers. Neither seemed entirely convinced a mech like Bumblebee could fall for a ‘Con in any capacity. Platonic or other.

Bumblebee was a easy to offend and anything but patient. Both attributes would be tested heavily in a cross class relationship. More importantly, they were enemies, and Bumblebee couldn’t be sparked into rolling over for any mecha standing against the Autobot way.

Unless that ‘Con could prove reasonable and daringly handsome, Sari was willing to bet. Not that she knew much about Bee’s romantic interests beyond her own assumption.

Sari didn’t think Blitzwing proved to be either- but he did have those strong servos Bee always yapped about when he ogled the fighters ‘in secret’ on her Mortal Conquest game. She’d bet Blitzwing would absently rip the spines clean out of his victims the way Bee liked those fighters to do, too...

“They did play on the Game Box together for a while. Whenever there was time. But I think that’s as close as they actually got to being friendly.” Bulkhead mused to himself.

“He hasn’t explicitly expressed an interest in Blitzwing to me.” Prowl agreed. As if he was the authority figure on all of Bumblebee’s controversial and embarrassing secrets. Which, fair....

Why *would* Bumblebee tell him, though? Wanting to be best buds, and a little extra, with a ‘Con wasn’t something an Autobot would advertise.

When Optimus eventually slunk through the base at an unusually late hour with audial fins low, Sari thought she might as well question their fearless, somewhat all knowing leader about Bee’s latest erratic behavior.

It was not a pleasant talk and only left her with new questions about the insane, sane-less, insanity she’d missed out on more than anything.

“Bumblebee was hoping for a miracle, I suppose. We should all have aspirations-“ Optimus sounded quite pragmatic about the whole thing. But then-

“Unless they cloud your processor to the point of poor judgement.”

Sari felt awkward- smart enough to know she was getting herself involved in something personal by the prickly edge in his tone. Not smart enough that her love for her two dear friends going through a rough patch would keep her at arms length of it, though.

Only just smart enough not to tell Optimus Prime that her best friend might have a crush on a ‘Con. Or remind him of that fact, if he was already aware.

“I can’t blame him.” Sari shrugged.

“I’d like for all of us to be friends, too. Imagine if there were even more giant friendly robots around here! That’d be awesome!”

Optimus looked surprisingly upset all at once by that, but he didn’t let it show in his voice. Sari was an innocent in all this.

“Yeah, it would be. But to tell the truth, I don’t see much point in entertaining that kind of thinking anymore.”

“Well, aspirations and all. You can’t set goals for yourself without envisioning it first.” Sari used his words against him in a fairly good point.

At least good enough to make Optimus look guilty about his harshness.

Not good enough to pass an opportunity to lecture his young companion.

“If your vision is only ever an optimistic one, you’re just preparing yourself to be disappointed when reality settles. It’s called overindulging.”

“Someone just told you that so you wouldn’t chase your dreams.” Sari countered, ‘cause that was *exactly* what that sounded like.

Optimus grimaced, remembering that he had been the one to tell himself that. Still...

“Why aren’t you this articulate when you’re explaining ‘me me’ culture to me?” Optimus diverted.

Sari mirrored his frown.

“I think you’re probably too young to be saying that wrong...”

“Oh. Well, just try to believe me when I say that we- that *I* overshot my expectations for Megatron having some sensibility in his one track processor.”

“I would have, too, I bet. I get my hopes up all the time.” Sari agreed. Hoping right then that she could put a smile on her most stress laden friend’s face.

This, again, seemed to be one of the worst things he could hear at the moment.

Optimus gave a nod, optics averted, and excused himself back the way he came- towards his room. Not a good sign.

————- ——————-

Blitzwing was a ball of nerves.

“Professor Sumdac is the expert in this field and, luckily, in relatively large supply of the resources we’ll need. The less attainable ones will be dealt with as the issue arises- For now, we collect our new compatriot and set to work. It’s time I paid my dear friend and the hellish prison he’d held me captive in a visit.”

Blitzwing knew retrieving an organic, even one the Autobots prized, would only be as difficult as a physical fight, some bloodshed, and the Decepticon’s most likely victory. That happened to be the case a good chunk of the time- he definitely owed credit where credit was due, though, concerning these wily, steadfast little bots. They could hold their own plenty well enough.

What bothered him about this simple task of ‘collecting’ their human hostage wasn’t anything to do with the genuine lack of effort he was willing to put into a fight like this after feeling dreadfully unlike him self these past cycles.

It was, of course, about *who* he would be fighting. It was just a niggle at the back of his processor, just a pinch of nerves. It wasn’t overwhelming his logical outlook of things in that they had no choice *but* to return to fighting.

Of course, they did. He welcomed it even. Anything to rid himself of his nauseating unease.

The fact that Megatron had made it clear he would be leading this mission was another trouble, though. His leader’s intent likely to make a point for when they came face to face with Optimus Prime once more.

That point being, ‘We are enemies from here on’.

And Blitzwing was stumped as to why that left such a terrible taste in his intake.

Like all things that threatened to twist the logic in his good sense, Blitzwing pushed at the thoughts to keep them as far from his processor for as long as he could until they could be overwhelmed by the more important matters he had to attend to.

That only lasted until they reached Sumdac’s tower, as a zap fluttered up his spinalstrut at the sight of a familiar yellow figure below.

They landed and, being met with a surprising lack of a response, made themselves known. Landing within perfect firing distance.

Blitzwing felt numb. His optics trained on a point in the distance and stared- anywhere else, but on....

He only caught a glimpse out of his optic of Bumblebee in a similarly uncomfortable state.

Megatron was naturally the first to speak. The same old haughty tone, as if they’d never wasted cycles away together in mutual ceasefire.

“Stand aside Autobot, and we will have no reason to fight you.”

But they definitely would.

Indeed, that had certainly made good on that imperative message if their presence here hadn’t- They weren’t ‘neutral’ anymore. Never had been.

Blitzwing looked then to asses the battle field. Optimus was of course there, a leader who played as frequent a part in his subordinates’ endeavors as Megatron. Prowl was beside him, looking unusually put upon by something. Probably the ‘Cons becoming a factor of their immediate survival. Bulkhead stood between him and Bumblebee.

The smallest bot stood there, grinding his denta hard enough to hear from where Blitzwing was.

His fists were clenched hard, vents hitching.

When Blitzwing turned to look him over once more, Optimus proved to be in much of a similar condition. Though he seemed reasonably more in control of his obvious outrage, as any leader should. Finials lowered dangerously, eyes narrow, and suspiciously quiet.

Ratchet was nowhere to be found, and as there was clearly some kind of drama unfolding painfully before his very optics, Blitzwing noted that it would be true to form that Ratchet would try and avoid it.

Whatever they were doing outside the tower looking ready to eviscerate each other, who could possibly say. The ‘Cons dropping by to no doubt inflict widespread terror had been unaccounted for, and left them in an even more compromised state.

They were wildly unprepared for a fight and this move Megatron had made to announce his intentions plainly and truthfully going forward had proved to be the most effective -and unintentional- stealth attack they’d actually imposed upon them. Nothing short of cloaking their signatures could be as powerful.

Emotionally tangled civilian types proved especially easy to eliminate.

But these bots had never been the ordinary sort, he’d found.

Optimus hadn’t torn his optics away from Bumblebee and vice versa, leaving Prowl and Bulkhead to do an evaluation on what they were in danger of themselves. It was the most careless display Optimus Prime had ever made, as their primary protector.

Megatron wasn’t ridiculous enough to think Optimus so incompetent he likely made a habit of such behavior. Immediately, Blitzwing was sharing the same strange concern as his commander was in the twinge of his field- that something was off about this.

The little organic, Sari, chose that moment to make herself known from behind Bumblebee then- completely obscured by his frame previously.

“Uh, guys can this maybe *wait*?!” She said, flapping her arms and making the most honest show of a creature fully aware of the magnitude of being on the receiving end of Megatron’s wrath.

Her panic wasn’t quite enough to break whatever spell had possessed the two glaring mechs, however. Bulkhead attempted to break optic contact again, looking between his friends and their impending doom a few yards away, but Bee was happy to move whichever way around him and assert himself in this peculiar standoff, while Optimus might as well have been baring a pair of fangs at the other, and likely was just barely repressing such an urge.

If this had been a ‘Con issue, they would already be rolling through the refuse, punching each other.

Blitzwing looked to his fearless leader for answers then and found a mech with a rapidly decreasing mood over whatever they’d just walked in on.

“Autobot,” He was addressing Optimus again.

“I’m taking Professor Sumdac to use as I see fit. Do not stand against me, and I will return your mercy.”

“Guys! They’re trying to take my dad!” Sari squeaked. Fearful of how helpless her position was in all this. They weren’t listening, and the promise of human extinction was likely on the rise, if they didn’t act soon.

As Sari had correctly feared, having watched the brutal escalation of this argument unfold, this did nothing to dissolve the suffocating tension surrounding them. The promise of Megatron moving into attack, however, seemed to shock their systems into action.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of action any of them needed right now.

More arguing.

“Megatron wouldn’t be alive to take the Professor, if he hadn’t helped him back to function in the first place.”

The other ‘Bots visibly flinched.

“Optimus! How can you say that?!” Sari cried hysterically. She looked between the four of them -her four supposed ‘friends’- then up at the three ‘Cons, no doubt leaving her a grand impression of what she’d be seeing in her nightmares for years to come.

Megatron stared back, soaking in the bewildering sight, at a loss for words. Likely a first for him.

“Way to lay blame, Prime.” Bumblebee *hissed*, and Blitzwing had never heard him speak like that to anyone before. With them recently becoming more acquainted with each other in an effort to form their future bonds, it felt distinctly personal, and he was surprised to find himself feeling uncomfortable. Even if it wasn’t directed at him.

Bumblebee wasn’t finished, though.

“That was a mistake, and we all know it! But since we’re pointing fingers,” The minibot then pointed at the petulant little pout Optimus was sporting from around Bulkhead’s side.

“Megatron wouldn’t even be here to take him for pit-knows-what, if *you* had been more assertive about the truce!”

“Untrue.” Megatron found himself speaking on the other’s behalf. Mostly spurned to take a side by his inherent desire to see order amongst rank. Perhaps impulse more than anything.

“The success of a peaceful truce between our factions was out of your leader’s hands from the start. He could no more promise the glimmer of hope in your spark such a thing than his own.”

Optimus finally looked away. An unbearable vulnerableness overtaking him.

Megatron spared him a single glance, speaking with conviction. Unused to such a show of submission from the Prime.

“He had far too great ambitions -Though you cannot fault him this. I think them quite admirable.”

Bumblebee looked a little hopeless then.

“I... It’s just...”

“You must possess the same ridiculous ambitions yourself, for what good you think you’ll do questioning your leader in this manner.”

It wasn’t a fair fight with Optimus in Megatron’s favor, but Blitzwing wasn’t dumb enough to inject himself into all this. Yet.

He may have never questioned his own leader, but he would have gladly done so, if he’d had had the privilege Bee did of surviving it.

Absolutely nothing had come of Megatron’s ‘plans’ to gain their trust and then turn it against them. Absolutely nothing had come of wasting away in the abhorrent weather on this planet, playing goodie goodie with a bunch of outspoken, annoying, overly friendly Autobots. Desecrating his name for it.

And worse than all of that still -worse than worrying over the incredible waste this had all been, and *still* was, throwing himself into an overly complicated Autobot ‘travesty’ of the mollycoddling kind, that he was *unfortunately* finding himself *invested* in- was that Bumblebee looked dangerously close to crying....

Blitzwing would question Megatron for letting it go on for so long and getting the little one’s hopes up so high.

All of the little ones.

These civilians were far more sensitive about these things- obviously. A ‘Con wouldn’t have wasted time smashing each other through the dirt the moment someone challenged their person. They wouldn’t have bothered with anything short of their offender surviving the brink of death to agree to have a chat after about their disrespectfulness.

He should have passively reminded Megatron a delicate touch would do the most good for this lot. The difference between their class types was often extreme.

And, no, he wasn’t being overly protective of a largely independent, very capable class of Cybertronians just because one of them, the only one that mattered so much to him apparently, proved to be quite sensitive to insults and tethered to his insecurities at times. That was definitely unrelated.

Megatron had been too harsh, was all.

Bumblebee might have been just bold enough -and emotionally compromised enough- to turn his anger on Megatron then, and then Blitzwing thought he really would have to intervene to keep him in one piece. But then the little bot gestured uselessly at what an utter mess this all was, his chest puffed up, holding in a whimper, and set his teary optics on Optimus again.

“It could have been different.”  His vocalizer abruptly cut off at the end, but the message was clear. He was upset to the point of tears.

In front of a bunch of *Decepticons*. In front of the *Leader* of the Decepticons. In front of *Blitzwing*.

All horrified sets of optics looked on- even Optimus, whose outrage had melted away with the last vestiges of his energy, maybe even his will to exist at the moment, and looking to be a shell of himself. Totally hollowed out inside. Distantly aware this all needed to come to the surface one way or another, and Bumblebee was going to be a tiny little wreck for it afterwards.

Optimus decided in that moment that his own despair could take a back seat.

“You always back out when it matters.” Bee murmured, lacking the powerful heat that’d been in his glare.

“That’s not true, Bumblebee.” Bulkhead said with a soothing edge to his voice. Of course, he understood what he was going through. He’d been on the receiving end of Optimus’ wrath plenty before, and knew he’d see more of it in the future. Their leader prone to snapping before bending when things became heated. And still-

“Optimus was brave enough to give this whole thing a try. Remember?”

“There was no way to guarantee it would work.” Prowl agreed.

Their teammates keeping calm enough to remind them of the facts should have been enough to bring them back to themselves. But Optimus was as easily turned a martyr as ever, even when it was the least sensible time to allow guilt to fog his processor.

“I think the reality is that I was ‘stupid’ enough to give this a try.” He supplemented. A distant ache in his chest- and processor. Both for two entirely different reasons.

Megatron might have felt a fuse blow in irritation.

Lugnut, who’d been forgotten to even have existed at the moment, stepped forward at Megatron’s side. His servo raised, retracting inward to be replaced with the dreaded, horrific POKE. Blitzwing’s wings flexed with the effort not to retreat to the skies.

“Gah! Since you blithering fools will not cease your *bickering* and *move*, I will do it for you!”

Blitzwing’s body didn’t even have a chance to subconsciously move towards Bee to shield him before Megatron was holding up a hand to stop the big brute.

“Silence, Lugnut. This isn’t a matter of strength of arm.”

Obviously -and the romantic in him just barely avoided calling it ‘a matter of spark’, and thank frag.

Prowl watched the trio curiously, hyper aware of their every little twitch. Condensation heavy on his frame from trying to keep a calm visage, while his team was in disarray.

Megatron took another step closer, successfully avoiding looking like a threat under the ninja bot’s intensive gaze, and offered himself to Bumblebee’s full attention.

“Minibot, you should direct your grievances unto me. I am the one who denied your leader’s proposition. Now, what are your qualms?”

Bumblebee just sniffed at him, realizing that would be entirely useless. He couldn’t hope to win a dispute with Megatron for anything. More importantly, Megatron wouldn’t care to give him either truthful answers or serious ones.

He was a *Decepticon* after all. *The* Decepticon.

Instead, he gave a vague, “He just gives in....” as his defeated answer. The only information he was willing to share, and completely indecipherable in meaning for Megatron, who’d only ever known a mech willing to bite his head off over imaginary equal rights.

Bumblebee vividly recalled the choice words Optimus had had for them all after Megatron’s uprising from Sumdac Tower -crushed under the immeasurable stress of leading a repair team, an insubordinate one, he’d explicitly reminded them, against the current greatest threat to their species and the universe. And the way he’d spoken to them when he’d finally succumbed to that pressure- a way Bumblebee would have never turned against his teammates. His friends. People who hadn’t signed up to be stuck on an unmarked planet, expected to protect life as they knew it from extinction.

Remembering, too, the conversations with Sentinel on the vidcoms. The way Optimus almost predictably caved when the bigger bot became aggressive. Which was practically immediately. The way he’d allow Sentinel to get away with talking to *them* next.

But he didn’t say any of that, of course. It sounded childish to have bothered him so terribly when he knew well and good he was in no shortage of faults himself. Like pinning too much expectation on Optimus to succeed in a multi-faction campaign had been -all while he was supposed to wait quietly on the sidelines and rejoice in the easy victory he’d been secured.

He couldn’t help feeling that unsavory way about his minimal efforts when it was so easy to get confused about the horrible way this wonderful prospect of change had ended. But channeling it into the bruising of Optimus’ dwindling ego wasn’t the way.

Megatron couldn’t hope to know anything about Optimus Prime’s private life with his comrades. He could only bare witness to the deeply stricken, spark guilty mech he was seeing before him now and decide solely upon that alone that he would like to put an end to this pointless blaming *immediately*.

Frailty did not suit this mech.

“I have determined peace between our factions to be insufficient in fueling our objectives as a people- and not you, or your leaders, or anyone else, could have changed my mind.” Megatron grit out through clenched denta. Shockingly affected by the little bot’s blatant disrespect.

“With this in mind, I will say that if anyone *could have* succeeded in turning my opinion, it would absolutely have been your steadfast Prime.”

Steadfast. The very opposite of what Bee had been saying about him being so easily broken.

“But he couldn’t, could he?” Bumblebee snarked, reaching into the shallowest part of his spark to deliver the hateful comment unto his utterly stricken leader, standing there with finials low and optics unseeing. Accepting it.

Blitzwing stepped forward when Megatron did then. Hoping his instinctive urge to protect the tiny bot from another ‘Con’s attentions would be overlooked at the moment by Megatron’s own peculiarly strong urge to do so for Optimus.

Not entirely so, to Blitzwing’s pure mortification, as Megatron turned a snarling show of teeth upon him for assuming to assist his chosen object’s assailant.

Blitzwing wondered if the other civilian frames all caught up in this were aware of the Con’s unfortunate coding making choices beyond their processors for them. Acting entirely on a deep rooted instinct that went beyond even simple programming. Humiliating, if so.

Lugnut obviously did, and he could only watch on *helplessly confused*, seeing his master acting in such a state. Perhaps even coming to terms at last that his blind loyalty might need its first reevaluation.

“You have become entirely too invested in this fantasy of your own making.” Megatron said to Bumblebee, a warning clear in his tone. His optics flittered over to Blitzwing then -the assailant’s impromptu guardian- causing the other’s vents to stall out.

To his own amazement, he found himself standing unflinching beneath that molten hot glare, appearing as a beckon for the defenseless minibot. Megatron could applaud him that at least.

The little yellow hellion sniffled, fresh tears of frustration prickling his optics, but refusing to let them fall.

“Th-That’s not true! He wanted it as bad as I did!”

Optimus miraculously found his voice at that.

“*Bumblebee*!” He hissed, but a warm blush on his cheekplates dampened the effect.

Bumblebee ignored him.

“He won’t admit it, but he did! I’m not the only crazy one here!”

And this was all very much crazy.

Blitzwing acknowledged that applied to him just as well, and Megatron, for being equally as disconnected from reality in defending a pretty, blue and red doormat more or less. The two of them attempting to secure these distressed little mechs from their fussing and rebuild the crucial bond civilian types kept preserved.

It was the oddest, most demoralizing urge to see that through, but neither seemed in a state to rectify their primitive coding.

Or admit this had stopped being an issue of mindless coding the moment they had begun to respect their counterparts and find them worthy of protecting in the first place.

At some point during those silly ‘negotiations’ that’d left much to be desired, these lively, colorful little idiots had started to look more and more like a welcome addition to suffer the tyranny of a war build’s naturally possessive behavior -Their only defense against such being their unlikelihood to become attached to most things that didn’t extensively benefit them to do so.... Which especially included fragile little Autobots.

Of course, they hadn’t known the little fools had managed to sink their claws into them *somehow*, until they were being forced to acknowledge it. Forced to consider their very existence, as they stood there defending them and their bickering.

There was a moment of awkward tension where the little bots stared at one another with nothing but hurt and fury in their optics. Bumblebee just at the cusp of shaking apart under all his pent up stress. But then Optimus caved, as hard as Bumblebee claimed he would, seemingly coming to terms with his own reality of the events that’d transpired over the last few weeks and how right Bumblebee was- at least, how Optimus thought he might be in a moment of his nonexistent self-esteem managing to plummet further.

“I know this all blew up in our faceplates... I know this opportunity was wasted because of me...” He murmured.

Megatron was deeply disgusted by this proclamation, but he didn’t get a chance to say how that was precisely the stupidest thing he’d ever heard- even knowing several Decepticons who’d willingly chosen to remain illiterate to this day, Optimus’ ‘confession’ had easily exceeded in stupidity.

Before he could snap an iota of sense in the otherwise sensible mech, the ridiculous little firetruck went on confirming his subordinate’s ill regards.

“I wish that I’d done this right when I’d had the chance to.... But I can’t change the past.”

“How could you have done this any differently?” Megatron didn’t even hide the bewilderment in his vocalizer -wondering what portal he’d stepped through when they’d landed where his words as the crowning war lord with the upmost priority in the ranks of Decepticons and Autobots alike were excused and ignored within seconds of uttering them.

He’d very clearly stated that this was out of the Autobot’s servos. Everyone had heard him -unless he’d been speaking Vosian without his knowing.

Optimus rubbed at his tired optics.

“If I’d had never gotten expelled in the first place, I’d be making a difference right now... I’d be more important to the cause, and Ultra Magnus might listen to me if I told him about my ideas for a truce.”

Optimus tried to shy away when Prowl made to reach for him, but the truth was that his palm on his shoulder plate was the tiniest bit grounding, and Optimus needed whatever help he could get in keeping his optics dry.

“I had to solidify my efforts somehow.... He wouldn’t have listened to me otherwise.”

Not for the first time, Optimus was reminded that he wasn’t helping his people here- essentially exiled on earth and running his mouth at Decepticon warlords like it was a sport. Why else had he thought he could take this monumental task on himself? He hadn’t really believed he could make a difference with a track record like his, had he?

For the bots he could make a difference for -his team- he was doing nothing more than endangering them all with this arrogant pursuit. It didn’t matter what Bee had encouraged, or even Sari, now that she knew. They were under his lead, following his orders. He had authority over them... They had to do what he said, as much as Jazz had to listen Sentinel.

“What would you have me do?” Megatron asked then, feeling like his processor had been bled dry of logic altogether.

“Abandon the people who expect me to bring them justice? Abandon our cause? I couldn’t do that- no matter what you hoped to accomplish, it would never come to be, little Autobot.”

Megatron stilled, considering very carefully the wisdom he wished to bestow upon the mech stood anxious and uncertain behind him. His own struts stiff and uncomfortable -unsure if he was willing to accept how fantastically things had derailed under his own supervision.

And then he turned to face Optimus, stooping the tiniest bit to be more at his level, and said firmly.

“You can’t hold yourself accountable for the misgivings of others.”

And if Optimus was as willing as he’d seen thus far to do ‘right’ by other bots, he really shouldn’t.

“You deserve the utmost respect for your efforts, especially from yourself.”

Megatron had a fleeting moment of unadulterated horror to think how compromised his logic had become to offer *comfort* of all things to his little nemesis. But then the smaller mech turned another shade darker, and he couldn’t remember why he actually hadn’t done so *sooner*.

Optimus bit into his bottom lip, looking up at the taller mech. Starkly aware he shouldn’t be looking at him in anyway that didn’t draw him as a giant target to slice his axe through. Optimus tried for all of a klik to muster his once boundless hatred for this mech before the true meaning of his words touched him deep in the most neglected part of Optimus’ conscious. The part of it he tried to convince himself didn’t desperately need approval and validation.

Meanwhile, Blitzwing took the blessed lull in their energy fields to look over at Bumblebee and find him finally seeming to soften with the want to apologize. To reach out with kindness to his leader and make right what they’d said to each other.

“You can’t let other’s affect you so when you’re a leader...” Megatron continued, utterly compelled to.

“They will have their doubts in you, but you will show them through action of your own that you deserve their trust and their respect. If they do not offer you either, it isn’t your responsibility to be burdened by their ideas of you.” Because they were all fools if they didn’t, and Megatron couldn’t be convinced otherwise.

He looked at those hopeful, blue eyes searching into him.

Those eyes so blue in more than me way.

Megatron sighed.

“But, you’re so young...”

It was unlikely Optimus could ignore the cutting words of anyone who might seek to knock him off his pedes.

Something plagued this mech. Something troubled him too terribly to instill much faith within himself, and that was about the biggest blight on all of Cybertron and the Allspark Megatron had ever known.

Optimus, genuine, selfless, thoughtful, uncertain, absurdly hopeful Optimus should never had been abandoned to feel so unsure of himself or his incredible talent. His compassion, his gentle nature, his ability to spread good will- or at least his desire to try.

Nobody had ever told him otherwise, had they? Not the right people- not the people who could have made the biggest impact on him. Shaped him as a soldier, given him time and care to grow. Those people had most likely even done the opposite.

Buried him further where the light of his own hope could no longer reach him. Promise him his worth was destitute.

Megatron felt incredibly troubled to know this mech all at once.

“Uh... Um, hey....” Sari began, coming out from around Bumblebee to stare wide eyed at the telenovela worthy chaos before her.

“Uh. What do you guys want with my dad?”

“Ve need him to make us a subspace communicator to contact Lord Megatron’s forces.”

Blitzwing answered truthfully. Either way, they’d all be coming away from this deeply scarred and with a magnitude of trust issues. Where was the harm in admitting to attempted kidnapping?

Bulkhead perked then, seizing the opportunity to continue this without violence.

“Well... Maybe we can work something out?”

Megatron felt himself age a few thousand years.

———— ————

Of course, the little scraps had lost contact with the Steelhaven since crashing on this insipid planet, and there was nothing they could ‘work out’ regarding Megatron’s need for a communication source. Nothing they could do more than the lot of them walking  quietly away from this, so everyone could cool down and come back to their senses. All expecting Megatron to simply leave empty handed of one organic, reverse engineer.

What part of ‘No Truce, Only Enemies’ did they not understand? Now Bulkhead was trying to make empty compromises?

What hope had he that Optimus, Megatron’s only fond acquaintance of this incorrigible lot, narrowly didn’t?

Exactly none, that’s what.

“I have asked generously that you stand down.” Megatron snarled.

“I will not repeat myself.”

And then, when they inevitably refused now that he’d talked them out of their senselessness, there’d be nothing left to do but fight.

And that was all there was to it, it seemed.

Optimus nodded, resigned to the inevitable, and began reaching for his axe- battle mask forgotten in his half sparked desire to lead a defense. Maybe he was actually expecting to be bested quickly in his subpar state, so they might return to their base, and Optimus could retreat into himself for a few moments just to process this ungodly embarrassment before constructing an outline of Sumdac’s rescue. Essentially expecting defeat.

It was, without a doubt, the most pitiful display Megatron had ever seen, and so unlike the Prime he’d come to know in every conceivable way.

Distantly, so very distantly and obscurely and almost impossibly, Megatron couldn’t help but wonder if a loss like this having such an impact on his seemingly unshakable rival might be because there was more at stake than the loss of one unlikely truce. Something beyond his struggle to outlive the failures of his past and his abysmal sense of self.

Perhaps perceiving some great loss in the ‘loss’ of Megatron.

Like, perhaps, he’d wanted his camaraderie? Like he’d wanted more time to speak candidly with another mech, when the option was so rare. Like he’d wanted his company in some familiar capacity. That he’d wanted something.... else...?

Megatron shunned the thought. Thinking like that was gravely beneath Optimus’ deserving. He was to be respected- especially since he wouldn’t respect himself...

But a fight was the only logical course of action here on, as neither faction could simply surrender.

Bumblebee followed Optimus’ lead and readied his stingers while Sari took cover. The other Autobots preparing themselves, coming out the other end of the emotional minefield they’d marginally survived to embrace battle. However successful they imagined they’d be in such a debauched state. Brave little bots, as they ever were.

Megatron looked at an exhausted Optimus and knew he’d have to fight this mech then. There truly was nothing left for them beyond a mutual agreement to disagree. Bizarre as it was that Megatron was having trouble justifying beating a mech in such a shaken state, despite him being a thorn in his eye since his reawakening on this planet, Megatron knew it was the only path for them.

Perhaps their destiny, even. Megatron was just romantic enough to believe so.

Across from him, Blitzwing looked woefully unwilling to do fighting of any sort. Fanning his wing the tiniest bit to shield the minibot. Megatron could deal with such insubordination later.

This moment right now was his calling- his time to take up arms once more for his people. The past was the past, the ‘peace’, real or not, was over.

Lugnut took all of one step forward with servo raised and POKE ready before Megatron was quickly throwing out a hand to catch him by the forearm and promptly put a stop to that.

“Hold all fire!”

Bumblebee pointedly did not lower his stingers. But as they were raised towards Megatron’s helm and Megatron’s alone, he didn’t imagine Blitzwing would be too upset about his eagerenss to take a shot at one of them.

Megatron found the threat seriously lacking.

“Prime,” He snapped, quickly turning his attention on the Autobot who’s finials twitched. Sensing... something.

A strong intuition, this one.

“There is no need for us to spill each other’s Energon.” Megatron tried one final time. Terrified that he was about to do something awful. Something even worse than slaughtering this tiny mech. Something like letting him *live*.

“You can prove yourself a competent leader now, and stand down!”

“I can’t let you take professor Sumdac, Megatron.” Optimus said in what was left of his authoritative tone since having a crisis in front of everyone and Primus. He looked in no such state to back that claim, but-

“I *won’t* let him go without a fight.”

Optimus could realistically accept what that meant for them then, and raised his axe to his chest. Prepared.

It was only a blip in the next nanosecond that Megatron perfectly recalled Strika’s message to him about ‘playing stupid games’ and the consequence of such, to remembering pivotal moments in the millennia he’d spent leading an army through war. Remembering what he’d had to sacrifice to earn his stature and rank.

It took marginally less time than that even to ruin everything he’d ever worked for.

“We shall attempt this truce of yours once more!”

Not that it was ‘Optimus’ truce’, and not that it didn’t cater heavily towards the justice of war frames. But Megatron wasn’t willing at the moment to take responsibility for that, too, on top of his single handed destruction of the Decepticon empire just now.

Optimus blinked like he hadn’t heard him. Maybe he hadn’t.

“We’ll try one final time.” Megatron reaffirmed. His vocalizer feeling stretched thin.

“Ultra Magnus must have a hand in securing our progress, however.”

Optimus, like everyone else within audial range, needed several kliks to process that. He spluttered and clenched his axe towards his chest, like he was desperate for something to hold on to. Something to put between himself and Megatron’s impossible promise. One he surely couldn’t mean.

Bumblebee flapped uselessly behind the triple changer.

Blitzwing was forced to recalibrate his gyroscope. Feeling as though gravity had just dissipated from the atmosphere and the earth was shifting beneath him, because this was definitely not part of some plan anymore....

Bee’s strangled squeal from his side grounded him immediately.

This.... this *was* real, Megatron had definitely just said that. Possibly without an ounce of the appropriate consideration it honestly demanded. 

Starscream was right that their leader was no longer fit to be such, and Blitzwing was hard pressed to find a fault in that.

Megatron, to his credit, gave a valiant effort to seem indifferent to the little Prime’s equally ill suppressed glee and barreled on before he could drown in the severity of his tremendous regret.

“Though the fact pains me greatly, Ultra Magnus is the only mech that can incorporate these changes you’re pushing for. He must have a hand in these negotiations.”

Optimus tried to argue that those changes ‘he was pushing for’ were all strictly in Megatron’s interest in that he receive equality and the rights of all Cybertronians who were willing to do good. Not that Megatron was of course. Yet... If ever...

But neutrality and peace was an indirect, indisputable good. Wasn’t it?

Optimus, processor spinning a mile a minute, could hardly think otherwise.

He was shaking, cycling through unspoken emotions, some entirely new to him. Excitement muddling the words he longed to say. Megatron watched with a carefully blank face, hoping his spark doing strange leaps in his battle warn chassis weren’t detectable through that immaculate intuition alone, and, finally, the dearly important words stuck in Optimus’ throat stumbled out.

“Wh-what if... I don’t think Ultra Magnus will take a liking to this suggestion, I.... Wh-What happens then?”

Megatron very sensibly did not admit that he was well aware that Magnus’ involvement was a great unlikelihood when he’d agreed to a second truce in the first place. He was still coming to terms with the fact that he was mysteriously invested in seeing Optimus at ease for once- eager and motivated, like he’d been during negotiations -when he thought he was being helpful.

Megatron did not pity his efforts, nor belittle them. But he did, in truth, find them endearing- in a soft sparked, blue eyed -literally, too- bot trying to find some good in the world sort of way. This young, sweet thing.

Megatron scowled.

As far as Ultra Magnus went, while preserving some of his reputation as a sparkless, conniving war lord, well...

“He may very well not come around, but I offer you this opportunity all the same. It’s your choice whether you take it-“

Then he stopped, acknowledging the unholy level of responsibility even that would place onto Optimus, *again*, and quickly back-peddled.

“And we will consider other alternatives from there. I strongly advise his involvement and hopefully some degree of compliance.”

Optimus was beyond thrilled, but all he could muster to show for it was a ridiculous -adorable- gaping mouth that opened and shut several times over in his loss for both words and processing power.

Megatron couldn’t remain prideful in his half baked, overly confident decision for long. Optimus’ finials subconsciously lowering as he bit at his lip and studied the ground in a fierce battle to fight the smile from his face knocked the hot air right out of Megatron’s vents. He covered it up well enough by looking daringly at the other Autobots to challenge him.

No one did of course. The shocked silence spoke of no such protests, and the faces full of awe -some being his own soldiers’- stared back in wonder. ‘Wonder’, or utter disbelief.

So it was to be, apparently, that Megatron would be making a fool of himself once more. For a depressed, foolish Autobot’s benefit of all things. 

Only....there was one enormous issue lying plainly before them that they hadn’t thoroughly considered....

The watery smile slipped from Optimus’ faceplates as he looked up at him in dawning horror. 

“Well, I... I *would* tell Ultra Magnus, if I... if I could reach him. I-I *will* tell him, just... as soon as I’m able. Ah... I...”

Megatron turned his paling face away from the gathering mecha.

That meant he’d have to play nice in the meantime. For however long that would be -Because he’d already sold himself to this preposterous, humiliating arrangement, and it was definitely only because of that, and not because of Optimus lighting up like starlight.

“We’ll have Professor Sumdac start to work on that communicator then...” He said at last. Realizing that was about the only thing they could do.

“And until then?” Prowl was smart enough to ask- While Optimus was unfortunately succumbing to that hopefulness he fought so hard against from consuming him and dared not voice such concerns.

His optimism did seem to have a way of defining much of his processing. Megatron was distraught to find that little bit endearing, too.

“Until then... we will... enact a ceasefire between our.... factions.” That was almost painful to say.

He could push it aside well enough to admire the way Optimus seemed dumbstruck, torn between awe and graciousness and worry -and that darling, blossoming hope.

He was already rushing to continue where they’d left off.

“Those changes you talked about that your people have been-“ But Megatron would rather not speak of that in front of the others.

“We will discuss those matters in our next negotiation.” He said plainly, with a palm held out to quiet him. The promise of negotiations resuming was enough to quiet him. But not pacify him.

Optimus looked like someone’d set off a fire works show in his chassis. He turned soft blue optics away to rejoice quietly with himself, smile wide and vibrant, while the others voiced their opinions at one another.

“Sweet!” Bumblebee was the first to speak, pumping his fist in the air and coming forward to backslap an unmoving Blitzwing.

“We can play more Jet Grinder now! I can get my high score back!”

Blitzwing scoffed with all the superiority a mech that’d delivered the smack down upon a noob-ish fool like Bumblebee could.

“Don’t bet on it, Bug- unless jou are betting jour points.”

Bumblebee made a rude gesture he’d picked up from the locals.

“No way! You’re gonna cry so hard when I get my initials in gold letters back at the top of the score board! Sucks for you~”

Blitzwing flicked his wings in irritation, so as not to express the fact that he could hardly contain himself at the moment.

Sari, who’d been too overwhelmed by whatever she was witnessing in both the mech of horrible legend and the normally stoic, unexcitable Optimus, looking a little too invested in one another, excused herself from the whole mess entirely to go inform her father inside the tower that they would not be coming in to check out that super-amazing-latest invention they’d came here for anymore.

Also that’d he’d almost been captured and exhausted of all his resources by the Decepticons before Megatron surprisingly wussed out for some reason. Well, not for some reason... But she wasn’t willing to give life to the fact that it’d been because she’d seen similar behavior in those lovey-dovey romance movies.

For the sake of everyone, nobody needed to openly acknowledge what was happening between them there. She was fully convinced Optimus was oblivious to that poorly disguised soft look in Megatron’s optic, anyway, so he wasn’t to blame.

Prowl took the next opportunity to remind Optimus that they were treading very deadly waters now. As if he needed the reminder.

Maybe a little bit....

He wasn’t looking as cowed and serious as he should be at the moment, staring up at Megatron in wide eyed wonder.

————- ———————

“I *was* out of line. You were right.” Bumblebee mumbled against Optimus’ side sometime later that night.

However short lived this giant victory and the impossible high it’d given them was, they intended to savor it. Make even poorer decisions than spilling their sparks in front of a bunch of war mechs they’d hardly gotten to know in any civilized way in the quiet of their rooms. Together, preferably.

That meant apologizing.

Bee stared at the wall, finding it easier to speak his truth without having to look at the other.

“You shouldn’t have said that slag about Professor Sumdac, though.”

Optimus tensed against him.

“Yeah... that was awful. I shouldn’t of... I need to apologize to Sari.”

“Later.” Bee hummed, too tired to leave Optimus’ room to seek out his own berth. He nestled closer to his side instead.

This moment wasn’t terribly common, but was frequent enough to be labeled as one of those soft civilian luxuries that Bumblebee found deeply depressing Blitzwing said war types abstained from. He’d die without Prowl to cuddle and pester at awful hours of the night cycle after playing a really scary level on Cutter.

“I’m not done talking about how awesome what happened was....” Then added thoughtfully.

“...Or apologizing.”

“No more.” Optimus assured him, nudging against him, attempting to reserve himself from pushing too strongly.

Bumblebee didn’t let him retreat into himself, though, in his latest bout of guilt.

“Ok, ok. But you do know that I care about you, right?”

“I care about you, too. You gave me the courage to give the truce a try, despite all the odds against us. You just seemed so sure.”

‘And you listened?’ Bee wanted to laugh, but when hadn’t Optimus listened to his teammates making a serious suggestion? He couldn’t always put them into action, but he did do his best to listen.

So instead, Bumblebee teased him.

“Oh? I did? Am I your muse, Bossbot?” Bee batted his lids, and Optimus snorted. Feeling emboldened by the other’s goofiness to nuzzle his little helm under his chin with a blue servo.

“When you’re happy, it’s hard not to find inspiration.” He murmured, clearly struggling with such openness.

Bee felt uncomfortably warm, but allowed himself to bask in the wonderful intimacy  this simple bonding with his cohort instilled. Feeling a familiar security in his spark under his leader’s protection.

“That’s an oof for me.” He muttered anyway.

Optimus perked.

“Is that...? That’s me-me culture stuff, right?”

“Oh, God, no. Prime, please don’t grow up to be like Ratchet.”

Optimus scowled over the top of Bee’s helm.

“Ratchet doesn’t tease me during bonding.”

“He doesn’t gush with you over tall, dark, and terrifying war machines, either.”

Optimus jolted, optics going wide. Too scared to pull away and broadcast his horror at having been caught. It was a little too true, regardless of how blatant a jab and lacking in substance it was *meant* to be.

Instead, they sat their silently, leaning against eachother and into the berth slab behind them. Pretending that neither one of them actually felt that way.

———————————-

End Part 1

I just want a computer, so I can make italics easier. These * hurt my eyes

[findq]

The Importance of Being a Human Leader

Defining Human Leadership

Human leadership transcends traditional management paradigms by focusing on people rather than processes alone. It embodies a leadership style that prioritizes the emotional and psychological well-being of employees, advocating for an empathetic, transparent, and supportive workplace culture. Human leaders are not merely administrators; they are visionaries who understand that the core of productivity and success lies within the contentment and growth of their teams. This leadership approach integrates a deep understanding of human motivation with the strategic aims of the organization, creating a symbiotic relationship between employee satisfaction and business outcomes.

The Qualities of Human Leadership

Human leadership is distinguished by several definitive qualities that resonate with both the leader and their followers. These traits include empathy, authenticity, and emotional intelligence—each playing a pivotal role in shaping a leader who can effectively respond to the challenges and needs of their team while driving organizational success.

Empathy: The Heart of Human Leadership

Empathy in leadership involves understanding and sharing the feelings of others. It allows leaders to forge deeper connections with their employees by genuinely understanding their situations and perspectives. This quality is crucial in fostering an environment where team members feel valued and understood, not just for their contributions but also as individuals. Empathy empowers leaders to make more informed, compassionate decisions and creates a workplace atmosphere that promotes greater collaboration and trust.

Empathy vs. Sympathy: Unveiling the Difference

While often used interchangeably, empathy and sympathy are distinctly different in their implications for leadership. Empathy involves a shared emotional experience, a mutual understanding that fosters genuine connection and support. Sympathy, on the other hand, is feeling compassion for another's situation without the shared emotional response. In leadership, empathy is more actionable and centered around understanding from within, rather than observing from a distance.

Authenticity: Leading with Integrity

Authenticity in leadership is about being genuine and true to one’s values and beliefs. It’s about leaders presenting their true selves, not a faceted persona crafted for convenience. This authenticity fosters trust and respect within the team, as employees are more likely to rally behind a leader who is honest and consistent in both their actions and expectations.

The Power of Authentic Leadership

The potency of authentic leadership lies in its ability to inspire loyalty and enthusiasm among team members. Authentic leaders drive a culture of openness, where feedback is encouraged and valued, and where mistakes are seen as opportunities for growth rather than reasons for punishment. This environment encourages innovation and risk-taking, which are vital for any organization’s growth and adaptation in a rapidly changing world.

Emotional Intelligence: Navigating Complex Interactions

Emotional intelligence (EI) is the ability to understand and manage one’s own emotions, as well as the emotions of others. In leadership, high EI is critical as it enhances the leader’s ability to handle complex interpersonal dynamics and to make decisions that are emotionally sound and logically reasoned. Leaders with high EI are adept at conflict resolution, can maintain calm under pressure, and have a profound ability to inspire and motivate others.

The Practices of Human Leadership

Servant Leadership: Putting Others First

Servant leadership is a philosophy that inverts the conventional leadership hierarchy; the leader’s role is primarily to serve their team. This approach not only increases engagement and loyalty but also enhances team performance by empowering individuals to develop and perform as highly as possible.

Communication: The Art of Connection

Effective communication is the cornerstone of successful leadership. It involves clarity, consistency, and openness, facilitating an environment where every team member feels they have a voice. Effective communication builds the foundation for transparent and honest relationships within a company, essential for fostering a collaborative team environment.

Empowerment: Fostering Growth and Development

Empowerment is a crucial aspect of human leadership, involving delegating authority and giving employees the autonomy to shape their work environment. This empowerment allows employees to exhibit their strengths and contribute ideas, fostering a sense of ownership and responsibility for both personal and organizational success.

The Impact of Human Leadership

Organizational Culture: Shaping the Future

The influence of human leadership extends beyond individual relationships to shape the broader organizational culture. This type of leadership promotes a culture of respect, trust, and mutual support where innovative ideas can flourish and where employees are motivated to achieve their best.

Conclusion

Human leadership is not merely a strategy but a pervasive approach that enriches the workplace and catalyzes the potential of every team member. By embodying qualities like empathy, authenticity, and emotional intelligence, leaders can create a supportive, vibrant, and productive work environment. In the ever-evolving landscape of global business, human leadership stands out as a beacon of sustainability and success, proving that the best way to enhance organizational performance is by nurturing the people who drive it.

[cashhendricks71]

May i Build a Home With Stone?

"Can I build a new home with stone? " Yes, an individual can, if you choose to achieve this. You will get following a historical tradition of shelter making combined with the modern choice in order to live in a far more eco-friendly home. The particular ancient art associated with stone houses These houses have been built by human beings for many thousands associated with years and inside practically every region regarding the world. It is considered to become, "the oldest structure material known to the human race. " Early shelters were made associated with stones carefully collected, one on top of another. Antique dry stone (structures built of stone without mortar) structures are still discovered throughout the planet.

Some dry natural stone structures remain in use. Their wall space and buildings are durable, fire, drinking water, and insect proof; they seem in order to last forever. A property of stone : yes or any? A lot of modern individuals have got chosen to return to older, more lasting building materials for example stonehouses. Here are usually certain advantages to be able to building this sort of house, and a number associated with potential disadvantages. Let's take a explore both equally sides: Positives Sustainability - Several building materials are usually more sustainable as compared to stone. Nearly https://construction.com -proof - As stated earlier, stone set ups are fire, water, and insect resistant. Organically attractive : Stone is often the choice regarding counters for it is organic beauty. A stone house is usually like a magnification of the organic and natural beauty of stone. Lower maintenance -Stone contains that don't include plaster surfaces (exterior or interior) don't require siding or painting. They are quick cleaning with some sort of simple hosing down with water. Comfy -Stone houses can be comfortably cozy or cool semi-annually if constructed together with passive solar design and style. Disadvantages Cost - Constructing a rock house can become cost effective or perhaps budget challenging based on several factors: Origin - the cost of creating a rock house should go up depending on typically the transportation distance by the source of the stones for the design site. Labor instructions Depending on which builds your property, the cost of expert design and style and construction may well be greater than with regard to a "traditional" modern day house. Energy spend - If an individual don't add a good quality passive solar design and style, you may always be losing too a lot heat in the winter plus retaining an excessive amount of it in the summertime. Proper insulation likewise helps resolve the particular age-old problems regarding drafts and dampness. Repair/modify - End up being careful in your current choice of stone instructions it must be strong enough to support the particular considerable weight in the structure; inferior top quality stone may not be able to be able to support the pounds, causing damage or collapse. Modifications to the structure will need extra planning, cost, and care in execution. Finding alternative stone for vehicle repairs years later could possibly be difficult. Equipment/expertise - If building using cut stone, you should have special stone-cutting tools to shape the particular blocks. Setting rock, either in free of moisture stone masonry (without mortar) or applying mortar requires jigsaw puzzle-solving like skill to shape in addition to fit the natural stone together so of which the house effectively supports itself. Your current stone home First hand information can be very beneficial when you are usually considering such a major undertaking. Just before you decide to be able to build your dwelling of stone, talk to people who happen to be living in (or have built in addition to lived in) the stone house and ask if they would likely be ready to show some of their own experiences - positives and the cons instructions with you. Become while knowledgeable as possible on the constructing process, types of stones, how in order to best utilize couch potato energy sources, design, and everything more relevant to the creating of stone homes. May your natural stone house be a resource of aesthetic enjoyment and comfortable being for a lot of happy many years.

[rohitjikumar]

VGI College

Vishveshwarya Group of Institutions (VGI) College is a renowned educational institution dedicated to providing quality education and holistic development to its students. Founded with a vision to nurture talent and foster innovation, VGI College has emerged as a leading center of learning in Ghaziabad-Bulandshahr G.T. Road, NH-91 Greater Noida Phase-II, Gautam Buddha Nagar, UP-203207.

At VGI College, students are offered a wide range of academic programs designed to cater to diverse interests and career aspirations. Whether it's engineering, management, computer science, or humanities, the college provides comprehensive courses that equip students with the knowledge and skills needed to excel in their chosen fields.

One of the key strengths of VGI College lies in its faculty members who are not just educators but mentors and guides. With their vast experience and expertise, they ensure that students receive personalized attention and support throughout their academic journey. The faculty members at VGI College are committed to fostering a conducive learning environment where students can explore, innovate, and grow.

The campus of VGI College is equipped with modern infrastructure and state-of-the-art facilities to facilitate learning and research. From well-stocked libraries and advanced laboratories to sports facilities and hostel accommodation, the college provides a holistic environment where students can thrive both academically and personally.

Apart from academics, VGI College places a strong emphasis on extracurricular activities and student engagement. The college boasts a vibrant campus life with numerous clubs, societies, and events that cater to various interests and passions. Whether it's cultural festivals, technical competitions, or sports tournaments, there's always something exciting happening on campus.

One of the distinguishing features of VGI College is its strong focus on industry interface and practical exposure. The college has established partnerships with leading companies and organizations to provide students with internships, projects, and placement opportunities. This ensures that students not only acquire theoretical knowledge but also gain valuable hands-on experience that prepares them for the professional world.

The alumni network of VGI College is another asset that sets it apart. Alumni of the college are spread across the globe, making significant contributions to their respective fields. The college maintains strong ties with its alumni through regular meetups, networking events, and mentorship programs, providing students with valuable insights and guidance for their career growth.

Admission to VGI College is highly competitive, with students selected based on their academic merit, entrance exam scores, and personal interview performance. The college also offers scholarships and financial aid to deserving students to ensure that financial constraints do not hinder their education.

In conclusion, Vishveshwarya Group of Institutions (VGI) College stands as a beacon of excellence in education, shaping futures and transforming lives. With its commitment to academic excellence, industry relevance, and holistic development, VGI College continues to inspire and empower generations of students to achieve their fullest potential and make a positive impact on the world.

[foxsimthings]

Hello friends, it’s me! I’m back with another hare-brained idea(you know how it is when people are being creative and all these ideas are flying around and you’re like ‘oh, what if--’)

supersede verb    - take the place of (a person or thing previously in authority or use); supplant.

Supersession is a kind of switcharoo BC type story thingy. More story than BC, but it will still involve your beautiful wonderful sims and these two ladies that are technically the same person but also not? Think Dragon Age: Inquisition meets Freaky Friday meets... Stardew Valley. Read on below for the story so far, info on Elise and Mai, how it’ll look, rules, deadlines, etc!

Commander Mai Ironwill is in the midst of chaos. The kingdom is falling into disarray as the twin princes of a dead king fight tooth and nail for the crown they both believe is rightfully theirs. With the military otherwise indisposed, her mercenary organization has been called upon to handle a great many threats posed to the kingdom’s citizens and now, with the dark elven queen Sathariel moving to claim the kingdom while the princes fight one another, she and her crew may be the last line of defense.

Elise Yang is a more sensitive soul than she might have the rest of the world believe. Heartache has seen her pack her sparse belongings, her Wafflehouse, and move again to a new town. But the people here know her; they recognize her from her art and the citizens are clamouring to get to know the hotshot Big City artist that landed, unknowingly, in their midst.

But both of them are about to experience culture shock greater than they could have imagined.

After a fateful dual encounter with a trickster fae, the two wake up switched; Elise Yang arises in the medieval fantasy village of Pyrelight, and Mai Ironwill awakens in the little modern farming community of Redgrove. Though nobody in their lives entirely understands what’s happened, there’s more than enough going on that the world must turn around them - for now. 

Elise Yang; Loner | Loves the Outdoors | Art Lover Skills in fishing, painting, handiness

A well-known artist from Mt. Komorebi, Elise has village-hopped trying to find somewhere quiet to land. She’d only recently gotten all of her boxes stuffed into her modest cottage in Redgrove when she woke up in a strange world where the toilets don’t flush and her iphone doesn’t work. 

While often considered stand-offish, Elise is a very quiet individual, more likely to be found fishing or painting than conversing with other living human beings. Her friends are few and far between and she seems to like it that way. But being in Pyrelight and having to learn to fight, to lead, to command and to defend will require her to come out of her shell and get her act together, or people will start dying. 

Elise is obsessed with breakfast foods and would eat breakfast for every meal. She has a cat named Wafflehouse and her home is decorated with art and empty beer bottles. While quiet and generally regarded as an aloof woman, she has a good heart and does ultimately mean well, even if she can’t always express it.

Mai Ironwill; Self-assured | Ambitious | Gregarious Skills in sword fighting, tactics and leadership, arm-wrestling

A young upstart born into the human holy military, Mai Ironwill is the last of her line. She left the military to work for neutral but lawful mercenary organizations and wound up falling into power herself when the commander she stood as right hand woman to went missing four years ago. Generally good-natured and regarded as the life of the party, Mai began to take life more and more seriously. Now, she’s a bit of a party pooper.

If nothing else, she’s great at taking things in stride. The little village of Redgrove is definitely not ready for her boisterous personality, but they could use a spark of life around the sleepy village, and they’re all so eager to get to know the quiet, loner artist that’s just moved in - the lot of them are in for a hell of a surprise.

Though she can come off strong, Mai has the needs of the many at the front of her mind. She’ll always defend those in need of protection and has no trouble throwing her weight around as necessary. Her laugh can be heard two villages over and her claim to fame lies in making a duchess laugh so hard she peed her bloomers, which got Mai a night in the stockades for the embarrassment the duchess faced at the hands of her humour.

                           This is where you come in!

I’ll be taking around 14 sims total of any gender identity.

7 of these sims will be working with and vying for the heart of Elise Yang in Pyrelight. These will be any kind of medieval fantasy/occult sim you like. Witches, goblins, orcs, elves, demons; anything your little heart can dream of!

7 of these sims will be meeting and vying for the heart of Mai Ironwill in Redgrove. These will be modern human sims where the only known magical creatures are the woodland fae.

You may submit as many sims and entries as you like! 

Use as much or as little CC as you like, including custom traits. Because this is primarily story-based, you may also use romantic traits if you like.

I have a couple little villages set up for both Pyrelight and Redgrove with houses and things, so if your sim lives in a house in the village I’ll be decorating it for them and probably ask for you to advise if I need any help doing so. Your sims may also live in or be staying at the local inn!

The more background, the better! If you want to make a member of Mai’s mercenary group, her right hand person, the local priest, someone Elise went to school with - please just go for it! Your creativity gives me life, please go nuts and have a great time. And, of course, if you have something you want to do but aren’t sure, or have any questions, I’m but a DM away and I promise I’m friendly!

I’ll be taking applications from November 1st to November 15th!

Be aware that this will at some point possibly involve potentially triggering and adult themes(namely blood, combat, death, sex). 

[poptod]

In the Heart of Atlas (Rami Malek x Reader)

Description: He doesn’t fear you––who thought such a simple thing would win your affections?

Notes: this is my first time writing for Rami himself! anyway, this is for the rami week. happy birthday rami!!! this is a bit of a strange story but i hope yall like it anyway. WC: 5.6k

+

His body twitched slightly before his eyes opened, slow and dry across his grey irises. A deep dehydration had seized his bones, as though his blood was drudging through his veins and muscles, losing water by the second. Still, he sat up, his head a weight upon his shoulders.

To his surprise, he found himself in the middle of an empty parking lot, the highway beside him mostly vacant. He looked around, finding a large but abandoned mall to his right, the lights long shattered and broken. Tension welled in his brow as he tried to piece together just how he got here.

"Most people don't get knocked out after they get ejected from their bodies," said a voice from behind him. He whirled around, scratching his pants on the rough pavement.

"Who are you?" He asked, scanning you.

For the most part, you looked normal. The only thing that stuck out was the massive katana strapped to your back and the darkness swarming around your eyes. He could barely see your face beneath the hood of your black sweatshirt, but that didn't matter all too much to him––there were more pressing, more important questions that required answers.

"Demons and angels call me (Y/N), but people call me the Reaper," you said as you offered him your hand.

He gingerly raised his hand to accept your help, faltering when your sleeve pulled back to reveal prominent bones and veins in the back of your hand. The bones poked out of the skin, glowing a faint white, while your veins remained a simple shade darker than your skin. Looking back up to you, he found no malice in what little expression he could see. With that he accepted your aid, pulling himself to his feet.

"The Reaper?"

"I go by a good many names. In the north alone I am called Gwyn ap Nudd, Cù Sith, the banshee, the Ankou, and more simply... death. Most of the time I have others collect souls, but.. you're an interesting case."

You reached forward, and though he instinctively flinched back, he soon regained control of himself and allowed you to cup his cheek. Even with that allowance, however, there was a decent amount of discomfort within him.

"I'm dead?"

"Not quite yet. That's where the interesting part comes in. Come––let's find a place away from the sun," you said, drifting past him and heading towards the abandoned mall.

Looking upwards, he found a blistering sun. He hadn't felt the heat, and looking back at the black pavement, he realized he hadn't felt that astonishing heat because he was, as you said, dead. No longer in his body. With that realization, he jogged back over to walk at your side.

"I'm a little confused, here. How did I die?" He asked.

"Again, not dead yet. Just out of your body. It's quite interesting, really," you said, opening the creaking door.

He entered gingerly, turning and waiting for you before wandering in any further. When he turned back to scan the building, he found instead a drawing room with a Victorian rug spread out across a hardwood floor, and red velvet couches filled to the brim with pillows and blankets. Paintings from all cultures covered the walls, nailed into place alongside maps of different eras. He hardly noticed his gaping mouth till you passed by and closed his jaw.

"Well... what happened to me?"

"Take a seat, Malek. I need to ask you some questions," you deflected, herding him to sit on one of the chaise lounges.

A clipboard materialized in your hands, a pen following as you sat down opposite of him.

"Now, what's your name?"

"You just said my name."

"And?" You said, quirking your brow.

He let out an exasperated sigh before answering with, "Rami Malek."

"What do you spend most of your time doing?"

"Work, mostly. I'm an actor."

"I'm aware. Most of your alternate reality personas look exactly like you. That usually only happens with actors," you said, scribbling down words with a harsh pressure on your pen. "You are given one million dollars. What do you do with it?"

"Um... I'd put it into my savings, let it collect interest until I die, and then donate it," he said after a moment's contemplation.

"Calculated. Nice. Significant others?"

"Not right now."

"Family members?"

"I've got a twin brother and an older sister. And my parents, of course."

"Are you religious?"

"Yes, sort of. My parents raised me Coptic Orthodox but I don't really interact with it much in my life."

"Is there a heaven and a hell?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" He asked.

"Answer the question, Malek."

"I don't think there's a heaven or hell."

"Good choice. Alright," you said, straightening your back after hunching over your clipboard. In a quick flash both the clipboard and pen were gone, and you were back on your feet. "Do you have any questions for me before we try to fix this dilemma?"

"Yes, lots," he chuckled humorlessly, watching you circle over to a liquor cabinet. "How did I die? Or – how did I get 'ejected' from my body?"

"Remember the movie you were just working on?"

"Yeah, James Bond."

"You tried to do your own stunts since your double was missing. You missed the catching net, landed on the ground, and your essence was accidentally absorbed by the earth. The earth decided you would be safer here––in Thailand."

"Thailand?? I have to finish filming. I can't be in Thailand," he said, jumping to his feet.

"Calm down, pretty boy. I'll take you to your body in due time, and from there we can decide how to move next. This is a rare opportunity for you," you said as you poured two glasses of sherry. "People don't usually get to see me. If they do, it's pretty much assured they won't interact with me. You're very lucky. I could also just reap you and get rid of the problem, but you're not supposed to die. Not yet."

"What, do I have something to do on earth yet?"

"Yes," you said, handing him the glass in your left hand. You sat back down, sipping from your own cup.

"Then what happens if people accidentally die?"

"The world goes on. We correct our calculations and figure out the fate of the earth again. It happens very rarely, thank everything. Our I.T. would be in hell if it happened a lot."

"What affect do I have on the world?"

"I'm not really allowed to tell you that," you said, eyeing him.

"Oh, sorry."

"I'm just kidding. I rule this universe. You're going to have a fan at one point who is very suicidal. They meet you on the street, get the will to live again, and their daughter will write a mystery novel that both furthers space-travel technology and surgical technology. Happy?" You took another sip from your cup.

"... I guess."

It was certainly, if anything, an interesting time to find out your entire existence was being protected by the embodiment of death just so a woman you didn't know could further technology just slightly. He didn't feel fantastic about it.

"It's not your only purpose, if you're worried about that," you said, noticing his fallen expression. "You inspire a lot of art and a lot of stories. Everything you do and inspire adds to the color of the world. Humans are one big organism and they can't seem to see that––I hope you, and others, will realize that soon."

"I hope we do as well," he said with a sigh, leaning back into the velvet. "I'm quite sick of people getting angry at each other all the time for useless shit."

"Yes, well..." you swirled the mixture in your cup, "the human condition, and all that."

"Were you ever once human?" He asked quietly.

"No. I am not truly a being. I am what you imagine me to be, a mirage of what you expect from death," you said in a low voice. "I will be here to kill God, and in the end of time I will be all that remains. The representation of all that ever existed, and its' inevitable demise."

"... comforting."

"Isn't it?" You said with a sardonic smile. "Are you ready to see your body yet?"

"I think so," he said. "What kinda state am I in?"

"I don't know. The state of destruction your physical form is in will dictate whether or not I can return you to yourself or take you into the unknown."

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath in hopes of calming himself. "Take me to myself."

"Very well," you said as you stood, setting your cup aside and offering him your hand once more. He took it and rose to his feet.

In a single blink, and without warning, he was in a hospital––an American one, or at least one where the signs were all in English, and the nurses were speaking that same language. Fluorescent white light filled the room, mixed with the dreary daylight of a bright but cloudy day. The shades were open to the city outside, but what first caught his eye was the centerpiece of the room––him.

Gauze, linen, and casts covered more than half his body, cradling his leg, chest, head, and both arms. His eyes remained blissfully shut, not even fluttering from the bruises and cleaned scars circling his face.

"You look good," you said, unable to tear your eyes away from the body.

"Wow, thanks," he said sarcastically.

"I'm serious. You fell, like, 35 feet. Not a lot of people survive that, much less still have one of their legs."

"So does that mean I can go back to living?" He asked, sudden excitement filling his words.

"I suppose so. You've been out for a while, though, so be careful when you get back in. Listen to your doctors. Keep safe, and let professionals do stunts," you said.

He chuckled, turning to you before saying, "I thought Death would want me to die, not live."

"It doesn't matter. I will reap all. For now I can let society grow, let lives multiply to greater heights, as in the end you will all join my kingdom. I'm old as the universe. I can wait."

"Your kingdom?"

"Me. I carry the souls of the dead in my memory. They all live within me."

"And that's what happens when we die?"

"When you die, you become one with the universe. I become part of you just as much as you become part of me. Is that a comfort to you?"

"... yes, actually," he said softly, looking back to his body. "I think I'm ready to go back to living now."

"Very well, Malek. Take my hand," you said as you offered your see-through hand.

The moment he touched you, he noticed that he, too, became see through, and he wondered if that had always been happening and he simply hadn't noticed it. He had little time to think about it before you were leading him forward, taking him to the side of his hospital bed. From there you helped him into the bed, lining his soul up with his physical body, and telling him in a soft murmur to close his eyes.

The very next moment he remembered was opening his eyes to blistering hospital lights shining down on him. His memory of you was vague and blurred, but nonetheless present in a way that tested his image of the world, questioning if he was truly living his life.

Doctors, nurses, and friends rushed to his side once they noticed his consciousness, hurriedly asking questions and preparing tests on him. His bruised eye was swollen shut, but the other one could see alright, and it was a blessing to be able to see his mother above him. It took a good deal of time, but he returned to health and was luckily not disabled by the fall.

Years later the incident came to him in a dream, in a perfect clarity that he hadn't ever had as a waking person. He bolted awake, heavy breaths emphasizing the thin sheen of sweat that now covered his chest. You had explained to him the way the world worked––his purpose in life, the inevitability of humans and of the universe, and the beauty in that. The happy ending in that unavoidable death.

Never in any other time had he desired to see you again more than he did at that moment, stuck awake in the middle of a night plagued by rain and thunder. Wide eyes stared straight ahead, to the twisted sheets covering him, to the closet on the other side of his bedroom.

Shaken to his core, he slowly moved to his feet, the cold floor shocking him awake further. As he walked towards the kitchen, he attempted at calming himself with slow breaths. Once there he grabbed a glass of water, chugging the entire glass, and slamming it back down on the counter as though he'd done a shot, which it might as well have been this late at night.

Would it be possible to summon death? he thought hypothetically, before realizing the incredible stupidity of that statement. Who would want to summon death? Also, summoning death would probably involve putting himself in a dangerous situation, which you had specifically advised him against.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, leaning against the counter as he rubbed his face.

"His name is Yeshua, and he can't help you right now."

He jumped, spinning around in his kitchen to find you sitting on the counter across from him.

"Death!"

"People aren't usually that excited to see me, but yes," you said, looking down to scan your fingernails before looking back up at him with a smile.

"How did you know I was thinking about you?"

"You had one of my true forms in your thoughts. I remembered you from a little bit ago. How long has it been again?"

"11... maybe 12 years? I haven't thought all that much about the incident, but... I had a dream tonight. I remembered –"

"I know. You're not supposed to remember me while you're still living, so I had to come back and fix that," you said, jumping off the counter and approaching him with determined resolve.

"Wait, no!" He tried to back up, but he was already pressed against the kitchen island.

"We will meet again, quite shortly, you'll see," you said with a smile, a weak attempt to calm him as you raised your hand to his forehead.

"I don't want to forget you," he pleaded, fingers dug into his palm.

"That's awfully unfair to all the other people whose memory I had to fix. Makes their sacrifice a little silly if I allow you to go and tell the world how it'll all end just because you're pretty."

"I won't tell anyone. They'll think I'm crazy."

"You're a celebrity. Someone is going to believe you."

You pressed your thumb to his forehead, and in that moment he lost all control, leading him to make the first action he could think of, the one thing that might deter your work. He grabbed you by your sweatshirt, balling the material in his fists and pulling you till your chests met. With that he smashed his lips into yours, feeling your hand slip away as you weakened, shocked into stillness.

He wasn't quite sure whether you were actually enjoying yourself or if you were just shellshocked, but he continued to kiss and move against you for a moment before releasing you. When he let go of you and drew away, he watched your unmoving expression, staring at him with parted lips and wide eyes.

"What the fuck was that?"

"... a kiss?" He answered meekly.

"What does it do?"

"You don't know what a kiss is?"

"Malek, I have two trillion different planets that I reap from, all with multiple different societies and beliefs. I'm not going to memorize each of your customs."

"Oh," he said. He would have to devote some time, later on, to let the fact that there were aliens (and a lot of them) truly sink in. "It's a show of affection. It's kind of personal."

"So it is a gift," you said with deep concentration.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"What for?"

"I like you. You're knowledgeable, and kind, and... I think you're pretty," he admitted, almost sheepishly in his low, rough voice.

Flirting with what could essentially be labelled as an eldritch monstrosity was a tad difficult, especially since you were millions of years older than him. From that point of view, he felt more like a child speaking with you, admitting to some silly, meaningless crush.

"You think I'm pretty?" You asked, your voice high pitched and coming out in almost a squeak. He nearly gawked at your reaction.

"Of course I do. Do people not tell you that?"

"I don't really talk to consciousnesses much, Malek. And most people don't find my bipedal form very nice to look at," you said quietly, looking down to the floor with fidgeting fingers.

He reached forward, pulling off your sweatshirt's hood, and allowing the warm light of his kitchen to finally show him the whole of your face. The skin around your eyes still retained that mystical darkness, like the ink of space, surrounding the cosmos of your eyes. It was quite clear now that you were not human, which explained the reasoning of hiding the whole of your whole form. 'Bi-pedal,' you called it––you had to fit in with alien worlds as well as his human world, and thus hiding many parts of yourself was required.

Now he would be the first person, the first creature, the first consciousness, the first life, to see your entirety. No one else had thought to flirt with death, but apparently that was how to avoid it. Ironic, considering the earth phrase 'flirting with death'.

You had gone into such a fluster by his words and actions that you stuttered out instructions for him to stay safe, and promptly disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He wouldn't see you again for three years, which saddened him greatly, but he made sure to remind himself that ten years for him was the blink of an eye for you. 2 trillion planets with life on them needed your attention.

In 3 years he found himself victim of yet another incident. He had been sitting in a donut shop for a little while, enjoying himself on his phone, before another customer entered and began to make a fuss. The man started yelling and he rose to the occasion, stepping over and attempting to take some of the stress off the poor teenager working on the till. Before he knew what was happening, he had a gun in his face, staring down a dark barrel of metal.

"You move and I'll slit your fucking throat," you said, appearing in a flash with your katana pressed against the stranger's throat. "Your gun's on safety mode. It'll take more than one move for you to kill this guy. Want to take that chance?"

The man faltered, and with that you nodded to the cashier, who quickly dialed up the police.

"Put it down, Michael," you said. The man, apparently Michael, slowly looked to you with wide, horrified eyes.

Rami could almost laugh at the incident, but his heart was far too full of fearful adrenaline for him to smile, much less laugh. It all happened so fast. The little bout was won the moment Michael met your eyes. He set the gun on the floor, turning to you with contempt and raised hands.

You waited until the police arrived for the sake of the cashier, but before anyone could question you, you were off again with Rami on your tail. Disappearing in a puff in front of mortals would do you no well, thus you had to start off with walking––something he could certainly follow. 3 years since he'd last seen you––grey had pervaded his hair more and more, skin more freckled and imperfect. You remained as you always were, even 15 years ago.

"Met anyone interesting lately?" He asked when he caught up with you.

Ideas of what creatures you were meeting, the types of things you got yourself into had been a decent source of inspiration for his daydreams. Such was his interest in what you wouldn't tell him that he wrote a screenplay, directed it, and shown it to the world. People often commented on the creativity of his imagination, but he always believed you to be the true source of actual creativity.

Of course, he hadn't ever actually heard about anything that you did. It was purely what he hypothesized.

"I met creatures that reproduced by stringing together DNA by hand. They are new consciousnesses in the cosmos, only recently earned souls... or what you would call, self-awareness," you said, staring ahead to the empty streets lined with cars.

"That's what gives something a soul? Self-awareness?"

"Not quite that simple, but for the most part, yes."

"How long ago did humans earn souls, then?"

"Longer back than you'd imagine. Remember, it's represented as more than self-awareness. It's societies, too, and ants have societies. I can't quite remember, but it was back when you were living in the trees," you said, taking moments to pause and correctly recall the facts.

He continued to walk alongside you for a moment more, pondering upon that information.

"Anyway. That's enough questions from you. What the hell were you doing?!" You said once you were out of sight from the cops, balling his shirt in your fists and forcing him up against a wall. Rami spluttered.

"What the hell were you doing? Aren't you not supposed to interfere with that kind of shit?" He asked, rattled from the sudden movement, and feeling bruises already building in his back. His skin and muscles had become more prone to injury over the years.

"I can do whatever I want. I don't have to worry about losing my mortal body. You're still tethered to this plane!"

"Who cares if I die? Everyone has to at some point, and helping others seems like a good way to die," he said, trying to ignore the aching in his body.

"Don't you have a wife? Kids? Family or friends? You're really ready to leave that all behind at the drop of a hat?" You scanned him.

"I was helping others," he hissed. "And I don't have a wife. Or kids. I've had more important things on my mind."

You watched him for a little while, trying to gauge his thoughts from his eyes. Eventually you released him, letting him drop to the ground, and watching carefully as he brushed off his clothes.

"Why do you want me alive now if I'm going to die soon anyway?"

"You're not going to die soon –"

"Relative to your sense of time, I'm going to die very soon," he interrupted, satisfied when you had no rebuttal. "Why do this? It's not even helping me. I know I won't really disappear when I die."

"Yes, you will. Gods, I shouldn't have told you about anything," you sighed, rubbing your face tiredly. "You misunderstand the concept of death. You, as you are, will not survive. You will disappear. I will carry your memories, but I will not be you. You will not be inside me, your memories will. I'm like a library, not some sort of vacation resort. Are you getting this?"

The blank look on his face told you everything you needed to know.

"There is no heaven or hell and I am not a substitute for their nonexistence! When you die, that's it. You're gone. Forever."

"I became a soul on earth. What about that?"

"Because you weren't fully dead, just separated from your body, like astral projecting. You either return to your body or you really die within a year. And if you try to astral project for that long, even if you do return to your body, you'll lose more and more control of it because you can't remember what it's like to have a physical form. It’s complicated, just – just stop getting in dangerous situations!" You practically yelled, clasping his head in your hands and talking quite loudly right in his face.

"There are a lot of technicalities to death," he said, putting his hands over yours and gently leading them down.

"There are a lot of technicalities to life. Why would I be any different?"

"I know, I just – I guess I don't know. Death, I... is it.. you're the only... consciousness I've ever.. loved," he admitted with a broken voice, unsure of his every word.

Your eyes widened, and you almost stumbled backwards with your own surprise. He kept you from doing so by keeping his grip on your hands.

"You want to know if you can stay with me," you said in an instant, soft realization.

He nodded.

"I don't understand," you murmured, suddenly shy. "I've tried to erase your memory so many times. Why do I keep failing?"

"You said none of your other victims ever spoke with you. I remember you because you're unforgettable, Death. I couldn't let go of you."

No one had ever thought of wooing you. You'd met creatures who tried to seduce you, yes, or to pay you off, but never romantically seek after. This would be the first time in your 14 billion years of being alive that someone did this––spoke sweet words and used your name without fear. Without shame. As though you were something to be honored.

Living things fought you so valiantly, and you loved them for that. Their desire to stay alive, to continue existing even when existing was more painful than simply facing you, to thrive in environments you yourself would've given up in. People were terrified of you. They hated you. Rightfully so––you were an easy scapegoat, something to pin blame on, like the actions of Kings weren't what actually killed them, but were the fault of the one who had to clean up the mess of souls left in an army's wake.

People also romanticized you. Thought of you as something to beat. Something to find beauty in, bliss in that nonexistence. People who hated being alive, who found their worlds too dull, or their minds too plagued with thoughts they couldn't help. It was not a true love––it was a desire to escape what they believed to be an inescapable life.

But people did not honor you. You were not a thing to give gifts to. You were not some sort of god of death––you were death. The essence of it. The misery and grief left in the wake of a taken friend.

Tears welled in your eyes, burning a bright white that trailed down your face like melted silver. The streaks were clear against the shadowed skin of your eyes. Instantly Rami thought he had done something wrong, said something to upset you, but he had no chance to apologize before you disappeared in a puff of smoke. In your wake you had left two tiny little puddles of silver teardrops on the pavement, reflecting sunlight like a mirror.

Years later, when he died, he expected to see you. He crawled out of his body, leaving behind the prolonged ringing of the heart monitor, and drifting away from his family. Long had he expected this, awaited this almost eagerly. But when he died, he was met by a man named Jynq, who went on a long spiel about death and the true meaning of the universe.

"Where is Death?" He asked once Jynq gave him a moment to speak.

"I am Death," he said with a confused frown.

"No, you're one of it's workers. I want to see the real Death," Rami stated firmly.

Jynq's expression fell into seriousness, the polite exterior of a worker making way for his true personality.

"It's on the other side of the universe right now. Several planets have been having a war for a while now, and the deathcount has kept them there for many years now," Jynq answered truthfully.

"Can you take me to them?"

"How do you remember Death?" He rebutted instead.

"They spoke to me. On several occassions. They tried to wipe my memory but it didn't work," he explained.

"You spoke to Death on several occasions?" Jynq asked, his mouth falling open.

"... yes?"

"Alright. I'll take you to it, but the journey will take a while. I hope your soul is resilient," the reaper said.

"Doesn't it take a year for a soul outside the body to die out?"

"Hm. You really did talk to it. But yes," he offered his hand, which Rami took, and they began to ascend towards the heavens, "it takes a year for the average soul to die. This journey will take several years. Are you ready for that kind of commitment?"

"Yes."

There was no spaceship in which to find a home, nor any set spot for rest or food. Neither he nor Jynq required any food or water, and certainly not any sleep, so the method of travel was a long, straight line towards the edge of the universe, unbreaking and unmoving.

Cosmos passed him by, and he became a part of them, leaving behind parts of his essence in the form of star dust that trailed after him. The further and faster he travelled, the more of himself he left behind, till he became a translucent outline of who he used to be. Jynq remained the same, just as you did. He couldn't calculate just how much time had passed, but as more of it did, he got a sense that he was experiencing time at a much faster rate than he imagined. Still, he remained oblivious to how much time was left in the journey.

At times he would go through solar systems, beside stars with planets that certainly carried life. Worlds made of diamonds, suns bigger than the whole of his home solar system, clusters of stardust reforming into young stars. Each of these worlds was one you had met––one you had left your mark on, no matter how young or old.

Life on earth didn't seem quite real when he reached the warring planets. There was so much going on in the universe––things humans would never know about. Worlds full of people that would never be found.

Jynq stopped Rami on the moon of a green planet, keeping him there while he went to go find you. He took the opportunity to sit, to rest after years of drifting through space, and to wonder which thought of his many collected thoughts he should first tell you.

"How in all the fucking WORLDS alive do you keep managing to endanger yourself, even after you die?!" You screamed, appearing in front of him in a millisecond and grasping his face tight again. "Are you insane or something?! Like clinically insane??"

"You've clearly never met someone who's in love with you," he chuckled, taking your hands and, again, gently pulling them away from their tight clutch on his face.

"Ohh, Malek," you said, anger falling away to the aching sorrow in your tone. "Look at you. You're so thin... does it hurt?"

"I feel weak, but I also feel light. I am okay," he assured you. "I left a trail of myself all across the universe. I've given myself back to the stars. Now I want to give what remains of me to you, but I had to talk to you again. Just once more."

"You speak like you’re old," you said with a weak laugh.

"I am old."

"How old do humans live to be?"

"The oldest was around 120 years, I think."

"Oh. Well, then I guess you're a little old. Not to me though," you said, flipping his sheer hands and taking them in yours.

"I'm old enough that I have accepted my own fate. I'm ready for you, Death," he said, his smile only visible in the bits of glittering stardust that made up the frame of his face.

Your smile fell.

"No," you said.

"... no?"

"No. I'm not going to do it," you stated.

"Can you do that? Like, legally?" He asked, quirking a brow.

"Who's going to stop me? I'm Death."

"Good point."

"I just wish I could heal you," you murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek only to have your thumb fall through his face.

"I don't mind it," he said softly.

"Hmm," you said, taking a moment to think critically. "I think I know how to help you."

You found him a home in the heart of a star––Atlas, a part of the Pleiades that shone bright beside its' sister, Pleione. The intense pressure was lost on both of you as you entered, making your way to the heart, where the elements of matter and life were formed in overbearing heat. As was the nature of space, the center of Atlas was dead silent, leaving you and Rami in a white, detail-less expanse.

Slowly, over the years, parts of his body returned to him, building off the star-lit frame of his soul. As you suspected, the workers of the dead and afterlife were extremely dissatisfied with you, but could do nothing. You were older than all of them, and you decided you could allow yourself this one indulgence––this one moment of straying from the rules that Gods had so often broken.

They allowed you this one comfort: a home in the heart of Atlas, in the arms of a man who had given himself to the world, and then to the universe. The one Death who had taken so much from the universe, who would eventually take everything in the universe, wrapped in the embrace of the one who had given every part of himself to the world he lived in.

[dear-yandere]

hiraeth (ii).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @ddarker-dreams​​. read part one here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission.

› warnings: angst, blood and gore, poisoning, canon-typical violence, death. › word count: 9.3k. › art credit: spearthymint.

Intrusive, lifeless eyes watch on from afar with tangible disgust. Hatred being the driving point behind his entire existence, all positive emotions are but a long forgotten memory of the past. To see the devil incarnate rejoicing in the fine pleasures of life is sickening, enough to make his head spin in further abhorrence. Observing from a safe, undetectable distance has been a rough challenge. All for the sake of procuring revenge, to fill the hole in his heart Giorno Giovanna tore out all those years ago.

Fueled by malice, the Stand, Snake Oil, slithers in the shadows of false paradise. More akin to a hybrid between human and snake, Snake Oil is the size of a fully grown man when stretched out to his fullest. His appearance is similar to that of a cobra, clad in ebony scales that serve as armor and dull, ruby eyes. Despite his imposing physique, it is truly unfortunate; having seen Giorno up close, Snake Oil knows killing him is impossible. So he’ll go for the next best possibility, inflicting the same pain he felt all those years ago. Having what you love most in the world ripped from you, torn apart before your eyes until nothing but blood and flesh remain. This is the bleak world of gangsters. To take and be taken from. To maintain equilibrium, vacillating between the highest of triumphs and lowest of defeats. Snake Oil has known nothing but the latter, surrounded by loneliness and bitterness that festers like an open wound. The scars of that day remain, the corpses of his family attempting to defend one another a grim reminder. A reminder that he’ll grip until his last breath, his only anchor in this world.

An eye for an eye.

The two of you are a picture perfect scene; pity how such beauty is fleeting. All it’ll take is a single opening. Giorno’s guard is lowered considerably, but he clings to you like an insistent shadow. How irritating. If only he left your side for a few more moments, then you’d be within range to kill. To have revenge just within grasp feels surreal in the best of ways. It brings a rush that the Stand hasn’t felt in years. The pain that makes up his resolve has yet to fade, pulsing and growing stronger as he searches for an opening. 

There’s a visible shift between you two. 

Snake Oil’s uncertain of the nature of things from this distance, gathering clues to the greater picture through body language. You’re on edge, impulsive, as you separate from Giovanna’s clutches, however momentary it may be. Snake Oil realizes this is the best opportunity he’ll be afforded. It isn’t the ideal set of circumstances, with your insistent shadow nearby, but it’s enough to be out of Gold Experience’s range. The Stand possesses great speed, a skill that will be fully taken advantage of in this course of this plan; in this moment, it seems more like a blessing than a skill, given who he’s going up against.

Checking to make sure the Don doesn’t follow you and remains seated, fate finally seems to have smiled upon Snake Oil today. This is the best opportunity he’ll get. 

Slithering from his hiding spot amongst thickets, he lunges at you from behind. A horrified shriek leaves your lips at the constricting sensation surrounding you, body feeling like it may explode at any second. The air is forcefully pushed from your lungs, breathing growing erratic. Out of instinct, you struggle in hopes of freeing yourself, to no avail. 

Two, phantom-like apparitions phase through your neck. You cry out, but the sound is pitiful and choked, dying mid air. The skin of your neck is raw, the insides slightly turned out and exposed in order to accommodate the invisible fangs of your attacker. The area pulses, quickly numbing when a venom is injected into your veins. The change is immediate, your eyes widened to their brim and your screams choked into your throat like spit. Your vision darkens slowly, the grip you once had on your consciousness now gone; the last thing you remember is the shock on Giorno’s face.

Giorno rises in an instant, a flash by his side procuring Gold Experience Requiem to come to your defence. Before any more movements are made on either side, Snake Oil takes control of the situation by speaking in a booming voice. It commands authority, knowing that leverage is within his grasp. That this wicked man wouldn’t dare endanger your life.

“Make one, tiny move, and I snap her neck.” 

This is the plan, for better or worse. For Snake Oil to utilize its ability, a fast acting venom that’ll kill you within minutes. The in-between time of injection and subsequent organs shutting down will take place. During this period, he’ll finally find satisfaction in Giovanna’s suffering, helpless to aid you in fear of making it worse. Changes in your skin should be taking place now, veins growing dark as it carries the lethal dosage to the rest of your body. It’s acting slow, Snake Oil realizes. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light, a false concern born from his anxiety about the situation.

It's a tricky situation, one which requires Giorno to act fast and tread carefully.

“I take it you won’t tell me who you are.” Giorno chooses his words with the utmost care despite the shock and anger rolling from his body. Gold Experience Requiem hovers closeby, the same rage thinly veiled beneath the Stand’s imposing and threatening presence. As Giorno’s Stand, GER has always been utterly taken with you, having no need to hide its affections like its user must. He is a pure amalgamation of Giorno’s love for you; the sight of your life endangered is no doubt a blow to its usual composure and restraint. Neither party wants nothing more than to destroy their enemy in an instant, but there’s no guarantee you wouldn't be caught up in the fray.

“You say that as if you remember the names of every person you’ve hurt,” Snake Oil does little to hide his animosity, keeping an eye out for any tricks Giorno may have. “It made no difference who I was before. Not until I threatened your little prisoner, that is.” The Stand sneers, its arm coiled around your neck. Its tail is strung around your lower half, restricting any flailing and movement should the poison’s effect be prolonged. 

“What is it that you want?” Ignoring the Stand’s treatment of you, to the best of his ability, Giorno tests the waters. Every word the Stand speaks is funneled into his mind, searching for hints that can be taken advantage of, for any cracks that can be slipped through. The top priority is to get to you out of harm’s way, no matter the cost. Composure on either end is unfaltering, a duel of wits to secure a victor. This is a matter of life and death. And still, Giorno hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see your body, your skin pallid and your limbs motionless, cradled in the arms of a man who intends you harm. His composure falters at the mere sight. That Stand isn’t just holding you; he’s holding Giorno’s happiness, his future, his heart in a vice grip. He sees the way your eyebrows knit and your body winces, the Stand’s grip far too tight to insinuate any goal other than to kill.

Snake Oil only smiles in response, not yet wanting to ruin this moment of pure distress radiating from the Don and his Stand. The sight itself is rapturing; it’s not everyday that a lowly civilian such as himself gets to see one of the most influential men in the world come apart.

Unabashed, Giorno considers what information is presented to him. From how this Stand speaks, its user is older, if not a bit inexperienced. No slang or other terminologies from a younger generation are present in his words, it’s far more removed and bitter. As if the user has seen the worst the world has to offer, callous in his direct approach; as if the user is betting everything on the line for a small chance at attacking the Don of Passione.

He needs to get you out of the Stand’s range. Since the Stand didn’t attack him, the main source of his user’s ire no doubt, it’s likely a long-range Stand. Any suspicious movements will lead to your death. And, from a quick look around, there are no suspicious vessels within a 10 km radius of the island; he would have seen them approaching long before, had there been. Its user must be far, and the Stand must be operating at its maximum range. Engaging in close-range combat would be the best bet if you weren’t engulfed in the Stand’s arms, its poison already blackening the veins around the entrance wound. Killing it might prove to be the only antidote, but on the other hand, it’s a risky trade. Perhaps the Stand’s power doesn’t include producing an antivenom — killing it early would slash any chances of saving you before the poison spreads further into your system. The only option for Giorno now is to provoke him, upsetting the Stand to the point where a mistake is made. In that opening, Giorno will strike.

“It must’ve been a lot of work to make it here,” Giorno begins his plan with a cautious comment, searching for any outward reaction. Nothing. Assuming he’s safe to continue, he offers his observations. “If you have any demand, make them known now.” 

It’s not so much stalling, but rather, testing the waters. To see how much resistance he can offer without you being placed in any more danger, igniting sparks that will only gain strength with time. Each word is selected with great care, not wanting to further upset the emotional user and trigger an undesirable outcome. Under the face of immense pressure, Giorno steels himself. It’ll do you no good otherwise.

The Stand lets out a distorted chuckle, its grip on you unwavering. “Demands? Of course, someone in your line of work would naturally come to that conclusion. You think I’d go this far for power? Money? Drugs?”

Giorno’s eyes narrow, and he mentally checks off one motive. 

“There’s nothing then? No affiliation, no desire for material gain?” Giorno’s incessant line of questions come to a halt when the Stand tightens its grip around you. Sensing that Snake Oil’s growing irate, Giorno can only assume it’s because this encounter isn’t going as planned. Given how frail you are, the poison should have spread to major points in your nervous system, your death imminent. While Giorno has his theories, ones he can only hope to be true at this very moment, they’re placed on the back burner for the time being. 

“How could I forget? That’s all that matters to people like you.” The Stand’s tone is low, prudent. Giorno’s interrogation is getting somewhere, it seems. The Stand’s grip on your shoulders have loosened slightly, only to retighten within a moment’s notice. Giorno’s heart tightens in response, the unpleasant feeling not showing on his face in the slightest. “Gain. How to make more at the expense of others, a greed that cannot be sated no matter whose life is taken in the process.”

Ah. Perhaps...

“You say that like nothing could satisfy you.” The tempest unfolding in Giorno’s mind begins to calm. His answers lie at the eye of the storm, waiting to be found. It’s an easy enough feat for someone of Giorno’s caliber, as his job requires quick-witted thinking and observation. So he presses forward, his words more daring, his answers more confident.

The Stand can’t help but grimly agree, darkness spreading over its inhuman face upon realizing how unaffected the don is. “Nothing can.”  

It’s brief, but Giorno catches a glint of sadness cross the Stand’s features. A trick of the light, perhaps, as he’s yet to see any Stand capable of showing emotion; and yet, this one reeks of resentment and regret. He’s closer to his answer.

“Not even her death?” 

“It’s a place to start.” The Stand hisses in a displeased tone. This isn’t how he envisioned this encounter in his mind, the countless outcomes that all ended with Giorno Giovanna in the pits of despair. He should have known better; the Don of Passione is cruel. A monster who wouldn’t be phased even by the loss of his beloved. Still… an element of unknown is always present in Stand battles. Your immediate death should’ve been carried out by now. That’s how it was meant to be; the venom is fast acting on normal people, only slightly less-so on stand users. He draws bated breath and lets his expectant gaze flicker toward you. The moment you breathed your last, Snake Oil would have true satisfaction, witnessing Giorno lose everything he holds dear, just as he had all those years ago. Ultimately, he’d be killed for his transgressions. But he’d come to terms with that long ago, the final chapter of his life ending in Giorno’s grief. The ultimate satisfaction, even if it sends him to Hell. Even if it keeps him from his family.

But your face is pristine, calm despite the painful wound on your neck and the quickly blackening vessels under your skin. You… you’ve stolen that opportunity from him. Why won’t you just die already, like you’re meant to? Why can’t you die as quickly as his own family died before him? It can’t be due to Giorno’s Stand. If you were within Gold Experience Requiem’s range, that meant Snake Oil would be as well. The battle would be hardly fought, the Stand’s sacrifices for nothing. If that were the case, Giorno wouldn’t be watching from afar, the great Don of Pasione helpless to save his own beloved. 

Something is wrong.

He can’t let it be for naught. Not after all the sacrifice, after all the hellish years that plagued him. Even now, Giorno waits patiently, an air of dignitary grace and poise befitting someone of his position. His eyes never once stray from the Stand’s physique, not even to check on his beloved, presumably searching for an opening to end the Stand’s life. There’s no chance to give it more thought. The power the Stand wanted to hold in this moment is faltering, slipping between his fingers like fine sand.

“How long ago was it that I took something from you?”

He’s going out on a limb, an educated guess more than anything else. He almost feels pathetic, betting your life like this, as if you’re another bargaining chip in Passione’s plans, another expendable pawn. But there’s no other option in his sights, his thoughts filled with saving the light of his life from the darkness of his own past. 

There’s no longer an immediate response from the Stand, nor a sarcastic quip full of loathing. It felt like the most logical explanation, revenge being the greatest motivator known to man. Giorno knows he made the correct assumption, or something close to it, considering Snake Oil’s change in attitude. Did the Stand think Giorno would remain in the dark until the end? 

“What… what do you mean?” 

Hesitation.

Giorno’s lips twitch into a small, satisfactory smile, his nerves having earned some rest upon guessing correctly. He continues, this time with a barrage of thinly-veiled accusations rather than questions. “It must’ve been longer than a few months, with how much planning this would’ve taken. So when was it? A year, two maybe?”

The most drastic changes were made within Passione during the first six months of Giorno taking over. 

“Why does the time even matter?” He bites. “All the people you’ve killed, they’re nothing but faceless names on a list to you.”

Giorno wants to laugh; for someone so bent on killing him, he took the bait far too easily.

“While that holds some merit, you’re no better in that regard.” He begins, shaking his head and shifting his weight onto the other foot, looking awfully lax despite the context of this conversation. He takes note of the way Snake Oil’s fingers twitch with arrogant annoyance. “Wanting to involve an innocent life who has nothing to do with this, you don’t know the first thing about her.” 

“You’re wrong. I know plenty about this girl who had the misfortune of meeting you,” Snake Oil’s blank eyes flicker towards your incapacitated form. You look more like a helpless pup than the wife to a mafia boss; perhaps… perhaps that’s why he chose you. For your vulnerability, for your innocence. “Not that you made it easy. Having virtually every aspect of her existence wiped from the planet, going so far as to pay off police to end their missing person search… scum never has hopes of growing, do they?” 

Giorno has no reason to justify his thoughts to a stranger who intruded on your paradise and put your life in peril, no matter what injustices he might have caused the man in the past. Only for the motive of provoking him further does he respond. “For the sake of protecting her from those who’d do her harm.” He quips, his expression unchanging.

“Is that what helps you sleep at night, Giovanna? A pat on the back for kidnapping some girl from her life, taking away all her freedoms? Letting her family search and search, only to be fed lies that there are no leads, that the case has gone cold?” Snake Oil’s grip on you falters slightly, a wave of pity washing over him at your poor predicament. How unfortunate you are to have earned the attention of a demon… “You don’t know the first thing about losing someone precious to you, do you? What you’re doing to her isn’t protection. This is greed, meant only to benefit yourself,” the Stand accuses. “Considering how greedy you lot are, I’m surprised it hasn’t occurred to you that, if it weren’t for your manipulation, she would’ve slit your throat weeks ago.” 

Giorno is wholly unfazed; he has been called worse, by you even. Nothing the Stand says or will say could come close to the unfiltered hatred he’s heard from you. “Believe what you want, Snake Oil. It makes no difference to me.” 

“... So it doesn’t. I suppose labels hold no significance in your life — you’ve come to terms with what you really are. You're a fool, thinking someone like yourself is capable of love. A murderer can experience no such thing.” 

“And that’s what I am to you,” Giorno deduces, scouring the Stand’s mannerisms for any clues that may be of use. “A murderer.” 

“It’s not what you are to me. It’s an undeniable fact.” 

Giorno doesn’t give him the luxury of a response nor the slightest change in his own expression. His stare is blank, even with your life on the line, even when you hang uselessly from the enemy’s arms. The venom is spreading, creating a thick, void-like trail along the paths of each vein it reaches. Starting from the entrance wound in your neck, your blackening veins look like tendrils, crawling up your face and down your chest — toward your brain, your heart. So that is his Stand power...

“Does she know, Giovanna?” Snake Oil hisses, handling your unconscious body harshly. Giorno bites down on his bottom lip at the mere sight, composing himself; now is not the time to strike, not over something so trivial. If that were the case, he would have used Gold Experience Requiem the moment this enemy laid a single finger on your person. Snake Oil barks out more questions, clarifying himself. “Does she know who you truly are beneath that mask?”

Giorno returns his gaze to his enemy, the look in his eyes hardening considerably as he chews on the question. Is that his motive? To use you as a bargaining chip, a means to lower his guard far enough to strike? It’s clever, if nothing else, but Giorno is poised in the art of manipulation. The chaos unraveling in his head, jumping from conclusion to conclusion over your current state — even that is pushed to the far reaches of his consciousness. Lashing out will do the Don no good. It’s a strength right now more than anything, the ability to stuff his own emotions and humanity into the recesses of his mind. Considering how emotional this Stand and its user must be to find a remote, isolated island and its sole inhabitant — regardless of Passione’s extensive influence over the territory — this man has a personal vendetta against Giorno himself.

But he should have never involved you.

Occupied with their back and forth, the pair of men fail to take notice of how your finger twitches by your side. The movement is subtle, easy to miss; even Giorno is too caught up in the situation to pay you any mind for once. The slightest movements of your incapacitated body are the least of his concerns, right now, his mind filled with one thought: you haven’t awoken. You are dying, and that is far more than Giorno can take.

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

The Don smiles sardonically. Gone is the ray of light that usually graces his features when he sets foot on this island, when his gaze lands on you. This man keeps speaking of you as if he knows you. If you were awake right now, you’d be easily swayed, your thoughts a mess and  your mind easily malleable. This could ruin everything, everything he’s built here, everything he’s built for you, with you. You won’t look at him the same. Not like this morning. Not even like the weeks before, spent in harrowing isolation, flinching at his very presence. You’ll look at him like you would a monster; horrified.  

But you aren’t awake. You are on the brink of death and he’s made next to no progress in your rescue. What a pitiful excuse he is. For all his power and influence, he can’t even protect you. He can’t even protect the very thing keeping him alive, the only person that showed a semblance of genuine love for him, even if it was hidden behind a hesitant and doubtful countenance. He was making progress. You were making progress.

“I am a murderer, as all gangsters are, but my reasons are just. I don’t need to explain them to someone such as yourself.” He laughs blithely. “Who did I kill that was so important to you?” He asks the same way one would ask for the time.

Snake Oil doesn’t answer.

“For you to come here, you must believe their death to be unjust. Who was it?” Giorno dwells on the thought for a second, deducing that these unknown variables must be closely related to this Stand’s user. “I can hardly recall their names, much less their faces. That begs the question: what did they do?” His smile grows, one-sided, as if knowing something his enemy does not. “I wonder… was it human trafficking? Narcotics?”

His only response is a glare, the Stand’s arm tightening around your neck like a noose. But, the Don head only cants to the side, testing the waters further. 

“No matter. If I wasted time doing so myself, they must have deserved to die.”

It’s spoken like an irrefutable fact. An ultimate dismissal of human life, of their own autonomy. An insult to the memory of those Snake Oil held dearest. The words aren’t only indifferent, but spoken with implicit confidence. In the recesses of his mind, he knows what it is Giorno is trying to do. Rationale is snuffed out, replaced with righteous fury. 

“You… you don’t deserve to speak of them. You know nothing.” 

“Do I now?” The Don’s body relaxes, now knowing what the Stand is after. The investigation falls; the interrogation begins. “Ah, I remember.” His lips twitch into a cruel smile, enjoying the act of playing with this enemy’s feelings. To be ruled by one’s feelings, to the point of enacting revenge on a man you haven’t a chance of winning against — this Stand and its user wouldn’t make it in the world of gangsters for much longer. “A wife, and a….son was it? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For revenge.” He tests the waters with a contemplative tone despite already knowing the answer, the Stand’s body language holding a tension and enmity it hadn’t moments before. “I don’t recall their faces or names, really, but I remember their screams. Your wife was groveling at my feet, begging for mercy. She had this look in her eyes — betrayal. You didn’t tell her your true profession, did you?” The Don’s lips twitch when Snake Oil falters, the latter’s eyes wide. “And your son… a prominent member in the very drug routes Passione aims to quell. I remember he tried to bargain with me, sell you out in exchange for my mercy.” Giorno laughs at the irony. To not even be trusted by your own family… “Like father, like son. He deserved to die.”

Snake Oil draws a sharp breath.

“And your daughter… such a sweet little thing. She didn’t understand what was happening.” He recalls with faint disinterest. “The look on her face was so tragic. I almost felt sorry for her. But she is related to you by blood, and scum can only breed scum.” An idea formulates, the words pressed past his lips as easily as breathing. “It’s a pity, though. She got away before I could…” He trails off, relishing in the way Snake Oil chokes pathetically on this information; his daughter… his only family is alive, somewhere, and... “I suppose I'll have to find her, take care of what I started." Giorno finishes.

“Shut up!” In his anger, Snake Oil’s grip tightens around your neck, squeezing at your already-suffocated veins. Giorno’s eyes flicker, taking note of the blackening nerves beneath your skin. “Don’t forget who’s in control here, Giovanna…!”

It’s all talk meant to rile him up, create an exploitable opening. Snake Oil refuses to fall into the trap, a ploy meant to keep him from enacting revenge. The words are heavy, a weight over his shoulders, but the Stand has you. While you should be dead by now from his ability, there are other ways to kill. Messier methods that he didn’t wish to stoop to, not until now. Giorno Giovanna, in all his sadistic glory, has dug a grave for his own beloved; an end truly befitting a monster such as himself.

“The pain I felt that day… you get to experience it now. You’ll pay for your sins in blood,” the Stand sneers, its expression full of countless years of pain. His gaze turns toward your unconscious body, his mind already concocting plans of a painful death. “Her blood.” 

"You view me as a demon, but do you have the resolve to stoop to my level?" Giorno quips, his resolve quickly running thin. The air is tense, suffocating, but he can’t let his mask falter. It would mean the end to this. An end to you. An end to this paradise, this false Eden.

He’s not ready for that. Not yet. Not when you were finally...

“So sure of yourself, so confident…” Every word drips with malice, forced out from a dark place. Every syllable is a shot to Giorno’s heart, to his willpower, Snake Oil feels his goals shift, wanting nothing more than to prove Giorno wrong. That not everything can fall into place as he sees fit, that he isn’t as omnipresent as he believes himself to be. To see those calculating eyes widen in horror, knowing that he made a grave error. 

It’s wishful thinking. Nothing in this world is that simple. If it were, Snake Oil’s family would still be by his side,and he wouldn’t be here, threatening an innocent girl with the displeasure of being involved with the worst scum society has to offer. He wouldn’t have had to stoop to the levels he did, likely disappointing those he cared for in the distant past. He wouldn’t have to stoop to Giovanna’s level and kill a blameless soul.

Monsters can only breed monsters.

Should the poison fail, so be it. It’s a messier death, a far less merciful one, but Snake Oil no longer has the capacity to care. How could he, after being taunted, when it was Giorno who was meant to be cowering away in anguish?  The Stand’s grip around your limp body strengthens, intent on strangling out all signs of life. This is it, the final act of dishonor to end it all. Within a few seconds, you should be reduced to nothing but a corpse, a shadow of your former self, that sadistic light in Giovanna’s eyes long gone.

Time is at a standstill. It all happens in the blink of an eye. 

At his torso, there’s a forceful shove that sends him sprawling backwards, air knocked from his lungs. Snake Oil lets out a shocked gasp, noticing the surprise on Giovanna’s own face; it’s clear he wasn’t expecting this turn of events, either. This attack… it couldn’t have been him. So that means you’re…

Before Snake Oil can dwell on his revelation, Gold Experience Requiem phases into the Stand’s field of vision, its speed unmatched and its strength beyond anything he’d prepared himself for. He knew death was coming should he mess up, should he let that monster creep under his skin. And yet, it still ends like this, a hole driven into his chest, just as it was meant to be. The pain is nothing new. The loss of everyone he’d ever cared about hurt far worse, but this… this is comforting. A release, a mercy. A promise that he will soon see his family, again. 

The gentle wave that washes over him is short lived; the blow had sent him flying, his back pierced by a nearby rock. There’s pain, briefly, before it washes away all the same. Washes away into nothing. Death, he’s come to realize, feels like nothing, and yet everything all at once. Even death has a heart, it seems, a vague sense of clemency and calm that life lacks. All the memories of a time long past, all the regret and the pleasure that comes with living. Sweet memories, bitter memories… memories of his family, killed at the hands of a man who acts like a God dictating who should live and who should die. A God who slaughters innocents, under a false moral code. A God who locks away his own lover, as if her life means nothing; a God who looks at her the same way the stars admire the sun.

And yet, in Snake Oil’s last moments, that same God looks down at him the same way one would a fly before you kill it. The same insignificance, the same detachment. Like he meant never meant anything of value. And he realizes...

Death does not discriminate; life does.

Giorno gazes at the dying man with a look of vague disinterest, a sight he’s grown accustomed to. There’s no anger, no pity, no emotion. Those were stolen the moment your eyes snapped shut and your blood started rotting. Snake Oil will find no satisfaction in this squandered death, his life squelched out and amounting to nothing. 

“Go to Hell. They’re waiting.”

The words fall from his lips so easily, so listlessly, without a shred of remorse. Snake Oil’s last moments are far from peaceful, those precious moments prior having lulled him into a false sense of security. They? Who are they? The Devil? His enemies? Or…. 

Realization hits. His blood has started to clot, and yet it boils with anger with indignant realization: he will go to Hell for his sins. He will go to Hell, and his family won’t be there. A sinner has no right of choice, only a punishment and its executioner. Even in these last moments, he’d hoped Giovanna would grant him the mercy of solace, the sympathy of a human rather than the malevolence of a monster. But that hope was misplaced from the start.

“Y...y-you’re a…. dem—”

But it’s too late. Snake Oil worked with diligence, but the devil works faster.

The storm has passed. The corpse, in its final moments, is gagging on thin air and it occurs to Giorno that its user is dying. Gagging on his own bile and vomit someplace far off, someplace Giorno can’t reach in his current state. If your life wasn’t in immediate danger, he’d hunt for the bastard himself, ensuring that his life has come to a permanent end. But you are more important. You will always be more important.

When he turns, he expects the worst. He expects to see your skin sallowed and your face sunken. He expects to see a lifeless husk, a goddess without the glow he’s come to admire. But that light is still there. You are still there, just as radiant as you were before your Eden was corrupted. The rise and fall of your chest is unmistakable, no matter how shallow your breathing may be. You’re alive. You’re alive, and Giorno’s legs nearly give out at the thought. Seeing you this close again, even as you cling to life, feels too good to be true. Giorno’s not sure who to thank, be it fate or having the devil’s own luck, but you’re still here. Still with him. This was too close to the chest. Pesky little details will be examined later, to ensure nothing like this ever has the chance to repeat. Security being tightened, loose ends removed… there’s an abundance of work to be done. For now, he allows himself to think only of you. 

He’s by your side in an instant, checking your pulse and breathing. Gold Experience takes note of the movement beneath your wrist, pulsing as it should be, yet rapidly dimming. Any flesh wounds he can spot are immediately healed with a featherlight touch, fearing the unattended wounds may harm you further. He holds your limp body to his chest, gently trying to shake you back into consciousness. To bring you back to him. 

“Let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours, amore.” His voice is so quiet and weak, it’s drowned out by the ocean waves. “I’ll be here as long as you need me. We need to finish our date, right? There’s still so much we have to do. I’ll clear my schedule, so just open your eyes and...”

He chokes, eyes wide with bitter tears. Your color is paling at an alarming pace, lips becoming a sickly blue. The flower he made earlier now looks out of place against your skin, its vibrant yellow petals so vivid in comparison — mocking you. Giorno chokes on his own spit; there’s no escaping it: you are dying, and he may as well be too. Giorno’s grip on you falters due to his own trembling, forcing him to steady you entirely against his chest. Every breath he takes is laboured, the weight of the world dragging him down. He’s seen this sight too many times before, and in his heart, he knows what this means. Without full knowledge of Snake Oil’s ability, there’s no way to treat whatever wounds were inflicted on you; he can only grasp at ideas from the previous encounter.  It’d take hours to find and deliver the proper antivenom, and by then, it’d be too late. He knows this, and he hates himself for it. He hates his knowledge, his experience that allows him to come to this horrific conclusion. Giorno wishes he were a fool so he could delude himself into believing you’ll continue to live with him.

“You said you wanted a frog for a pet, didn’t you…? I’ll make as many as your heart desires, I swear it. So, please…” The words die at the back of his clenching throat. His entire life, he’s told himself that crying is useless. That it achieves nothing, a waste of time and effort. Action is always the best course, the only path that amounts to overcoming grief. It’s been the philosophy of his life, and yet; he kneels here on the verge of tears all the same. “Please, please, please…”

Another shake, more urgent than the last.

“I wanted—” he gulps back a telling lump forming in his throat, “I wanted to do so much with you. Cooking together is just the start, there’s so much more...” His voice is a low whine, like a child begging his parents for their time and affection. It’s a battle against time, a battle that he’s losing. “So much more…” His words are incomprehensible at this point, slipping from his mouth before he can gather himself. “I love you, [First]… I love you, I love you. Please, God…” The words are unschooled, said without thought — genuine. There has never been a moment in his life where he believed God to be real, not after everything he’s seen, not after everyone he’s lost. You can’t be another causality — he can't lose you too.

For the first time since he was a child, Giorno cries.

He cries for everything he put you through, for everything he took from you. Every wish you had, every dream he never got to hear. He stole them like his family stole his own. He promised to be better, a better man — someone who could change the world, someone with a good heart. Growing up, he wanted nothing more than to prove his parents wrong. His step-father, cynical and drunk and good-for-nothing. His mother, neglectful, always chasing a high, as if her own family was the lowest of the low. And his real father, his origins and identity unknown; a man who no doubt would not want to be part of Giorno’s life, his own son’s life. Giorno didn’t want to be like any of them, didn’t want to grow up to become a monster in the shape of a human. That sentiment feels hypocritical right now, having just lost his composure and temper. The remnants of a man’s own soul is not too far off, mangled and destroyed beyond recognition, its user dead on the shores of a monster who stole his family.

Giorno Giovanna is not a good man. His tears are more for you than anyone else; you truly did have the misfortune of meeting him. The Devil could drag him to Hell right now and his last thoughts would still be: “Let her go to Heaven.”

There’s a gradual change. 

To the untrained eye, it might be too subtle to pick up on. Almost like a transparent sheen hovering just above your skin, a low hum of energy resonating alongside it. Giorno’s lip twitches as your complexion practically shines, eyes squinting to combat the light's growing strength. Too much is unfolding before him, a complex mystery where he remains in the dark. Snake Oil… he’s certain that Stand is no more. That’s when a chilling realization hits, like a bucket of ice being poured over him.

Gold Experience Requiem remains by his side, the Stand at the ready to attack as Giorno constructs a plan. Could Snake Oil have had a Stand that stays active upon death, like Notorious B.I.G? Giorno freezes at the thought, knowing full well the power a Stand like that would have. Hunting down its target for eternity. Did Snake Oil place an ability on you that triggered after death? In that case, precautions need to be taken to ensure you’re not placed under any further harm. There’s still a chance to save you; even Notorious B.I.G. had its flaws, no matter how terrifyingly powerful the Stand at first seemed.

But… something about it is off. The energy convulsing from you feels different, almost familiar. Warm and enveloping, unlike Snake Oil who conveyed nothing but bitterness and lost hope. What is this…? 

The luxury of thinking is replaced by a raw desire to act, to salvage what little remains, not willing to patiently assess the situation any longer. Not after that’s what led to your possible death sentence in the first place. Divine light radiates around your limp body, and Giorno reaches out, prepared to fend off the perceived threat. His trembling hand inches closer to your iridescent skin, tingling at the sensation rolling from your person like a barrier, and then— 

He’s flung back against the ground, as Snake Oil was before him. Gold Experience Requiem releases a fierce battle cry, lashing towards the presumed threat that envelopes you. Your person lets out a disgruntled noise at the attack, eyebrows twitching and body regaining itself. Cheeks flushing with color again, long eyelashes fluttering against your face. Rest is a coaxing concept, though something deep inside you commands that you wake.

Your eyes open.

Blood. Your vision is filled with a thick red, the beautiful blues and golds of the beach but a distant memory. The scene before you is a battlefield, its only remnants thick puddles of fresh blood. The liquid mars the beautiful beach sands, crimson revealing a story you weren’t meant to witness. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, dulling various areas that should be screaming out in pain. There’s too much to chew on, your thoughts in complete disarray. Your body feels prickly, vitality making a swift reappearance. And yet, there’s an unfamiliar pain at your chest, where Gold Experience Requiem’s hit landed. It’s dull, as if there is a layer of protection between your skin and the place the Stand’s fist had landed, but the very thought of Giorno hurting you, no matter the circumstance, has your mind reeling.

It doesn’t take long to piece together scattered pieces of the puzzle. In your delirium, you’d heard everything. It evokes disgust and shame, knowing you willingly went along with Giorno’s qualms. You had lost yourself, giving into him for frivolous comforts. He’s harmed too many, you’re not the only person to be on the receiving end of endless pain; you were just lucky enough to be on his good side. Morality and running a worldwide crime syndicate do not go hand and hand, no matter how many times Giorno tries to humanize himself to you. It’s all a facade. 

This was all a mistake. You shouldn’t have come here, not so willingly, not with him. 

“You’re a monster.”

A fact you’ve known for months now, and yet the words struggle past your teeth. A week ago, you wouldn’t have hesitated to say that and much worse to his face, relishing in the hurt that would momentarily cross his features. You had some semblance of power over him during those moments, using his twisted sense of love against him. You felt powerful, in control for once, having one of the most powerful men in the world grovel in wait for your affection. Before you, he wasn’t Don Giorno Giovanna, boss of Passione. He was just a boy, a psychopath, a man who had taken the world from you and expected your love in return.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last. He will always have the upper hand, some sort of control or advantage over you. You were a fool to think whatever you two possibly had — a relationship, if you could call it that — could work. Humans aren’t meant to be with monsters, and monsters aren’t meant to fall in love.

You realize that now.

“[First]...” For once, he’s speechless. Even saying that much is difficult. Gradually, he stands from the spot he’d been flung to, wearily making his way toward your crumpled body. His hand reaches out, shaking; were you slipping in and out of consciousness the entire time…? How much did you overhear? How much did you see?

“Don’t come closer!” You blink back tears, your vision focusing and unfocusing in the midst of it all. Your fingers, your hands, your… your body is glowing. The light is faint, weak, like the remnants of a flame before its wick gives out. “I-I… W-what happened? What happened to me?”

The puzzle pieces fall into place in his head. Giorno draws a sharp breath, his thoughts reeling to provide an explanation that won’t frighten you any further. In this state, you’re running on a high, coming down from the power your body has just awakened to. Having just defended yourself against a deadly venom, your body is running on pure adrenaline just to keep yourself upright. Your mind is reeling to rationalize what’s happening. Every nerve in your body felt like they were on fire, burning you up from the inside out. It’s as if you’re being overclocked, forced to work at full capacity, threatening to crash at any moment. Power rolls off your body in waves, as if it was meant to be there, as if it was there all along. And there’s an energy in your veins that feels wholly foreign, simultaneously yours and someone else’s at the same time. The ringing in your head is disorienting beyond compare; it feels as if your mind has been invaded, as if there is something else, someone else in your consciousness.

“What did you do?!” You don’t want to look at him, not in this moment, but the situation leaves you no choice. Your eyes flicker, briefly glowing with unadulterated rage when your gaze meets his. It couldn’t be possible, he couldn’t have… “You… you made me a monster just like you.”

“[First], I can explain everything, but you need to rest or—”

“No. God, I’m such a fool.” Your gut wrenches when you accidentally turn your gaze upon the battered corpse, its body mangled and face unrecognizable. Its heart hangs from its chest; you shudder to think what his human counterpart looks like. His death must have been painful,  agonizingly slow — an end befitting a monster more so than a human. And he… he’s surrounded by a sea of blood — your husband is surrounded by a sea of blood. 

“How could I forget? W-what you are…” Your eyes are fully glowing, pulsating with a holy energy when they meet his, but the sight is far from terrifying. You’re trembling. You’re crying. You’re pleading with him, just as  you had when you first arrived on this island. You’re scared. “W-Will you do the same to me?” 

His heart shatters.

Even now, as broken as you may feel, you cannot let yourself fall apart. If you break now, you won’t escape. He won’t let you escape. It will just be worse this time. You’ll always know the truth, the fact that countless lives have bloodied his hands — that he killed in cold blood then looked at you like your life is the only one worth keeping. 

“You’ve already taken everything from me. You took my family from me. My friends. My life. My future. How am I any different from them? From any of the people you’ve hurt?” His expression wavers at your endless accusations, but he doesn’t defend himself and you take that as a confession to his sins. “That man was right. Do you remember all of them? All of your victims? All their faces? Their dreams and ambitions?” Air catches in your throat, realizing something the enemy had divulged; your family. They’d been… they’d been lied to, and that revelation does nothing to quell your anger.“What about their families? Are they still looking for them, too?” Your voice cracks, coinciding with your crumbling heart.

That’s right, your family looked for you. They searched for you; they mourned, they were betrayed. They think you’re dead, that you left without saying goodbye — without saying “I love you”. And you were deluded into thinking that everything was going so well, that you could forget, that you could start anew. You were happy, for once, for the first time in what felt like years. As close as you could get to happiness. Finally having set out on a path of healing, recovering pieces of yourself and putting them back together where no one else could. This illusion you allowed yourself to believe dissipates, the fog over your eyes lifting to reveal barren reality. A reality Giorno himself designed and held full control over, like a God, and you his sole obsession. If he is a God, he is cruel. To think otherwise is to be seduced by the enemy. 

“You lied to me. You said I was safe here, that I could trust you.” Your voice breaks at that word — trust. What a pretty word, for such awful lies. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Giorno gathers his senses, his head ringing with your hurtful words, his heart tired. He is losing you all over again; this is the only thing he can defend, as all your other accusations are more or less true. “[First], I had to. He was going to—” 

“No. There’s never a good reason to murder, not when you have the power to stop them instead.” Your eyes flicker to Gold Experience Requiem, knowing full well of its powers. Giorno holds his tongue, realizing you’re right. He didn’t have to kill the enemy, not… not in front of you at least. Your eyes are not meant to see bloodshed or pain, and yet, he let his feelings get the better of him — and this is his price. “You didn’t have to, but you did. You killed him, Giorno. You killed him.” You can’t bring yourself to look at the corpse any longer. “That’s what monsters do.”

Each word stings more than the last.

He’s analyzing you. Mentally reciting and testing dozens of different explanations that might serve to placate you, even if it’s a temporary fix. Anything to get that stinging look of repulsion off your beautiful face, anything to make you look at him the way you did earlier. This is far more detrimental than the times you spoke down to him before now that a third party had been involved. The damage is already done, nature of himself that he tried to hide from you now out in the open. 

There may be no coming back from this.

“You’ve been through a lot.” Giorno takes one step closer to you, stomach dropping when you flinch at the tentative action. All the progress has been undone, though he can’t mourn that now. He has to keep a straight face, lull you down this high filled with fear and adrenaline. Get under your skin again… make you trust him. “Come, let’s go inside. You must feel tired.”

“No. No, no, no, you liar. You’ve put me through a lot,” you correct with a weak glare, holding your hand to your chest. The same hand that had finally come to accept him just minutes prior. Recalling his touch makes you want to scrub the skin raw, knowing how bloodied they were.  “Just… stay away from me, p-please.” Your demands sound more like pleads, the shock of your new abilities still paralyzing your system. Your wings encircle you still, their transparent silhouette coursing with a power you know not what to do with. Their presence alone makes you feel safe, a much needed barrier between you and him. It even withstood a direct attack from Giorno’s own Stand…

The possibility of escaping is becoming frighteningly real.

Giorno withdraws his outstretched hand, not wanting to scare you any further. It’s clear you don’t want to listen to him right now, and he’s not sure he wants to continue persuading you; the trembling of your body, the look on your face, like a frightened doe — you’re scared of him. The same girl that had looked at him with hesitant admiration, that had played with him, that had gotten to know him, that had kissed him — she’s gone, and some deep, hateful part of him knows she won’t ever come back. He’s walking on eggshells again and he knows it. In the terrified state that you’re in, there won’t be any deescalation. You’ve seen too much, know too much. It’s troublesome, too many factors at play to safely talk this out. There’s still the problem of your safety, and monitoring your body for any further repercussions from the earlier Stand attack. Giorno considers all of this, and with a silent sigh, makes a swift decision on how to best fix this. More roadblocks are set in the path of recovery, but he’s determined to see this through. That’s how he’s always been, and how he’ll always be until the day he draws his final breath. You are no exception; you never will be. Not when everything he does is wholly for you.

You realize something is amiss when he doesn’t respond any further to your pointed accusations. Normally, you’d see a flicker of hurt flit across his features — the only time he ever lets his guard down, even slightly, is with you. That’s not the case now, not after everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve seen. Lips parting, you’re about to inquire what it is he’s plotting, but by then it’s far too late. From the blood by your feet, roots start to form at the base, coming to life by Gold Experience Requiem’s ability. An unidentifiable substance leaks from them, sapping away at the remnants of your consciousness like parasites. It acts as a salve, soothing the snake bite on your neck and the skin covering your blackened veins, but its true purpose is far from that, meant to constrain you, to confine you. It’s a terrifying sight, being restrained by vines tainted in the blood of a dead man, being restrained by an entity that had made you gifts and brought you joy only minutes prior.

He’s using his ability on you.

Gold Experience Requiem, an entity that had excitedly made you a crown to place atop your head, looks almost distraught as he covers you from head to toe, confines you like his user has for as long as you can remember. They are one and the same, you realize; how foolish it was to believe this man was capable of anything but tragedy. You had been charmed by pretty lies fashioned to ensnare you for eternity. His words, his actions, everything about him was a lie — a forbidden fruit.

Standing becomes too arduous a task, your body crumpling to the ground in a pathetic show of weakness. The world around you grows blurry, your eyelids fighting to remain open only to lose and sink into the sweet call of sleep. Everything feels so far away. The call of the birds, the crashing of the ocean… even the sand that rubs against your skin doesn’t register. The only thing that does is the look on his face, so unlike the monstrous, dissociated expression he had when he took a man’s life before your eyes. Even that, all the pain, dread, betrayal, it’s all slipping away, to some place you cannot reach. Not anymore. The light that stems from your back flickers, the remnants of your holy wings shattering like fragments of glass. Giorno approaches you as the disorientation continues and your Stand deactivates, having protected you long enough. He wants nothing more than to take its place as your savior, your protector, his arms reaching out to catch and prevent your body from further harm. You’ve been through enough. You were right; he’s put you through enough.

As consciousness fades, you hear the Devil whisper one final promise.

“I’ll fix everything, just give me time.” 

[red-the-dragon-writes]

Treasure Hunting

Context: I agreed to write a few "explores" for an art game I play on DeviantArt, Fields of Valhalla. Doe is an intrepid treasure-hunting deer who has recently figured out how to break into dragons' homes and rob them blind go looking for treasure in dragons' lairs. There wound up being several thousand words of this, and three separate stories. As well as an art piece!

Listed here are three stories in one series.

Doe delicately stepped into the cave and ducked her head to avoid banging it on the ceiling. This close she could already tell that there was a dragon in here. Or, something, at the very least- but she figured it was most likely a dragon. She’d never seen a troll leave deep scratches in the wall and carve a fireplace out in the same space, at the very least, and trolls usually at least bothered with doors. And didn’t live in caves. No, this was definitely a dragon lair.

She’d come to see if she could steal away with an egg. It’d make for a spectacular prize, for sure; and to be honest she mostly just wanted to see if she could find one. What bragging rights that would make for; how fitting it would be. After all, if anyone were to return triumphant with a dragon egg from a trip, it should be her.

She made her quiet way into the darkness of the recessed cave and marveled at how neatly laid out it was. She hadn’t been in terribly many dragon caves before, but enough to know that most of their hidey-holes were kind of a… mess, really. Muddy or dirty, full of dust, for sure. Treasures scattered about on the ground, ripe for the taking, as though they were just haphazardly dropped trash and not spectacular jewels or pieces of gold. They were kind of sloppy. Doe always thought that it seemed kind of like a shame, that they kept their lairs in such disrepair, but it really wasn’t her problem at the end of the day. And the mess made it easier to slip a handful of precious treasures into her sack and be on her way, even if she found a dud hole and there weren’t any eggs in it.

She tiptoed deeper, the cave getting darker and darker as she went. There were little side passages clotted with stalactites, wet and dripping, but it looked like the main body of the cave had been cleared away. The floor was smooth and easy to walk on, and the ceiling was free of any dripping spikes though she could see that water was still running down the sides in little rivulets in places. It must have been an awfully uncomfortable, damp place to live. She still saw no treasures, but far off in the distance, dancing upon the walls, she could see firelight.

Well that was bad news.

Doe crept closer to the chamber that the firelight was coming from and then nearly flattened herself into the wall, getting dust and cave water all smudged into the pretty white fur along the ridge of her back and her sides. It was a massive central area. Smelled like someone was cooking something, spicy, almost like human foods. Maybe she was in the wrong place after all. And above the crackling of whatever massive cooking fire had been in there someone was humming.

Carefully, very nervously, Doe stuck her head around the corner to look into the chamber.

Hunched over what looked like a pot of stew, back to her, was a massive dragon. Its lizardlike body was perched upon a long stool, and it was standing up on its back legs, stirring a pot nearly twice Doe’s size and sprinkling leaves into it from what looked like the largest salt shaker Doe had ever seen in her life. The dragon itself was dark blue, with lighter blue feet; but where the firelight touched it it shone a brilliant red, almost brighter than the fire itself.

Tucked away into the corner, behind it, sitting in their own cheerily burning fire, was a large clutch of what looked to be nearly fifteen eggs. Each one was leathery, almost soft-looking, with a strange moving shape visibly shining through from the fire underneath. As she watched, one of them twitched and shook as the—what must have been the baby dragon inside rolled around in the egg, stretching out softly like a sleeping creature.

Doe took a step forward, to get a better look— and there. At this angle she could see the treasure hoard of the dragon as well, a neatly organized shelf filled with trinkets and pieces of gold and jewels taking up nearly a third of the room. Doe had never seen a neatly organized dragons’ hoard before, but it was neat. Still, with the dragon awake and active, she didn’t think it would be wise to sneak in there and try to grab anything—

Sitting on the shelf was what looked like nearly twenty Odin’s Eye tokens. With that many— she could have riches she never dreamed of. Gifts and items she could never have even heard of. That would be a prize worth having, for absolute sure.

She took another step into the room, as quietly as she could, and attempted to tiptoe her way across to the shelf; but she stepped on a discarded bone halfway over to the shelf and the dragon abruptly stopped humming to turn around. Up close, its face was scaly and reptilian, and its luminous eyes struck terror into her heart as they fixed directly onto her. The dragon roared, and Doe panicked.

She grabbed whatever was in reach and hightailed it the hell out of the cave, sprinting as fast as she could as the dragon came hot on her heels, scurrying across the ceiling and bellowing in fury the entire time. She got the fur on her back singed when it spat fire and fury at her, but her luck was great, and she made it out without dying. Once outside, she hid in a copse of trees, struggling not to shake, and the dragon looked around for her fruitlessly, squinting its big eyes against the burning sun, before eventually giving up and shaking its head and walking back into its lair.

That was terrifying.

Doe glanced into her heavy bag, laden with treasures. Well. She was probably never coming back here again, but the trip hadn’t been a total bust. Not by a long shot.

-

Story 2: Close Encounters of the Reptilian Kind

Doe tightened up her sack and headed out to the newest dragons’ den she’d scouted out. She was still on the hunt for an egg, of course; but this one was settled on the shores of one of the deepest, fastest rivers, and it was rumored that gold could be found there like common stones. Doe hoped this meant she could find jewelry, or pieces of precious metals, in the dragons’ lair. They were known for keeping large, messy hoards of gold and treasures, after all; and what greater treasure could there be than delicate pieces of jewelry? And what would suit her better, of course, than elegantly crafted, sparkling jewelry?

As such, Doe packed a nice, big, sturdy bag, something she could take heavy items without much difficulty in. She was hoping to walk out with it laden so full she could hardly even walk. That would be only fair, after all the work she’d put in to get the location of the lair.

The dragon that lived in this lair was a water creature, long and lanky. In the hopes of avoiding the same situation she’d run into last time, she’d sat herself outside and waited for the long black dragon to carefully emerge from its lair, straighten up, and then take a breath and dive into the river for a good swim. It should be out all day; or at least she would hope it would be. The creature was ugly and sharp-scaled, narrow in the face and the body, serpentine aside from the wickedly curved long legs that ended in talons almost like that of a hawk. It was a thoroughly alarming monster. She’d rarely seen a dragon that looked nearly as… predatory, as designed to hurt and cause harm. But it looked like an eel that had been turned into a dragon; and Doe was not a fan of eels either. So perhaps she was just biased. Maybe it just looked like a perfectly normal sea creature with jagged, jutting teeth and massive jaws and tiny, beady eyes that never blinked.

No, Doe had not wanted to find herself stuck in the half-collapsed structure with that thing inside it. She waited for it to leave. And once it had left, she slipped inside.

This lair was some half-sunken ruin, the remnant of some building that the ancient humans who had lived in this area had once made. It was, in its prime at least, a castle, white stone reaching up into the sky. Now the spiralling towers had collapsed, and weather had worn the once-bright stones, nearly the same color and sheen as Doe’s fur, down to a dull gray-green and brown. There was water all coating the uneven stone brick floor, and her hooves splashed and echoed loudly down the hall. Plants were growing through the broken windows, and vines hung lowly from the damaged ceiling. In places, Doe could still see faded paintings on the walls; but in others the paint had flaked off, or been peeled off. Here there was a mural of a knight, sitting astride a massive rukaan; the knight was battling with a massive creature. It was too faded and damaged for Doe to really make out the details, but the face of the knight had clearly been intentionally scratched off and defaced.

Doe figured that if she were a horrible gross monster, and she were living alongside a painting of some human killing a horrible gross monster like her, she might try and deface that painting, too. That was kind of sad, actually. She took an experimental swing at the painting with one hoof, and a big sheet of the paint fractured and fell to the ground, splashing into the muddy water.

Oh, okay. That was going to be noticed. Uh, hm. That wasn’t smart.

Doe decided to hurry up and go get her treasure instead of standing around looking at the scenery, after that. Everywhere there was the clear, crystal evidence of this being a dragon’s lair, of course. There were scratches on anything tall enough and sturdy enough to serve as a scratching post, and discarded scales sat in the shallow water. Finally she made it into what must’ve been the primary cavern of the dragon’s lair, a once-resplendent banquet hall that had clearly fallen into disrepair. Rotting wooden tables were stacked along one wall, and looked to have been made into a sort of rough bed, fur pelts and straw and fallen leaves stacked atop the cracked top of the highest one. Piled in one corner was a massive, shimmering hoard of old coins and precious stones, and perched on the very top of the pile was a spectacular set of golden armor, and a crown fit for a king. The armor was a bit big for her, but clearly made for a rukaan; the crown was far too small and probably meant for a human. Doe shoved it into her bag regardless, struggling to pull the armor onto her back; it was fortunately tied together in a bundle but unfortunately rotten and nearly falling apart at the seams regardless of the fact that the metal wasn’t even tarnished. It might have been ceremonial. Gold didn’t make great armor, did it? But she would look good in it, and everyone else would be jealous. And that was good enough for her, really.

Doe filled her bag with riches and went looking around for a nest or clutch of eggs, just in case, but she found none; and then she made her way out. While she was walking back through the watery halls she heard a loud, echoing splash, and then what sounded like massive footsteps; and in a panic Doe flattened herself into an alcove. There was no place to go, after all, and her hoofsteps were loud and obviously wrong. She found herself frozen, rooted to the spot, after realizing that. Oh, no, oh, no, she was doomed.

She realized abruptly she was right across from the mural she’d kicked, too. Even better. Oh no. It was going to know she was in there.

Before long the lanky creature pulled itself into the room, half swimming, half crawling on its belly. It didn’t see her, or at least it didn’t seem to; it came to pull itself up to its full height, looking at the mural quizzically. Doe held her breath in true, real panic. She could feel her body starting to shake. It was so close, and so big, its talons hooked and nearly as long as her head, and its teeth were even more jagged and dangerous up close, and it clearly could snap her up in one bite—

The dragon turned around to fix Doe with a clear, surprisingly intelligent look. She made terrified eye contact with it.

It nodded once, and went on its way.

Minutes after it left Doe finally relaxed enough to let out the breath she’d been holding and stumbled her way back out to freedom. She— she’d clearly taken some of its treasure. Did it just not care? Did it not notice? It definitely saw her. What did any of this mean?

Doe decided to leave that part out when she told this story. Because really. What on earth.

-

Story 3: Cooperation

This latest lair was an abandoned building again, once the cavernous hall of a giant and now the half-collapsed hidey-hole of a small dragon. Doe wasn’t sure if it was just young or if it was only about the size of a large ruk, but either way was cool by her. Maybe its hoard would be small, but she was confident that it had giants’ treasures in that building of its.

Besides, she’d seen it a few times, and it was a pretty thing, bright blue spangled with gold and silver like the sky. It reminded her of a kingfisher, really, the few times she’d seen it, skittish and delicate with broad wings and a narrow, delicate body. It was currently sitting perched atop the intact part of the roof, staring off into the sky as though it could see something more interesting than she could, something more than just the full moon and the stars sparkling brightly. Its eyes were fixed straight up. It had been doing this for nearly three hours. Doe had expected it to take off, but it hadn’t.

She waited a few more long moments, and then abruptly out of nowhere the sparkling creature sat bolt upright, glancing around nervously. It let out a loud caw, almost like that of a crow, and then a high pitched roar that sounded like it were mimicking the calls of larger dragons. Then it spread its wings, shuffled about a bit, and took off into the air. It made a loop in the sky, around the moon; and then it was gone, blending into the night sky as though its shimmering scales were made for this. It probably was, Doe realized after a second, watching what she thought were its wings flap into the distance. It sure looked like just a cluster of shooting stars.

Nonetheless, with the beautiful creature gone, she was free and clear to go break into its home and steal from it. Er. Explore. Explore its home. And steal from it.

Doe stood up, shaking herself, and went to walk through the long stretch of dark, craggy forest to make it to the dragon’s lair. She kept an eye turned to the skies to make sure it wasn’t coming back, and fortunately it didn’t, and she made her way up to the half-collapsed building with little issue. Up close it stank of mildew and rust, strong and disgusting, and it was cold and icy atop the peaks like it was. The wind blew so much more strongly it was unreasonable. Doe ducked inside the uncovered doorway and into the building, and then quickly realized she’d made a mistake as she looked at the blocked path in front of her. There was a little hollow arch, something she could maybe get through, but it was nearly flat to the ground. Evidently the dragon used that on the regular, but Doe’s legs weren’t designed to bend that way, and she didn’t see a way through. She stuck her head through it, struggling to push herself through, but eventually had to admit defeat after nearly getting herself stuck and hearing the whole of the partially-collapsed roof, leaning on the ground and above her, creak and groan as she struggled to free herself. If that came down, she would be dead, her spine broken. It wasn’t worth it.

She went back outside and let herself in from one of the broken windows instead, neatly making it in without having to worry about the broken segment. It wasn’t great, and she scraped herself up on the sides on the broken glass- evidently there was a reason that the dragon didn’t use that method of entry- but they weren’t serious wounds, and she would be just fine. Finally she made it to the central hall, freezing and shaking from cold, dripping little droplets of blood onto the stained and half-frozen floor. Not so triumphant. But surely the treasures would warm her heart, even if they wouldn’t warm her poor frozen ears or her poor freezing hooves.

But when she made it to the central room, fire cheerily burning in the cracked hearth, there was no treasure. The room was almost totally bare. There was clearly a little nest in the corner, built up with sticks and twigs and what looked like scraps of fur it had collected from somewhere, and there was a dead wolf lying in front of the fire. There was maybe twelve kroner lying in the center of the room on the floor. Probably the beginnings of this dragon’s hoard. It really must have been very young after all.

Doe sighed, and went to dig around in the halls. Maybe she could find some treasures the dragon had failed to turn up.

It turned out she was right. After nearly hours of searching, occasionally returning to the center room to warm herself up a bit more, she finally stumbled across what must have been a weapons cache that hadn’t been cleared underneath a rotten section of collapsed ceiling. She could see the glimmering red-gold and steel, still bright after all the exposure to the weather; but the debris was heavy and hard for her to get a grip on. She couldn’t free it, and she was starting to get seriously concerned about really hurting herself if she tried. Every time she shoved a piece of the rotting wood or collapsed brick over, the entire structure groaned and twisted, and the more she moved, the more unstable it seemed.

Then, horrifyingly, while she was tugging at a board with her teeth, she heard flapping overhead; and looked up at the gaps in the ceiling to see the eyes of the sparkling sky-dragon looking down at her curiously.

“Oh no,” Doe mumbled.

The dragon glanced at her, and then looked at the room she was digging at, and then fluttered down to the ground alongside her and struggled to grab the other end of the board Doe was pulling at. Doe registered that after a second and renewed her efforts.

Between the two of them, they were able to much more easily clear the path, though there was a scary moment when half the bricks behind them came down. Fortunately, they didn’t block the hall; but Doe jumped and pranced nervously, and the dragon took off and fluttered back to the ground after a couple seconds. It made a quiet coo at Doe after it landed, and she ducked her head and snorted reassuringly. On that note they went back to work, by mutual agreement.

The giant weapons, once they were cleared out, were far too big for Doe to even try to carry them out. There were flails and axes, heavy swords and massive knives, and even the smallest of them was too big to fit into Doe’s pack. The dragon watched in mild consternation while she struggled to take them, before eventually lifting one of the massive heavy tools and dragging it back to the central room without much of a care. Doe went to help with that, because even if she wasn’t walking out with the treasure the dragon sure seemed to want her help with getting it; and there, lo and behold, on the ground below the sword she’d picked up, was one small heap of gold coins sitting in the rotted remains of what had probably been a massive money-pouch. Doe scooped it into her bag, hoping the dragon wouldn’t notice, and then went back to dragging the weapons in to sit near the hearth.

When they had all been dragged in, the dragon chirped happily, sounding for all the world like a bird. Then it ducked its head to its chest, and carefully plucked one of the golden shimmering scales from its breast with both hands. It held it out to Doe shakily in what was clearly a demonstration of thanks.

Doe took it carefully and set it in its pouch, and she could’ve sworn the dragon smiled at her before curling up atop its new pile of weapons.

When she got home and could see it in better light, the dragon’s scale wasn’t gold at all. It glimmered, iridescent, in the light, and sparkled as though it held the entirety of the night sky in it. It looked gold on first impression, or maybe silver, but if she looked closer, she could see spots of pure black shining through, and bright gold and white and blue, and if she looked any closer than that she started getting dizzy, as though she were going to fall into it. Truly, she’d never seen anything like it.

And this is a model of the dragon's scale, made in Blender!

[comrade-meow]

March 1 – Marx’s Theory of Alienation

The alienation of labour that takes place specifically in capitalist society is sometimes mistakenly described as four distinct types or forms of alienation. It is, on the contrary, a single total reality that can be analyzed from a number of different points of view. In the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts, Marx discusses four aspects of the alienation of labour, as it takes place in capitalist society: one is alienation from the product of labour; another is alienation from the activity of labour; a third is alienation from one’s own specific humanity; and a fourth is alienation from others, from society. There is nothing mysterious about this fourfold breakdown of alienation. It follows from the idea that all acts of labour involve an activity of some sort that produces an object of some sort, performed by a human being (not a work animal or a machine) in some sort of social context.

Alienation in general, at the most abstract level, can be thought of as a surrender of control through separation from an essential attribute of the self, and, more specifically, separation of an actor or agent from the conditions of meaningful agency. In capitalist society the most important such separation, the one that ultimately underlies many, if not most other forms, is the separation of most of the producers from the means of production. Most people do not themselves own the means necessary to produce things. That is, they do not own the means that are necessary to produce and reproduce their lives. The means of production are, instead owned by a relatively few. Most people only have access to the means of production when they are employed by the owners of the means of production to produce under conditions that the producers themselves do not determine.

So alienation is not meant by Marx to indicate merely an attitude, a subjective feeling of being without control. Although alienation may be felt and even understood, fled from and even resisted, it is not simply as a subjective condition that Marx is interested in it. Alienation is the objective structure of experience and activity in capitalist society. Capitalist society cannot exist without it. Capitalist society, in its very essence, requires that people be placed into such a structure and, even better, that they come to believe and accept that it is natural and just. The only way to get rid of alienation would be to get rid of the basic structure of separation of the producers from the means of production. So alienation has both its objective and subjective sides. One can undergo it without being aware of it, just as one can undergo alcoholism or schizophrenia without being aware of it. But no one in capitalist society can escape this condition (without escaping capitalist society). Even the capitalist, according to Marx, experiences alienation, but as a “state”, differently from the worker, who experiences it as an “activity”. Marx, however, pays little attention to the capitalist’s experience of alienation, since his experience is not of the sort which is likely to bring into question the institutions that underpin that experience.

The first aspect of alienation is alienation from the product of labour. In capitalist society, that which is produced, the objectification of labour, is lost to the producer. In Marx’s words, “objectification becomes the loss of the object”. The object is a loss, in the very mundane and human sense, that the act of producing it is the same act in which it becomes the property of another. Alienation here, takes on the very specific historical form of the separation of worker and owner. That which I produced, or we produced, immediately becomes the possession of another and is therefore out of our control. Since it is out of my control, it can and does become an external and autonomous power on its own.

In making a commodity as a commodity (for the owner of the means of production) I not only lose control over the product I make, I produce something which is hostile to me. We produce it; he possesses it. His possession of what we produce gives him power over us. Not only are we talking here about the things that are produced for direct consumption. More basically, we are talking about the production of the means of production themselves. The means of production are produced by workers, but completely controlled by owners. The more we, the workers, produce, the more productive power there is for someone else to own and control. We produce someone else’s power over us. He uses what we have produced in order to wield his power over us. The more we produce, the more they have and the less we have. If I make a wage, I can work for forty or fifty years, and at the end of my life have not much more than I had at the beginning, and none of my fellow workers do either. Where has all this work gone? Some has gone into sustaining us so that we can go on working, but a great deal has gone into the expanded reproduction of the means of production, on behalf of the owners and their power. “Society” gets wealthier, but the individuals themselves do not. They do not own or control a greater proportion of the wealth.

The hostility of the product over which I relinquish my control in selling my labour – this also refers to the inhuman power of the impersonal laws of production . The laws of capitalist production have power over me. The boss, the capitalist owner himself, may simply be regarded as merely the representative of more remote, hidden, and inscrutable forces. His excuse, when he informs me that I am no longer needed, that he would have to close up the place or go broke if he didn’t do this, is no mere excuse. The capitalist himself is merely a priest who lives well off the service of capital, and not a god. When the god speaks, he too must jump, or he will find himself in my place, where god knows, no one wants to be. So, between him and me, it’s “nothing personal”. But this is exactly the problem, not an excuse.

The second aspect of alienation, alienation from the activity of labour, means that in labouring I lose control over my life-activity. Not only do I lose control over the thing I produce, I lose control over the activity of producing it. My activity is not self-expression. My activity has no relation to my desires about what I want to do, no relation with the ways I might choose to express myself, no relation with the person I am or might try to become. The only relation that the activity has with me is that it is a way of filling my belly and keeping a roof over my head. My life activity is not life-activity. It is merely the means of self-preservation and survival. In alienated labour, Marx claims, humans are reduced to the level of an animal, working only for the purpose of filling a physical gap, producing under the compulsion of direct physical need.

Alienation from my life-activity also means that my life-activity is directed by another. Somebody else, the foreman, the engineer, the head office, the board of directors, foreign competition, the world-market, the very machinery I am operating, it/they decide what and how and how long and with whom I am going to act. Somebody else also decides what will be done with my product. And I must do this for the vast majority of my waking hours on earth. What could and should be free conscious activity, and what they tell me I have contracted to do as a free worker, becomes forced labour. It is imposed by my need and by the other’s possession of the means of satisfying all needs. As a result I relate to my own activity as though it were something alien to me, as though it were not really mine, which it isn’t. I do not truly belong in this place, doing this thing over and over and over again, until I cannot even think or feel anything but the minutes ticking over until quitting time. The real me wants to be doing something.

My activity becomes the activity of another. Life comes to be split between alien work and escape from working, which for us is “leisure”. Because our own life activity becomes an alien power over our lives, activity itself gets a bad name. and we tend to avoid it when we are on our own, in our “free time”. Free time itself tends to become equated with freedom from activity, because activity is compulsion. Freedom is equated with the opposite of action and production; freedom is consumption, or just passive, mindless “fun”, or just blowing off steam. Only in class society is there such an equation of activity with pain and of leisure with inactivity or sloth, for activity under alienated labour is not self-expression but self-denial. All our capacities are parceled out into marketable skills. We talk about “human resources” or youth as “our most precious resource”, all of which pseudo-humanist jargon expresses the same reality, that human labour is turned into a commodity to be bought and sold like any other.

As this civilization moves on we get, of course, an ever finer and more detailed separation of hand and brain, of sense and intelligence, manifested in the truncated capacities of both masters and wage-slaves. Some people are likely to spend their entire lives developing the capacity to locate defects in the ends of cans. This becomes their forced contribution to the human species. And it is in this sense that we are not without cause, in the latest stages of capitalism, of thinking of ourselves as appendages of a machine. In a sense, capitalism involves a devolution even behind the work-animal. At least the work-animal is an enslaved total organism. Even a tool or a slave can be used to carry out many different things. But by the time you get to the highest stage of capitalism, human functions can be more dehumanized than that of a tool: you become the appendage of a machine, just part of a tool, a cog in the vast machine of production.

By many routes, then, alienation from the product and from the activity of labour lead up to and involve alienation in its third aspect, alienation from the self or from the human essence. It is not only the product that becomes an alien power. It is not only that self-development becomes self-denial. Internally related to these others is a loss of self. To alienate my labour-power, to be forced to sell it as a commodity on the market, is to lose my life-activity, which is my very self. It is to become other than myself. Sometimes we speak innocently enough of being beside ourselves or feeling remote from ourselves; or sometimes we use the language of the search for identity and authenticity, of not knowing who we are or not recognizing who we’ve become. From a Marxian point of view, we are talking about something social and historical rather than something metaphysical or existential. At a deeper level still, the sense of loss of identity or loss of meaning is an expression, but one still alienated itself, of our real loss of humanity, alienation from the human “species-being”, as Marx sometimes calls it. This is one thing Marxists mean when they talk about de-humanization.

There is a further aspect of alienation from self which Marx pays little attention to in his later work, but which receives some mention in the Manuscripts and remains important at an implicit level. And it is perhaps most appropriate to discuss it in relation to alienation from self. This further aspect is alienation from sensuousness. Marx conceives of the history of human labour as, among other things, a formation of the human senses themselves. The human senses are not passive mechanisms, a blank slate on which the world leaves its mark more or less clearly and strongly. Marx understands sense perception itself to be the outcome of a process of the labour of a historical subject. The sensuous forms in which we perceive things and their relations is therefore the product of the history of an active subject. The sense themselves are not given, once and for all, but open to education, broadening, refining, formation and re-formation.

If the senses themselves are a product of the process of human collective self-constitution, it is meaningful to speak of an alienation of sensuousness. In capitalist society, our life activity is alienated. As a result we engage in inherently sensuous activities, but in an alienated fashion, almost exclusively, that is, for non-sensuous, extrinsic, extraneous purposes. In order to satisfy virtually any need, we must in capitalist society, work through the medium of money. Most of the things we do, we do in order to make money or to put ourselves in the position to make money, or improve our capacities to make money. There is very little, if anything that a human being could imagine wanting, that is not offered to us as a possible object of a cash transaction. Thus the things with which we are engaged are never approached with an eye to either their own intrinsic value or to their human value in a broader sense. We do not relate most of the time to most things in terms of their intrinsically sensuous and aesthetic reality. The imperatives of capitalist society thus enter into our conscious and semi-conscious experience even at the level of sense and perception itself. We are taught to literally see and feel things as utilities, as abstract counters in the process of making still more money. We become alienated from what Marx calls our subjective human sensibilities. Our senses are not so much animalized or brutalized as they are mechanized. If our life-activity were our own, this would necessarily involve the intensive cultivation of our capacity for aesthetic appreciation of sensuous reality. Humans are, after all, according to Marx, the only species that can produce in conscious appreciation of the laws of beauty. Under alienated labour, sense experience becomes a modifiable sign for things and relations that can be turned into money, the sign of all things. Because our activity is degraded to the level of mechanical subservience to crude needs, or, in reaction to that we perhaps become aesthetes, we regard everything only from the standpoint of the use it can be put. Or we come to attach a perception of beauty or aesthetic value to that which commands a high price. We can be impressed with the supposed aesthetic value of something because it is expensive.

This relation to everything, even the objects of sense and beauty, in terms of its usefulness to the expanded reproduction of capital means we no longer have an eye for the thing itself. Oriented mainly to pieces of the world whose monetary value means that they are essentially interchangeable, we are brought that much more easily to relate to ourselves and each other in this way. We begin to evaluate ourselves and each other in terms of the amount of money we can make. Or parts of ourselves can be ranked in such terms. We are less able, if still able, to perceive and appreciate the intrinsic qualities of anything, even including ourselves. This dehumanization of the senses, and of perception and of judgement, is not something accidental to the dehumanization of humans.

We are thus led to the fourth aspect, alienation from other people, or from society. Once the traditional community (which understood itself as natural) is broken down, human beings become essentially potentially useful or threatening objects. One can now have enemies in a new sense. Only with the breakdown of primitive communism does man become a wolf to man. “Man is a wolf to man” (homo homini lupus ) was one of Hobbes’s favourite sayings. “Wolflike” behaviour can and does occur in “primitive” societies and between such societies, but it is not the principle of those societies. It does become the central and organizing principle of class societies. In the market it is hard to say that the antagonism of classes becomes more severe, but the antagonism among individuals certainly increases. Now, according to Marx, “human nature” must be grasped as “the ensemble of social relations”. It is not simply our neuro-physiological constitution or our DNA that makes us behave or act selfishly. We live, according to Marx, in a society in which each individual must see in every other, not the possibility of his liberty, but its limitation. Every other becomes an obstacle to me, but – and this is important too – a needed obstacle, a customer, a client, a creditor, a debtor, an employer or employee. (We haven’t even come up with a better replacement for patriarchalist terms such as husband and wife than “partner” – which suggests nothing so much as a boardroom full of lawyers). The other is a rival. It is not that cooperation here is impossible. In fact we learn to coordinate our activities on an ever more grand scale and complex level. It is that this cooperation can only take place as the coincidence of separate and competing “enlightened” self-interests.

In feudal society, or in Aristotle’s polis, one’s life-activity was directly determined by one’s pre-ordained social status. Along with this, however, came a solidary bond integrating the occupants of the various strata. The lord-peasant relationship was a direct, personal bond of two-way loyalty and duty (and even affection). The exploitation of the peasant was an integral part of a patriarchal relation. Even though the solidarity of such societies was a pseudo-solidarity, a solidarity based upon exploitation, it was still a solidarity. What the market society does is to relentlessly smash the patriarchal links between lord and peasant. Each individual is to be thrown upon his own resources in order to make his fortune or not, as the case may be. The market society severs the patriarchal link between lord and peasant, lord and lord, peasant and peasant, and substitutes for it the cash nexus. For the personal relationship is substituted one of personal indifference. The bottom line of the contractual relationship is cash. Previously the worker worked for the community either directly or in personal subservience to his superior, and the subservience of labour was an essential feature of a community felt to have the unity of an organism. Previously it was assumed that community was only possible as the subordination of one social organ to another.

Now, however, my work is not service. Now I work for money, which I will spend any damn way I feel like. As a result, for Marx, although this is in one way a less illusory of living, since it doesn’t need to depend on religious or mythical foundations to justify an explicit and clear hierarchy, in another way it is more illusory. My freedom is largely only in appearance. In reality my life-activity is still given up to a superior who is a superior, even though he is formally and by law my equal. In his later work, Marx will especially concentrate on the fact that everything is translated into money terms, and that all relations are mediated by money. In capitalist society, he says, “everyone carries the social bond in his pocket.”

Although Marx does not in the 1844 Manuscripts make the point directly and explicitly, there is a direct connection between Marx’s thoughts on alienation from society and his critique of the state. Those who wish to follow this theme further should read On the Jewish Question. For Marx, the existence of the state implies what we could call a political alienation. Often the Marxian notion of the abolition or the withering away of the state is met by the sort of puzzled reaction one might reserve for the abolition of the sun, moon and stars. But Marx would not call the operation of something like Rousseau’s general will a state. The form of direct self-government comprised in the idea of the sovereignty of the general will would not be considered a state form. The state, according to Marx, is the set of institutions that arises in order to hold together a society that is continually falling apart. The state is a function of other, deeper social antagonisms that are in principle corrigible. It is a function of the universal individual antagonisms of class societies, but especially a function of class division itself, and of the possibility of open class antagonism. The state is a necessary means of coercion and coordination once society can no longer hold itself together by other means, or before it has learned how to do so once again.

The state is an integral part of class society, not something apart from or beyond it; not something neutral and capable of standing disinterestedly above all particular interests. Whereas theorists like Hegel would argue that in the modern state individuals were in actual reality reconciled and unified, Marx maintains that the state is necessary only because of the real antagonisms class societies generate and sustain among individuals. Nor do individuals in the modern, liberal or even democratic-capitalist state really find a community of equals. Instead, in the state, they come together to deny the inequality and separateness that is their real existence in social and economic life. Their coming together in the political community of the state is thus an illusion, because they are separated in fact. The solidarity of earlier, more organic forms of society is supposedly recovered, in bourgeois society, in the political relationship of free and equal citizens. But this is a pseudo-solidarity, given the lie by the many substantial inequalities outside the formal equality established by constitutional law, and by the fact that the powerful within the private sphere have the power to reach out and have the state work primarily in their fundamental interests. As the French writer, Anatole France once said, “the law, in its majestic equality, forbids rich and poor alike from begging alms, stealing bread and sleeping under bridges.” It is only because in real life people are alienated from one another through the cash nexus that is increasingly the only thing that connects them, that they must solidarize in an ideal and false unity a formally equal citizens.

Here the notion of an “inverted” or “double” world appears that will become important later on in Marx’s notion of “commodity fetishism”. As a corrective to, and also as a mystification of, a contradictory reality, a supplementary but illusory reality is invented and, as it were, laid on top of the first. What is illusory is not the actual power of the state, but the notions that the state is the only thing that can hold a society of human beings together, and that it can do this while sustaining and expressing the freedom and equality of all its citizens. The state is just such an illusory reality, existing by virtue of the misperception that the antagonisms of bourgeois society are the natural and inevitable, eternal and essential antagonisms of human beings as such. And, in truth, it is a necessary and real illusion – to bourgeois society. Thus, the state cannot be abolished, as some anarchists would have it, by the fiat of individuals. The abolition of the state depends on the prior transformation and abolition of class society. The state functions essentially to maintain society in its present form, as a society based upon class divisions rooted in the way material life is produced and reproduced. But the abolition of class society and its state would not mean the disappearance of differences or of the need for politics. If anything politics would be more prevalent than ever (as opposed to the administration of a subject population) – if what we mean by politics is something like individuals communicating and acting together to resolve conflicts between human needs and social conditions. The existence of processes through which individuals decide upon common policies and common action is not what Marx would call the state.

[grizzlee30]

Hey y’all. The following is from a writing prompt I did a little while ago. Posting it here for posterity. If you’d like, let me know what you think!

TRANSMISSION: OPERATION ALEXANDIRA IS UNDERWAY.

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Being a Cataloger is no easy task, though it is an honor. Many beings from across the galaxy wish they could have the honor of knowing everything there is to know about their homeworld. Being a Cataloger means that no secret is too great, no business that isn’t theirs. They have absolute freedom and authority to investigate and record all that happens on their planet, and no government or organization is allowed to keep anything from them. Their motto was: “Posterity is the most important tool of hindsight.”

Antherumberbane, a Froxin of a more variant lineage, found the task to be perpetually exciting. The Froxins had forgone government and borders some millennia ago. The fallout of a war that nearly glassed their planet brought about the kind of perspective about self-control that one might get when you feel your balance tip just a little too far off a steep cliff. The consequential guilt that had formed in their collective consciousness brought them to a silent and official result: Anything they did, they would do for the greater good of the planet and their species. The discovery of their planet by the Collective Alliance of Planetwide Sentiance (Or CAPS for those who needed to save a minute) also helped to shift that global perspective, as that day, the world grew to an unimaginable size. Keeping home tidy seemed like a logical priority. This led to a renaissance of sorts, as every Froxin dedicated their life to the pursuit of science and the arts. Weapons and the arms race became a fleeting memory and the planet of Flotilla became a beautiful eutopia.

Antherumberbane was no different from the other Froxins. They too believed in the pursuit of a better world, which is why he agreed to the lonely job of Cataloger for CAPS. Antherumberbane did not take the decision lightly, as being a Cataloger was a lifelong commitment, not one easily broken. They had a nice life on Flotilla, for a while. They had a lovely partner that they love more than anything. But even in a world as advanced and as generous as Flotilla, sickness still existed, and tragedy was not unheard of. After their death, Antherumberbane decided to leave his post as a scribe for the scientific community and took the offer to become isolated, for that‘s what Catalogers were.

The purpose of Catalogers was not to gain intelligence to spread to other worlds. In fact, Catalogers were to take a vow of silence with anyone except other Catalogers. This was to prevent any secrets from other planets from being divulged to their home planets. Instead, Catalogers were tasked with creating a sort of galactical time capsule. Should CAPS ever fall or its members go to war, an indestructible data hold on a remote comet flying unpredictably through the stars, known to the Catalogers as “The Remnant” would be the only remains of the alliance. The records inside of it would be sealed whilst the citadel of CAPS remained to function, unsealing only in the event that the alliance had truly fallen.

Antherumberbane had questioned the method of storage privately many times in-between their duties. They understood the sentiment behind it: Create a record of every success and failure of the most advanced systems in our time so future alliances could learn from them. They were comfortable enough with the functioning of the citadel being the key to the files being sealed. It was the most defended structure in the galaxy, and no one planet could take it without serious consequences. It was even unlikely that a group of planets would have the resources to take the vessel, as it acted as its own sovereign territory governed by multiple representatives of each planet. It had its own artillery, military, software, and hardware defenses. It even had its own armada, made up of 20% of each of its member’s fighting force. It was certainly possible for the citadel to fall, Antherumberbane did not kid themselves, but it was a slim chance that anyone would ever want to. Even the warrior race of the Chibathons, who valued strength above all else to rule, saw the importance of a strong alliance within the galaxy and were able to rationalize that true strength came from such agreements.

No, what Antherumberbane took most unnerving was the location of the data. A comet kept the vault moving, surely. But it was unpredictable in its movements. There was no way to be certain it would not crash into some random asteroid and break apart, or for it come into contact with other debris or even another comet! And the Remnant itself was supposedly indestructible, sure, but Antherumberbane was pretty certain no one ever tried throwing it into a sun. Tens of Thousands of years of data could be lost in an instant, all because someone trusted the path of a frozen chunk of rock hurtling through space. The idea made Antherumberbane feel queasy like he stood up too fast from meditation. Still, he had been assured by the powers that be that, while the schematics for the vessel were vague to prevent tampering, it was unlikely that anything short of complete atomization could all out destroy the Remnant.

An alarm beeped on a device strapped around their third appendage, and Antherumberbane gave it a tap with his fourth to answer it. A message played, at first quietly in a language they could not possibly understand, followed by an automated translation in the same tired inflection and tone as the one speaking it. The recorded message played directly into their auditory bone.

“This is Stephanie Martins of Earth. I am calling an emergency assembly of the Catalogers. Please be in attendance at Primary stardate 17-85-1800.”

Hi Reddit! Rest is here:

Antherumberbane listened to the message again. Human emotion had always eluded them. Humans had the benefit of experiencing emotion brought about by chemicals in the brain, thus allowing for the evolutionary advantage of their emotions affecting the state of their body, turning anger and desperation into uncharacteristically amazing feats of strength, speed, and creativity. Many theorized this was how they became the apex predator of their planet without showing any outward traits of a common one. They had not so much fought their way to the top, but survived and out-maneuvered it. Still, there was what Froxins would describe as… sadness? No, more like exhaustion. Stephaniemartins- No, Stephanie Martins, humans had separate names instead of combing them. They could never remember naming customs of all the different planets, a weakness on their part. They had always instead defaulted to stating each members’ full name and title to be safe. Stephanie Martins had always had an air of defeat each time she discussed her home planet. Antherumberbane could understand why. They were still a primitive species when CAPS found them. They reminded them of the Froxins before the Atom Wars, petty and prideful, yet capable of change and great things. There was much to be desired of Earth, though he doubted Stephanie Martins would see it in her time. Give it a century or two, Antherumberbane thought, surely they will come around once they are comfortable with their new galactic neighbors.

Antherumberbane boarded Their private starship and activated the slip drive. They set their destination for the citadel and watched as the stars and planets warped into unfamiliar shapes and sizes. As the slip drive bend the space around it to appear next to the citadel, Anterumberbane gave pause to the message they had received. An emergency assembly was not uncommon, at least they had experienced a few. While it is true that Catalogers mainly work for posterity and they were not allowed to share information with their home plants, it did not mean that the information collected was never used. Catalogers were sometimes tasked with solving galactic issues that no combination of planets could solve. By pooling knowledge, classified and not from each planet, they could privately come up with a solution without involving politics or risking cross-contamination of government secrets. They would present the solution but not how they got there, and it was a very efficient system. Plagues were stamped out in a matter of months, treaties were drafted, and even advances in technology were spawned from these meetings. What trouble Antherumberbane is what problem Earth could have that would warrant an emergency meeting. Earth was a part of CAPS, but they still very much kept to themselves, determined to solve their own problems with no outside help, much like the impulsive adolescents they had on Flotilla. Yes, young and unabashed pride seemed to be a universal trait in sentient beings.

On the other hand, the fact that Earth’s Cataloger had called for an emergency meeting could show a sign of good faith. The humans were finally making use of the shared resources that CAPS had to offer, the first step into trusting the other planets of the alliance. This excited Antherumberbane and they became suddenly determined to put forth their best efforts to prove to Earth that they were there to help.

Slipping out of the Stream, Antherumberbane docked at their private port for Catalogers. They gathered their materials from their office on the ship and made their way to the meeting area. Along the way he met with another Cataloger, Grzx, and they walked in tandem to the meeting room. More accurately, Anterhumberbane strode on his tentacles whilst Grzx propelled himself forward with his fins using a backpack-like device that his people created to simulate swimming on air. The Yoliths were strictly an aquatic species, sporting no legs and many fins on their torso area. Though they had developed a pair of small limbs for manipulation, Antehrumber could not help but think that Yoliths had done the most effort in acclimating to an alliance filled with mostly land-based beings. Though he did appreciate their naming customs. One name, pure and simple.

“Morning keep you,” Grzx said, a traditional Froxin greeting. Antherumberbane always appreciated the small efforts Grzx would make to appeal to other species. They returned the favor.

“Good currents to you as well my friend.” Antherumberbane tilted their long neck down in appreciation and respect. “Do you have any inkling as to what Earth may be calling on us for?”

“Only that it is about time that they ask for it.” Grzx’s translator made his speech sound garbled as if he was actually speaking from underwater. “My home planet was becoming anxious in the face of Earth’s reluctance for collaboration”

“Many Froxins agree with that sentiment, though personally, I feel their reluctance is not unwarranted. Not two human lifetimes has passed since they made first contact. They are allowed some caution.”

“Regardless, their isolation bodes dark tidings. I understand their reluctance to put forward their own cooperation, but refusing it from the rest of the galaxy? That doesn’t seem natural.”

Anterhumberbane gave a slight pause before saying, “Collaboration is not something that can be easily undone. Once you invite another’s culture into yours, it is very hard to separate the two.”

“They have already chosen to enter the alliance. We did not force their hand in this matter.”

“Perhaps not, but we forget what it was like being the only sentient beings known to our homes. The prospect of such a discovery could shake the foundation of any culture.”

“True, it still perplexes me though.”

“It has also been a long time since CAPS has discovered a new sentient species. Many thought we had dried out our galaxy of such phenomena. The remote Sol System had been out of the way for many travelers, and it was a miracle they were discovered before they made it out of their own solar system. But these things take time, my friend. How long till the Yoliths came out from their watery abode.”

Grzx gave thought to that, then added pensively, “We had three generations of rulers before we officially gave our efforts to the cause. It took two more to agree to one of our own being a Cataloger.”

Antherumberbane gave a please expression. “And the humans have offered their own Cataloger in just one generation. Give them time, Grzx.”

Grzx gave a small grunt, conceding the argument. “ I supposed it does not matter now. Earth has asked for our help. Perhaps the solution we can provide today will finally allow them to come out of hiding.”

Antherumberbane gave a small girdle of approval. They headed to a large room with a large black reflective floor. In the center was a gold round table, hollow in the center making it look like a large crescent moon. In the center of the table was a small circular podium, where holograms could be displayed showing diagrams, maps, and other visual aids to assist during such meetings. It also acted as a place for Catologars to make speeches or present arguments, allowing them to turn 360 degrees to address all of those present equally. A large dome topped the room fitted with one-way glass that allowed them to see the stars dotting the expansive space that lay beyond. Many were told this room was designed so that Catalogers could always look out and remind themselves why they do this. Antherumberbane loved that idea the most out of his fellow Catalogers. It made them feel a mixture of inspired and nostalgic.

The other members had already arrived, making a total of 28 representatives of different species, humans making the 29th. Stephanie Martins had not arrived yet, her chair noticeably empty. Not surprising, however, as humans still preferred to travel at light speeds rather than using the more expedient slip drives. After giving proper greetings and asking around, it was speculated that the human should arrive any minute, as light speed was still an impressive speed and would not cause much of a delay from Earth.

Antherumberbane was speaking with Asarith, part of the small psionic Britewave species, when the doors slid open and Asarith gestured with one of its many waving policies, saying, “She is here.”

Humans were not an unusual species if unusual still existed amongst the diverse species of CAPS. While their skins could be many different tones, Stephanie Myer’s was pale, dotted with some specks of darker tones known as “freckles.” Her hair was a bright red, and her optical nerves gave a soft hue of… what was that color again?.... Ah, “hazel.” Antehrumberbane wondered why humans had a color that was only used in reference to their optical nerves, but every culture has its quirks. Everyone politely sat down, unsure as to whether to give a cheerful greeting or a more concerned one, given their unfamiliarity with human culture and the reason for this meeting. Stephanie Martins gave restrained nods of greeting as she took her place at the podium.

Antehrumberbane took his seat next to the reptilian Hamargin name KethelIkori. Harargins and Froxins shared the similar feature of having their names combined instead of separate ones or titles. He leaned over to Antherumberbane and whispered “The human seems to be in unusually low spirits.”

Antehrumberbane worried about Kethelkori’s use of the term “human” instead of her given name. That attitude did not bode well for the positive and helpful attitude that both they and Grzx had discussed earlier, but he did not take offense to his analysis of Stephanie Martins. She looked drained of all emotion. She had a great deal of moisture on her brow and was seemingly shaking. Atherumberbane tried to remember what shaking meant in human body language. They knew that could easily mean she was cold, though the EVO suit that the human was wearing should provide their preferred environmental temperature. It also could mean anger, as they remembered some of the human literature they had tried to consume in order to understand them better. The phrase “shaking with anger” had been a common one throughout. Perhaps the emergency was cause for such outrage? Though her brow was not pointing down, as is a common trait of angry humans. No, this wasn’t anger. Perhaps…

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I have a message from my homeworld that I have been instructed to read to you now.” Stephanie Martins said.

The translator mimicked her tone and emotion. Antehrumberbane put it together now. It was not sadness they had heard on the recorded message and it was not anger or cold that caused Stephanie Martins to shake so. Her voice quavered in a way that was not unfamiliar to them. It was the same inflection they had when their partner was diagnosed and the severity of the disease was revealed to them.

It was fear. Fear that was about to give way to despair.

Patreons above, this must be worse than they thought. Antherumberbane showed their full attention, as did many other who came to the same conclusion. Each was prepared to listen intently, offering any information they could provide.

Stephanie Martins took a long pause, acknowledging the shift in the room. She breathed deeply before saying, “First I want to thank you all for your help and companionship. You have become some of my closest friends and I just wanted to say that-” she trailed off, and Antherumberbane heard something unusual. For a split second, he thought he heard a high pitch tone that faded just as Stephanie Martins finished talking. He looked around. Others who had similar auditory processing showed their concerns. Antherumberbane was about to speak, but Stephanie Martins began talking again, this time with more determination to prop up the fear.

“This meeting has been called for those present to witness this declaration. For too long, Earth has felt the cold oppressive heal of CAPS and the pressure to become one with its members. For too long, Earth has been expected to give up its valuable resources to an organization whose values are heavily skewed. You talk of peace and posterity, yet you neglect the now. You talk of those who come after us and pay no mind to those who are here now. Your alliance is built on the flimsy foundation that all species should agree with you and do whatever you say. No more.”

The room was stunned silent. Many species showed anger and confusion on their faces and scoffs. Others showed concern. Antherumberbane did not know what to think. What could be gained by such insults? The CAPS has not asked for nearly as much as this speech would suggest. And oppressive? This does not make.

“As for the Catalogers, you find yourselves in a position above us. You observe all the galaxy’s secrets yet do not share them. You only use that knowledge when one of your own deems it necessary. You stay in your Ivory towers, deeming where and when you can use this power. No more.”

This broke most of the Cataloger’s calm and composed demeanor. There was a terrible uproar from those who firmly believed in the Cataloger’s purpose. Grzx was one of the most vocal, stating his discontent loudly. Antherumberbane still didn’t understand. Was this some ill attempt at humor by the humans. Stephanie Martins had moisture in her eyes now, a biological response to stress known as “crying,” Antherumberbane recognized.

Stephanie Martins continued, trembling even more. “But now we know your secrets.”

The room fell silent.

“We now know where you hide that knowledge. We will find it and we will spread it. All will be revealed for the galaxy to see. No more secrets. No more false promises. No more.”

Before anyone had a chance to react. Stephanie Martins looked up and yelled as loud and as fast as she could “THEY ARE ATTACKING THE CITADEL THEY ARE TRYING TO FIND THE RE-”

Just as soon as she had yelled, Antherumberbane heard the high pitch tone again. And as it grew to its highest note, Stephanie Myer’s head exploded, showering the gallery in viscera and broken glass from her EVO suit. Many cried out in shock. Antherumberbane shot upwards, now full-on all of his tentacles. What could this mean? Did the humans really mean to…

There was a loud scream as one of the Catalogers, a Canine-like Urgunnian, yelled and pointed at the dome. Antherumberbane looked only for a moment and realizing what he had seen, he turned on his communicator, broadcasting to all channels. Before the dome was breached by incoming fire from the unmistakable human armada, and before everyone in the meeting room was sucked out into the terrible vacuum of space, Antherumberbane broke his vow of silence and spoke a final message.

“Earth has declared war. The Remnant is not safe.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSMISSION: OPERATION ALEXANDRIA. PHASE 1 IS A SUCCESS. PHASE 2 IS UNDERWAY.

[duhragonball]

Hellsing Liveblog, Chapters 20-24

By garn, it’s been a while.   This ‘ere’s the “Age of Empire” arc, followed by two one-offs, “Call to Power” and “Ultima Online”.  

Last time, Hellsing sent Alucard, Seras, and Pip Bernadotte to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil to find out more about Millennium.   But Millennium was expecting them, and sent Tubalcain Alahambra to attack Alucard almost as soon as he arrived. 

Recall that the only reason Hellsing knew to check Brazil was because of a tip offered up by their Catholic counterpart, Vatican Section XIII, the Iscariot Organization.  Iscariot knew about Millennium because they had discovered that the Vatican had helped them move men and materials out of Nazi Germany and into South America.   Which brings us to this chapter, which is a flashback showing how Iscariot found out in the first place. 

The date on this chapter really helps me understand all of this, because when I watched this scene in the anime, I thought it was taking place in the present.   But no, this is set back in July, barely a week after Seras became a vampire.  Note that Bishop Maxwell already knows a great deal about this by this point.  He’s not talking to this guy to learn more, he’s confronting him about the crimes he’s already discovered.

This rando bishop he’s talking to was one of the guys who helped Millennium during World War II.    He claims to have been deceived, but Maxwell knows the truth: that he and the others helped Millennium because they knew they were secretly researching vampires, and wanted in on some sweet, sweet vampirism.

This is a recurring theme in Hellsing, where Millennium gets a lot of help from various patsies by promising to make them immortal. Dandyman got all those SWAT team guys to help him by promising immortality to their superiors, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Dandyman himself was just a rube that joined Millennium thinking it was a path to greater power, when in fact they only sought to use him as a test of Alucard’s abilities.   And so it was with the treasonous bishops in the 1940s.   They helped Millennium move to South America, but their research in Europe was destroyed by Hellsing during the war.    And the above page shows us our first look at young Walter, before he retired to the life of a butler.

And now we see Heinkel Wolfe, the star of “Cross Fire”, Kouta Hirano’s three-issue manga about gun-toting assassin nuns.   “Cross Fire” was featured as backups in the first three collected volumes of Hellsing, which works out nicely, so we can recognize Heinkel as she debuts in this story.    She executes this bishop for his unspeakable crimes against the church.   

And really, it is a pretty horrific thing that this guy did.   I mean, I thought about it the other day, how this guy’s pretty high up there in the ranks of the Catholic church.   He doesn’t just go to Mass on Sundays, he’s devoted his whole life to the faith, and then he just turns his back on it as soon as there’s a hint of a chance that he could become an immortal vampire.   And then it falls through, so he spends the next several decades just sort of hoping no one will find out what he did.  It’s a pretty dark thing, though it’s easy to overlook in a whole series of dark moments.

Back in Brazil, the news media and authorities still can’t make any sense of the Alucard/Dandyman battle.   Alucard and his pals escaped in a news chopper and Al must have hyp-mo-tized the pilot to cover their tracks.  

Meanwhile, the mysterious guys who were watching the Dandyman from afar, well they head back to their secret lair.    The Major is the guy in the glasses, and the Captain is the guy in the big coat.   There’s also the Doctor, who sort of defies description, but we’ll deal with him later.   It was the Major who ran the vampire research project back in the 1940s, and the Doctor who conducts all the research.   The Doctor had been pretty confident about all the powers he gave to the Dandyman, and was dismayed to see Alucard defeat him but the Major doesn’t mind at all, because he’s got plenty more vampires to throw at this particular problem.  

They board a blimp, the Graf Zeppelin III, bound for Jaburo, Brazil.  I looked up the Graf Zeppelin to understand the reference, and it turns out the first two were aircraft carriers, not blimps.   These were planned during the 1930′s as Nazi Germany began to re-arm for World War II, but by the time the war actually started, Hilter had lost interest in the project, and the German Navy focused instead on U-boats.    Both Graf Zeppelins were left uncompleted, so maybe this blimp is named after them as a reference to abandoned Nazi projects that could be revived somehow.   As for Jaburo, I looked that up and only found references to the Gundam franchise, so I’m pretty sure this is just a fictional town.

Meanwhile, Alucard and his team check into a motel, and he calls home to report that he successfully absorbed Dandyman’s memories when he killed him and drank his blood.  He now knows everything Dandyman knew about Millennium.   Integra orders him to return to London immediately, as the Queen of England herself wants to know what’s going on here.   Al wants to know if Tegs enjoyed all the violence he caused in Rio, but she’s like “stfu.”

Up to now, Seras and Pip had been scouting around, trying to find some way to get out of the country, but there’s no planes and no ships available.  They were, at least, able to bring back some McDonald’s.    Wait... MacDooolnald’s.   See?  Giorno drives his vampire dad to MacDooolnald’s, but Seras goes out and gets it and brings it back for Alucard, because theirs is a much healthier relationship.

But Al wants to steal a plane.    Pip and Seras don’t take this well, but now I finally see why Al is suggesting this.   He was ordered to return home at once, so this seems like the only way.  

Then Alexander Anderson shows up and starts punching the shit out of Al, because why not?  

Everybody draws their badass weapons to escalate the fight, including Seras, who picks up her giant cannon, but Anderson just thinks it’s funny, and it snaps him out of his fightin’ mood long enough to explain why he’s here.

Seems the Vatican wants to get Alucard back to London as well, so they sent Anderson to tell them about a private plane they arranged just for this purpose.  

Meanwhile, in Jaburo, the Major reports back to his “superiors”, but he refuses to explain what he was doing in Rio.  The Major claims he’s under special orders from Hitler, and these orders supersede all other command structures.    Basically, all these colonels and generals have little choice but to sit back and watch Millennium operate without them.   The Major gives them only a thin veneer of respect, and barely at that.  

Enter Zorin Bltz, a lieutenant in Millennium, who explains it neatly for the reader.  The Major set up all this Millennium stuff after the war, only for these other officers to show up on their doorstep later, probably seeking refuge in the postwar world.   They know there’s vampire stuff going on here, and they want to be vampires too, but the Major isn’t interested in that.  I guess he figures if he turns them into vampires, they would try to pull rank on him.

But the old timers are also extremely curious about the Major’s goal.   He’s used the research to create a thousand vampire soldiers, but what for?   The Major explains that he’s out to “savor the joy of war.” 

Let me pause here to talk about werewolves.   Millennium also has at least two of those: the Captain, and Chief Warrant Officer Schrödinger.   As he returned to Jaburo, the Major asked Schrödinger about “the other werewolves”, and he said they would be along shortly, but we never actually see those guys.   Unless Zorin Blitz and Rip van Winkle are supposed to be werewolves, but I’m pretty sure they’re not.  

On the plane ride back to England, Alucard has a dream, reliving his defeat at the hands of Abraham van Helsing a century earlier. 

In London, everyone’s waiting for him to show up, including representatives from the Vatican.  Heinkel wonders if maybe Anderson flubbed his mission to give Alucard the plane, but Maxwell explains that they had to send Anderson to Brazil, because he knows Anderson is loyal to a fault.   If they sent just any old operative, there’d be too great a risk of that guy defecing to Millennium for a taste of that sweet vampire power.  

Then Alucard finally shows and pays his respects to the Queen of England.   Let’s face it, this is Elizabeth II, I don’t care how the art hides her in silhouette. This story depicts her as being such an old woman after all this time, but it’s 2021 and she’s still alive today.  Alucard praises he beauty.   I get the impression he finds human aging to be something precious in his eyes.  

Alucard explains what we’ve already been over: That Millennium is the new name for the culmination of that Nazi vampire research project in the 1940s.   Alucard and Walter put an end to the project in 1944, but the Major somehow escaped and kept going.

Then Schrödinger appears in the room, to the shock of everyone.    He claims that he is “everywhere”, a talent which allows him to show up anywhere in spite of security.  He claims to be an envoy from Millennium, and sets up a Zoom call with the Major.

Basically, the Major declares war on Hellsing and Great Britain, and on Alucard specifically, by name.   He has no goal, which is basically another way of saying that he wants to fight war for its own sake.   There’s no strategic objective to any of this.   The Major finally has his army of vampire soldiers, and now he wants to take them out into the field and see what they can do.  

Oh, also he has his “superior” officers brutally executed on the video feed, which seems kind of dumb, since neither Hellsing nor Iscariot knew about any of those guys.  Ties things up nicely for the reader, I guess.

Alucard is overjoyed at the prospect of destroying the Major all over again, and Integra orders him to kill Schrödinger while Seras shoots the Major’s iPad.  Then QE2 orders Integra and Alucard to destroy Millennium, like they hadn’t already been workin on that.  

And yeah, there we are.

[jennamoran]

IOSHI (Part 18)

Hi!

Today we’re sharing a bit more of the cyberpunk setting I wrote in, I dunno, 2003?

So far,

we’ve had a basic introduction to what’s going on.

we talked about the core culture and a few subcommunities.

and a few more!

and another few!

and the last of them.

Then, we discussed some system stuff and the first character type: deckers.

Then, two more types: fires and hunters.

Then, another two: jockeys and knife edges.

… librarians and medics …

… shamans and riggers …

… sharks and techies …

… transcends and, finally, visionaries.

Then, we did the intro to the equipment section.

Then, some cyberware and bioware stuff.

Then, the rest of the equipment guide!

Then, a bit about how characters earn rerolls through increasing acceptance of (sub)community theses, including traits for the first few theses!

Then the rest of that!

And now, some more detail on IOSHI itself!

        Training

The development of human knowledge is strictly limited by the sophistication of the techniques used to organize and convey that knowledge. Thus, oral tradition gives way to writing, private collections to libraries, libraries to digital libraries and the web, the web to the worm, and the worm to IOSHI (a.k.a. the well). Similarly, tools such as books, software, and formal techniques become an ever-greater part of the learning process. In the late 21st century, a short period of machine-assisted training can produce understanding far more advanced than a lifetime of ordinary study.

An advance to the next stage in automated education seems imminent. Librarians acknowledge that IOSHI has only a few years of life left to it. The well helps researchers maintain a broad mastery of their field, so they can pursue ever-more-complex studies. The point at which IOSHI can no longer present the results of these studies in a sufficiently intuitive fashion is now in sight. The librarians hold frequent private conferences on prospective replacement technologies. Until the next technological leap appears, however, IOSHI is a significant boon to just about anyone who can afford personal or professional access. A solid grasp of the state of the art makes them just plain better.

Not everyone has access, of course. Some people cannot afford it. If someone has the raw talent, and can prove it, they can get a sponsored education. If someone has the money, they can go to the well and learn pretty much anything. For the poor and average, access is slightly harder. IOSHI has finite processing power. Its computational power is growing fast, of course, but so are the demands on the system. That means that an advanced education has a price tag attached. Plus, of course, limiting access is to the short-term economic benefit of everyone but the poor and the average.

          Data Taint

Only the librarians understand what data taint is, and most of them deny its existence. Like believing in UFO abductions in the modern day, believing in data taint can cost someone a great deal of face. So many credulous people have spread so many hysterical superstitions on the subject that most Tartessians have difficulty taking it seriously. Some say that IOSHI is an AI out to mind control everyone it can. Others assert in all seriousness that monstrous god-kings rule the corporations and spread data taint as their blasphemous seed. Occasionally, one hears that Elvis’s brain[*] is behind it all.

[*] the famous lover of Alexander the Great

There is only one good reason to believe in data taint: a handful of people with a great deal of credibility and intellectual maturity loudly claimed it existed. Some of them vanished. Some of them retired. Some of them, much more loudly, changed their minds. The rest died violently.

The explanation of data taint made available to the laity as a whole runs like this. Data taint is a sickness coded into IOSHI training. Infection changes the structure of the victim’s mind, stripping from the victim a portion of his or her humanity. This produces minor but systemic alterations in the victim’s personality and may adjust memories or cognitive capacities. The taint defies full analysis, having in itself complexity equivalent to the human mind. Accordingly, no reputable source has yet established whether data taint has a purpose or whether it simply derives from a software bug.

            SIDEBAR Data Taint in Play

IOSHI campaigns assume that somewhere in the society, economic infrastructure, or power hierarchy of the late 21st century a deadly cancer lies. A major component of the “system” is inherently hostile. See the material on IOSHI campaigns, in our next post, for the reasoning behind this assumption.

The Game Master has three options when connecting data taint to this antagonistic force. First, they can make it a minor flaw in IOSHI’s design without significant effects in play. Second, the Game Master can implement it as one of the system’s tools for controlling or influencing the population. Third, data taint can be the root of the problem, an epidemic with IOSHI and the librarians as its primary vectors.

In all three cases, any IOSHI-derived ability can suffer data taint. This yields a limited mental distortion that affects the character when they use the ability in question.

The Game Master determines the conditions for acquiring data taint. Characters who obtain IOSHI training without a filter make themselves vulnerable, as do characters actively afflicted with data taint by a librarian. In addition, the Game Master can implement other sources of taint. Unless the player group wishes to play a horror game, these sources should be fundamentally fair — characters should have ample opportunity to realise the taint’s source before it completely overcomes them, and they should have the ability to avoid it thereafter. Some possible sources include television broadcasts, BIE-targeting software viruses, and intimate contact with the tainted.

The Game Master also determines the effects of data taint. However, the most common effect is taint-driven mental distortion. The first time the character uses the tainted ability in a given scene, they must roll a Trait or succumb to this effect. The Trait chosen is thematic; Connect is the default, but the Game Master could reasonably substitute Endure or Perceive instead, or vary between traits, and does not necessarily need to decide before the game. The duration of the effect is normally the level of the tainted ability in minutes, but can last hours or days in the event of a critical failure or scale upwards if the Game Master imposes a relatively minor effect. Possible taint-driven distortions include drug-side-effect-style results like obsessions, compulsions, phobias, or delusions; perceptual distortions or compulsions deliberately engineered to create a specific effect; or a twist in the character’s use of that ability. Characters with data taint also frequently discover that they know things they had no way to learn — a technically harmless but potentially dangerous trait.

Characters can also remove data taint. This normally requires the services of a trustworthy and untainted librarian who accepts data taint’s existence. If the character can find such a librarian, typical payment equals one tenth the tainted ability’s purchase cost. The Game Master can also institute other methods for removing data taint, such as long periods of meditation or careful application of electroconvulsive therapy.

END SIDEBAR

        Author’s Note: this was such a sucky project to work on. Having to just calmly write about ECT. Jeez. I can’t believe I didn’t even get paid for it!

                 Filters

People who want IOSHI training but fear data taint buy filters — improvements to the datajack designed by the librarian who first reported data taint’s existence. A filter allows a character to study at the well without suffering taint. Unfortunately, a number of experts assert that it is training through a filter that permanently warps a student’s mind.

The IOSHI license forbids training people who have filters installed. One can circumvent this license in a number of ways. Obtaining pirated access to the IOSHI servers, bribing the facility that provides training, or hand-altering one’s filter to conceal its existence often suffices. Characters receive a filter for free at the beginning of the game. Afterwards, filters cost ‡.72.

        Dead Libraries

One can salvage an IOSHI library from a dead person’s brain. In that library, one finds a holographic record of the departed’s understanding of their training. Feeding this data into a living person’s brain chip — through a filter, if desirable — is possible. Outside of Tartessos, it is even common. The living character receives some portion of the training just as if they had studied that topic from IOSHI directly. Over time, they may recover more. When drawing on these talents, the character understands that topic as the dead person saw it. For example, a shaman’s stolen insight trickles into the character’s mind through the lens of the dead person’s faith and not the character’s own.

The cost of a dead library is, naturally, the cost of the abilities purchased through it. If a certain ability is unreliable even on success and comes with pain, nightmares, and non-taint-related perceptual distortions, a character may acquire it at half cost; they may later buy off this disability with time and effort.

                SIDEBAR Installing Dead Libraries

Note that as a fungible good, dead libraries salvaged by the characters have a certain currency value. The Game Master should assign this value, setting it at a modest fraction of the value of the dead person’s training. If a character installs rather than sells such a library, they realize that value as character points rather than as money. The character must spend these points in an appropriate fashion.

Installing a dead library successfully requires a successful Perceive roll. Learning from a dead library requires one day per character point recovered. Halve this time if the installation critically succeeds; success with a quadruple or quintuple makes the dead library data instantly accessible, and may retroactively increase the number of character points received therefrom.

END SIDEBAR

            Self

Above Li Po II’s three triads [Author’s Note – I should probably go back and make that other thing called self “community”] sits the integrity of the self. Many forces of the late 21st century pressure humans and anthropophobes to fade into the crowd around them, abandoning their notion of individual value. Loss of identity is a real and deadly danger. To illustrate that danger, most of Li Po II’s modern followers point to the “drones.”

Corporations created the first drones shortly after IOSHI’s completion. They were force-grown genetically engineered infants, brought to physical maturity in a matter of months, their brains almost entirely devoid of experience. Training at the well allowed them to develop an immediate understanding of the world and specialised talents, making them useful workers for the corporations that designed them. IOSHI did not give them an ego or identity, however — if anything, it stunted that development. It has taken years for the first drones to approach the concept of the self.

In that time, a number of Tartessians developed an admiration for the innocence and dispassion the drones possessed. Hundreds had their minds deliberately wiped clean so that they could join them. Hundreds more were “volunteered” for the process by their enemies.

The drones represent the completion of the core culture philosophy, human beings who have transcended into economic goods. Those who accept this philosophy have nothing to fight for. Drones readily accept even the most horrid assignments on behalf of IOSHI and the biological laboratories that designed them. Characters who fall too far into this way of thinking have sold out, whether they realize it or not, and have essentially lost their conflict with the forces arrayed against them.

[[I’m not sure whether I like this or the existing Core Culture 5-6 better.]]

          The Net

Laptops and desktops have gone the way of the punchcard, but computers are ubiquitous in the era of the well. Clothing, walls, appliances, furniture, and most people are wired for computation and the net. Even the air performs calculations on the wireless signals passing through it.

Terminals still exist, but only as anachronisms and affectations. In some regions, a decker can look impressively technical by unfolding a terminal and setting it down as his or her workspace, typing on a keyboard and watching the world through a monitor like some 20th century purist. Most other places, it just looks dumb. One can purchase shades or contacts with a net display for the cost of a fancy meal, and in the unlikely event that the air isn’t wired for sound, even the trashy used clothing sold at a charity lets you type on its sleeve. People unwilling to deal with even the most transient difficulty connecting install a wireless datajack in their brain and piggyback their thoughts through it directly into the net.

                 Latency and Intrusion

Even in the era of IOSHI, however, the net is not perfect. The speed of light imposes a strict limit on how fast individual packets of information can travel. Further, between security and the need to relay signals, packets usually cannot just leap straight to the destination hardware; they have to pass through a number of checkpoints. This creates a condition of “latency.” Every command a user sends takes time to reach the machine that processes it.

For ordinary users, latency is an annoyance. Information freely available to them takes time to access. Work computers they have access to respond sluggishly when they are too far away. Depending on network usage and current efficiency, this delay ranges from unnoticeable to interminable. For unauthorized users, latency is far more dangerous. The further they are from a piece of hardware, the larger their effective reaction time, and the greater the advantage that security programs have.

“Distance” in the net derives from two sources. First, raw physical distance slows messages down. Whether a machine lives in Europe, America, or a satellite in low earth orbit matters. Light speed alone can add a fractional second to each message’s latency. In addition, messages need to pass through a number of relay points. For example, accessing someone’s project notes from outside their office building may require that signals pass through the building’s central computer systems and the server for the relevant department before reaching the whiteboard where the notes are stored. Each of these steps adds network distance, slowing the message down. Accessing the notes while standing directly in front of the whiteboard is a simpler matter: while the whiteboard may still consult security programs, the intruder and intrusion software act in real time.

Any intrusion software worth the name can make intelligent choices while it counts out the endless milliseconds between a sudden change in situation and its user’s reaction to it. Good deckers partially overcome latency by training an intrusion PIPE. Great deckers integrate SNAIs with their own thoughts so that they can process net events with software speed, then they break in physically. Usually, the availability of computer resources strictly limits the effectiveness of human guards, making this practice safer than it was in the age of the web, and it gives them peak access to the system they wish to invade.

                      Online Environment

The online world divides roughly into two regions: pseudospace and cyberspace. Pseudospace locations map strictly onto real-world locations. The pseudospace of an office’s internal network, for example, corresponds to the physical office. In scientific circles, any online environment that combines with the environments around it to form a consistent three-dimensional area is a pseudospace. In practice, most people use the term for places where the online world has some visual resemblance to the physical place to which it corresponds. Maintaining a close correspondence between pseudospace and physical space allows visitors and employees to alternate between the two without stumbling over things. Businesses often idealize their pseudospaces — most pseudospace malls, for example, are immaculately clean and full of architectural details impossible on their real-world budget.

Cyberspace is entirely virtual. Cyberspace regions exist only in the memory of their owners’ machines. They range from the fantastic to the utilitarian. Some businesses and individuals develop cyberspaces to free themselves from real-world spatial and financial limitations. Others consider cyberspaces inherently easier to secure than pseudospaces. If nothing else, humans can practically guard every machine involved.

In both pseudospaces and cyberspaces, software manifests in a mock-physical form. In some cases, it interacts essentially as an equal to the humans there — lacking the full breadth of human intellect, but fully capable in its areas of expertise.

                         Visiting the Net

To see and hear the net, characters must use a display and earphones or a brain-installed datajack. In either case, the character can flip between one of three modes: direct viewing of the real world, simultaneous viewing of the real world and a pseudospace or cyberspace, and focused study of the net. Goggles can display the local net as a shadowy overlay on the real world, a technique most effective when the user works with personal software or walks through a pseudospace. Datajacks allow either an intelligent overlay or direct parallel visualization of two environments.

Once able to view the net, characters can interact with it. They can pick up and manipulate virtual objects, wrestle with software, and track other visitors by their software traces. Basic physical interaction with the presented pseudospace or cyberspace requires standardised net-access sharpware. Acting outside the rules of the local pseudospace or cyberspace, as by tracking someone in a place where no one leaves footprints, requires specialized software.

           Combat Against Software

Characters can purchase software as toys, cool things, or minions of any level.

Combat with software takes three forms. Abilities such as Decking allow direct combat between the human mind and software, giving a character the ability to probe or corrupt the code. Rare software can return the favour, striking at the minds of characters with a net connection in their brain. Software can also strike physically at the characters through automated defence systems. Finally, virtual combat occurs entirely in the net. Humans cannot participate in virtual combat, but their software can, and virtual combat otherwise behaves exactly as combat in the real world.

For example, a decker purchases a ‡4.25 SNAI. The SNAI is built on ‡20.4 and can participate in online combat on the decker’s behalf. If the SNAI dies, the decker is unharmed but — unless the decker negotiated a price for some kind of reincarnation ability with the Game Master — the SNAI is forever lost. If the decker had eight minions, two of which were SNAIs, then the decker could continue the combat using the other SNAI; meanwhile, the other six minions could more physically throw in their weight.

[There were originally rules set up to buy powers “online only,” which I might want to restore.]

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                        Next time: the structure of IOSHI games!

... AKA, the part I was really irritated that Guardians of Order took out and then everyone was all “ah, that Jenna and her mysterious games that have no obvious structure! I guess we just have to admire this from afar without actually playing it!” ^_^

[sepublic]

If the characters of The Owl House had JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Stands, who would have which Stand? (Note: It can be from any part in the series, not just Part 3)

First off, I just want to say- THANK YOU, because The Owl House and Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, two of my favorite things ever, in one ask? And I get to ANALYZE the two? This is a dream come true…!

I love Stands, not only for their unique designs and crazy abilities that can get weirdly specific, but also because they’re essentially a reflection of one’s soul, so they’re a great glimpse into a character’s personality! As someone who loves the characters from The Owl House, this is naturally a fun way to explore their psyche by assigning a Stand most compatible with them, White Snake-style!

I should preface that for this ask, I’m going to be using Stands from Parts 1-6. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet read Steel Ball Run, nor Jojolion; I plan to, and maybe on another day I’ll revisit this ask with updated information- Assuming that any of the new Stands I encounter and know about fit the characters more than the ones already assigned to them.

But with that out of the way… Here’s a list of characters and the Stands I’ve assigned to them- For fun, I’ve even gone over some minor named characters (although Bellows and Kikimora were left out due to there being too little to work with)! Some characters will have multiple Stands, if only because I couldn’t decide between some, or I felt like there were others worth considering. Lengthy explanations for my reasoning will be underneath the cut, as well as alternate Stand possibilities, even for those who I’ve already made a decision on!

(I’m going for best fits, not perfect ones)

Luz- The Cure

Eda- Sticky Fingers

King- Wheel of Fortune/Bad Company/Harvest/Little Feet/Weather Report

Hooty- Horus

Owlbert- Anubis/Stray Cat/Sex Pistols/Aerosmith

Willow- Strength

Gus- Hierophant Green/Emperor

Amity- Spice Girl

Lilith- Magician’s Red

Emira- Joy Division

Edric- Khnum

Boscha- Goo Goo Dolls

Mattholomule- The Lock

Bump- The Grateful Dead

Wrath- Bastet

Adegast- Judgement

Tibbles- Marilyn Manson

Bat Queen- Atom Heart Father

Starting off is Luz, the main character and personal favorite of mine! She was REALLY difficult to figure out… I considered multiple options for her, such as Crazy Diamond, Gold Experience, Heaven’s Door, Bohemian Rhapsody, etc. Ultimately however, I decided to go for a rather obscure Stand, one from the light novel Golden Heart, Golden Ring- The Cure. To put it simply, The Cure, well… Cures people by absorbing wounds and injuries, becoming bigger before eventually dissipating the accumulated hurt. I feel like this reflects greatly Luz’s very kind, almost healing nature- She helps provide Eda with a greater sense of found family, she helps ‘fix’ Willow’s situation and self-esteem, as well as Amity’s own insecurity and loneliness, etc. Not only that, but Luz also has a lot of thematic similarities with The Cure’s user, Coniglio- Coniglio is heavily associated with Alice from Alice in Wonderland.

The character of Alice is led into a new, magical world by a small creature she later befriends, and gets into trouble with the local law- Just like Luz. Coniglio herself was ostracized when she was younger, being called a Witch, which fits Luz’s initial loneliness, and of course her eventual aspirations. Coniglio is an inexperienced Stand User when we meet her, just as Luz is still learning magic. Finally, Coniglio learns to control and tame her stand, which takes the form of a rabbit- Luz is associated with small animal sidekicks, such as King or Owlbert. However, The Cure can also turn into a more monstrous form and become berserk, which in its own way mirrors Luz’s relationship with Eda, and how she has to calm her mentor and revert her back the way Coniglio did.

For a more canon option, there’s also The Sun. We don’t really know anything about is user, Arabia Fats- The most we can glean is that he’s clever, but he can also rely on dumb ideas. Likewise, his Stand is incredibly powerful, but provides almost nothing to defend him. If one goes by the Tarot meaning, however, The Sun is associated with good times, with fun and optimism, all that stuff! It’s about someone who still maintains childlike wonder… and that sounds like Luz! She’s kind, bright, and in a lot of ways a ‘light’ to others’ lives, which is also supported by her name’s literal translation!

Continuing on Tarot meanings, we can also go for The Fool- It’s about being adventurous, of starting a new journey. There’s some freedom, but also a bit of carelessness, which reflects how Luz didn’t quite fully think through her actions in the beginning of Episode 1, or her plan in Episode 3. The Fool is a bit of an outsider compared to the rest of the Arcana, which fits Luz’s outsider status as a human who somehow goes Magic anyway. And like The Fool, Luz can be somewhat unpredictable and unusual, at least to those who know her- She’s kind of a cryptid to them, what with having confetti in her pockets at all times(?) and casually revealing that she knows the infamous Bat Queen.

For Eda, I chose Sticky Fingers- Someone else on Twitter mentioned it, I don’t remember who… But they analyzed a few of the Stands of Part 5, and during their analysis they discussed how Sticky Fingers is symbolic of Bruno’s ability to connect with others, making his own path to them, zipping them together, etc. Bruno Bucciarati is a mom with a found family, which I feel suits Eda’s personality. Likewise, they’re both criminals, who willingly left a prestigious organization despite their talent and the powerful role they could’ve had in the group, as a result of moral disagreements with its ideals and leader. Plus, Sticky Fingers is a term that refers to people who like to steal, and we know from Covention that Eda is a notorious pickpocket!

On the other hand, Weather Report is also neat. It’s associated with a character dealing with memory loss, which fits Eda’s schtick and character a whole lot, what with not remembering who cursed her. Likewise, Weather Report (the user) has a brother, Enrico Pucci; The two used to have a more complex antagonism, although by Stone Ocean it’s a lot more straightforward. Still, this kind of complex sibling relationship also works with Eda and Lilith, and with Weather Report being a ridiculously powerful Stand (just as Eda is the strongest Witch), I feel it also works for her character, personality, and motifs.

King is the most interesting and diverse scenario for me. I’ve considered Wheel of Fortune for him; Both rely on an outside force, a pre-existing thing, in order to function. Likewise, Wheel of Fortune’s power is proportional to the user’s confidence, which fits with how King talks big about himself. Its user, ZZ, also made a big deal of talking himself up, being a lot of bark in order to build up his confidence… However, the moment things begin to fall apart, his confidence wanes and he basically runs away. His powers diminish, and he becomes all bark and no bite. This kind of sounds like King- Obviously there’s more courage to him than with ZZ, but generally speaking, the concept of a character who’s in over their head and operates a lot on building up their self-confidence, only for it to collapse as soon as things go wrong, fits with King.

On another hand, Harvest and Bad Company fit King’s whole desire to lead massive armies, and his claims of having been a King of Demons. Having a Colony Stand that acts as his personal army of loyal followers and soldiers fits almost perfectly; Bad Company is more militarized, representing King’s grandiose aspirations for power, and him becoming a Drill Sergeant in Episode 11 definitely helps this. It’s also associated with a lost childhood, which… King is kid-coded and he doesn’t seem to be necessarily missing out on anything, but the idea is still there. However, Harvest is less deadly, having a more animalistic appearance, being cuter, and having an inclination towards theft that King himself also does. Plus, King seems like the kind of person who’d use Harvest to carry himself across the sidewalk, let’s be real here!

Finally, I’m considering Weather Report as an option, if only because of the fan theory going around (which I’ve dabbled in) about King having once been the Boiling Isles Titan, or at least an ACTUAL King of Demons… Part of the theory speculates that he lost his memories, which fits into Weather Report’s arc. It’s about a hidden potential, that when rediscovered, can be outright terrifying. Little Feet also works with King’s Napoleon Complex.

King is an interesting character to assign a Stand to, in part because there’s a lot we actually don’t know about him, and the mystery surrounding him as a result. I feel like we once we learn more about King’s backstory and who he is, we may get a better idea of what Stand most fits him.

Horus was assigned to Hooty, not only because of his bird motif, but also because the Egyptian God Horus is seen as a protector, just like the Stand’s user Pet Shop, who acts as Dio’s main guard for his mansion; Likewise, Hooty is the Owl House’s primary security system, and ‘state-of-the-art’ no less. Not only that, but… To get into some heavy theorizing here, @fermented-writers-block has speculated that Hooty may or may not have connections to a hypothetical ‘Owl Deity’, of which we see a mural of in Episode 1. To put it as simply as possible, Hooty is either a manifestation of this Owl Deity’s power, OR the Owl Deity itself; And if so, then assigning Hooty a stand named after a major Egyptian God seems all the more appropriate. Additionally, Pet Shop himself has a helmet typically used to restrain birds of prey, and Hooty himself usually needs to be ‘restrained’; Either told to stop his cryptic riddles and just give straight-forward answers, or kept from tearing apart a canvas.

Also, if that one MSN article mentioning a labyrinth below the Owl House is true, then Hooty could also have Tenore Sax; It’s a Stand that manipulates the environment, and was used to make Dio’s Mansion look like a maze. It’s about control of one’s environment, which makes sense given how Hooty controls the Owl House itself. Hooty could also have Mr. President, as it’s a Stand wielded by an animal that provides a safe environment for others to live in- Befitting of Hooty’s role as the Owl House.

Owlbert is a bit weird, in that he’s already wielded by others; Still, he’s a part of the family, so I feel obligated to include him. Off the top of my head are a couple of considerations- There’s Anubis, which exists as a sword that can be wielded physically by the user and even others, outliving its user- That fits Owlbert’s capabilities and role as a Palisman to a staff! Stray Cat is also an option, because like Owlbert it’s an animal that’s born of plant-matter and associated with the air, albeit through air bubbles.

Sex Pistols is a Stand that needs care and attention, just like Owlbert, and also has its own personality. Likewise, the Sex Pistols support and enhance the ability of another, pre-existing tool, just as Owlbert enhances Eda’s magic and helps her focus it through her staff. Finally, we have Aerosmith- They’re both free-flying, but also very powerful and capable, and not to be underestimated. Like King, there are plenty of options for him that all fit in their own ways.

Willow was a fun topic, and ultimately for her, I’m gonna go with Strength. Ignoring its user, Strength is a stand that recognizes and unlocks the hidden potential of just about anything it finds, no matter how innocuous; Willow is a character who is meek and shy, but contains a hidden power and talent that is legitimately powerful. Strength is an incredibly powerful stand, upgrading a regular boat into an entire shipping freighter; Willow is able to turn a seed into an entire garden of powerful, thorny vines. They involve nurturing power and helping it grow. Plus, most depictions of the Strength Tarot Card involve a woman taming a lion- And I think that kind of works with how Willow may seem all gentle, but she controls and tames powerful plant-monsters. Also, a recent drawing by Dana seems to confirm that Willow is canonically buff, so that works too, alongside the Tarot’s additional meaning of controlling oneself, as Willow does with her anger!

There is also the minor consideration of Purple Haze, given that Willow has genuine frustration in her that can manifest as real, powerful rage. However, Purple Haze also explicitly hurts and shoves others away, which Willow doesn’t do- She’s kind and open and is already good friends with Gus by the time Luz appears. Gold Experience is also a very viable option, given its power of creating life and facilitating growth- However, I decided to go with Strength, not only because of the additional symbolism of hidden potential (which matches Willow’s initial, unrecognized talent), but also because of the symbolism of the tarot card. And also, Gold Experience is a main character Stand and already a pretty obvious option, so trying something a bit more unique seemed interesting.

Gus is another VERY hard one for me, like with King- It’s not that I don’t get his personality, it’s just that there are plenty of Stands that I feel could match him. For example, we’ve got Hierophant Green- Its user, Kakyoin, was lonely and is also an excellent student. He desired friends, which he got through the Stardust Crusaders- Similarly, Gus himself is talented but also expresses loneliness over being younger than everyone else, with part of his motivation for forming the H.A.S. to make friends and also provide support for others who’ve gone through the same experience. Likewise, Gus may not have the raw power that his other friends have, but he’s still plenty clever himself, like Kakyoin.

There’s also Emperor; The tarot meaning discusses a person who takes a leadership role, and its reverse is losing control of that leadership, as well as poor decision-making. This relates well to Gus’ conflict in Episode 9; Likewise, Emperor’s user is Hol Horse, who prefers to be Number Two and is aware of his own flaws, not desiring the spotlight. Gus himself states in Episode 6 that he knows what he’s about, not at all concerned that Luz doesn’t consider him as strong as Eda or Willow- He doesn’t particularly seek attention or glory. Gus is happy and content with being a ‘Dweebus’ and embraces it alongside his supporting role, like Hol Horse. Also, the kid wears a crown when he’s in charge of the H.A.S., and that’s something I really want to incorporate with his Stand’s symbolism!

On a lesser note, there’s also Kiss- It’s a Stand that makes doubles of things, and Gus has an affinity for Illusion spells that can create copies of him, tangible or otherwise. Dolly Dagger from Purple Haze Feedback is wielded by Vittorio, who is the child of his group, and represents him not being ready to handle a lot of the responsibility placed upon him; Just as Gus struggles with control over the H.A.S., as well as the isolation that comes from being a talented student who’s younger than the rest and not taken seriously.

King, Owlbert, and Gus are definitely a dilemma to me… There’s plenty you could assign to either of them, and I feel I’ve only scratched the surface of Gus’ potential Stands. The dude has range and potential, so it’s hard for me to decide given how my options are ultimately limited and usually specific.

For Amity, I went with Spice Girl. Spice Girl is a manifestation of Trish’s psyche, and her whole character involves putting up a hardened, mean, stoic façade in order to hide how scared and vulnerable she feels; A lot like Amity, who tends to push people away because of her loneliness- She mentions not wanting to show ‘weakness’. Like Amity, Trish learns to be strong in her own way, in a way that can still be soft, while incredibly strong and resilient; A form of kindness and personal growth that manifests literally through Spice Girl’s ability to make things soft yet virtually indestructible. Amity hasn’t quite completed her character arc, but she’s made major steps towards it by opening up to Luz and learning to be nicer. So, Spice Girl it is!

There’s also Purple Haze- Fugo and Amity are both high-performing students with a lot of pressure on them, who deal with genuine frustration over their situation. Purple Haze’s ability forces others away lest they get hurt, representing Fugo’s paranoia over his childhood trauma, and how he ends up ‘pushing’ the others away when he chooses not to go on the boat. However, Purle Haze doesn’t fit as well the way Spice Girl does, because Purple Haze represents a genuine rage and anger boiling within Fugo… Whereas Amity, while she IS frustrated, doesn’t seem to have particular fury, being more inclined towards insecurity and loneliness.

Lilith was assigned Magician’s Red. I looked into the meaning of the Magician Tarot card, and to sum it up simply, it’s about having talent and seeking out success. Our first appearance of Lilith has her making a demonstration to a bunch of young, impressionable Witches, flaunting her own talent and success, and appealing those traits to her audience, explaining that Witches who join the Emperor’s Coven are the most powerful and highest-ranking of them all. Likewise, she also has an eye for talent, nurturing the skills and abilities of Witches such as Amity. Plus, there’s also the symbolic relevance of her having a Stand with magic in its name, as well as one with a bird-like appearance; Fitting given her White Raven symbolism, and association with the Emperor’s Coven and its bird motifs. And like the user Avdol, Lilith also has a bit of a flair for flashiness.

Like Luz, Emira was tricky in that I couldn’t quite find a Stand that suited her, so I’ve gone with my next-best option; Joy Division, another very obscure Stand, from the same light novel as Luz’s assigned Stand. Joy Division switches objects around, which mirrors what Emira did to the librarian and Gary in her debut. It’s a Stand that’s perfect and ideal for her kind of mischief and clever tricks. Likewise, its user, Sogliola, has wealth, prestige, and status as a Capo in Passione- Emira herself is a member of the presumably wealthy and high-status Blight family.

As I mentioned earlier, Edric is also tricky in that I didn’t find a Stand that quite suited what personality we’ve seen from him. Ultimately, I settled on one good for mischief, Khnum- It’s a Stand that allows one to change their appearance, which fits Edric’s Illusion spells and that one spell he used to make himself look a lot more extravagant. Khnum’s user, Oingo, is also not exactly the brightest, and he’s associated with a close sibling that he’s always beside, who also has a Stand- Which can match Edric’s relationship with Emira.

I’m also considering Jail House Lock; It’s great for tricking and mentally messing with people by making them forget things and become confused, befitting Edric’s mischievous nature. Also, it making people forgetful can sort of connect to Edric being dumb in his own way, I guess- I dunno. I feel like Emira and Edric’s Stands don’t have a particularly deep connection to them individually, in part because there’s not much we’ve learned yet to differentiate the two, and the issue of finding Stands that fit, while trying to avoid repeating them for characters unless as a potential possibility. It is worth noting that Jail House Lock’s user, Miu Miu, has power and status- Another thing one can associate with the Blights.

Boscha got Goo Goo Dolls. The Stand is a reflection of the user’s possessive personality over their ‘friends’, treating them more like toys or pets to be bossed around with and told what to do. Boscha has a bossy nature, as seen with how she treats one of her friends in Episode 8, and likewise she is somewhat possessive of them- When King gets their attention, Boscha is clearly focused on getting back her control of the situation. Nothing is saying she can’t get along with King and he didn’t explicitly exclude her from the fun, but Boscha nevertheless chose to heighten the conflict. And of course, she initially meets King and wants to buy him as a pet, befitting Gwess’ desire for ‘pets’.

I’ve also considered Bad Company for her, for a few mostly speculative reasons. To sum it up shortly, I suspect that Boscha may have a bad situation at home, where an incompetent mother is relying on Boscha for emotional support, forcing her to essentially ‘grow up’ and be the responsible one in charge. Bad Company represents a childhood that is missed out on due to an inadequate parent that the user ends up having to look after, and likewise, it involves telling others what to do; Also something Boscha likes. However, because this is mostly speculative, I’m just going to have to go for Goo Goo Dolls for now.

Mattholomule has The Lock. Initially I considered Surface, but ultimately I went with The Lock because unlike Hazamada, Mattholomule doesn’t seem to have any particular envy towards Gus nor does he want to be him, insteading having a general desire for power and drama. The Lock reflects how he tries to garner sympathy from the other members of the HAS when his plan begins to backfire on him; It’s a Stand that’s entirely reliant on others’ perception and pity/guilt for the user.

Similarly, it’s otherwise pretty powerless, which goes along with Mattholomule’s general incompetence and failure in most facets of life. The Lock is either relinquished by the user’s command, if the victim no longer feels guilty, and/or if they’re given ‘reparations’ for the ‘damage’ they received- Mattholomule is all about getting status and whatnot. Also, The Lock functions as a Lie Detector, which can make sense with how Mattholomule lies for his own personal gain.

Principal Bump has The Grateful Dead. The stand’s user, Prosciutto, is someone who takes an older and more experienced mentor role, just like Bump. Likewise, Prosciutto is willing to do harsh things to someone underneath his tutelage, but ultimately he still takes his leadership role very seriously, wants to get the job done, and genuinely has it in his best interest to see the person he apprentices unlock their hidden potential. Bump may have extreme methods such as his Trouble Detectors and even brainwashing kids in detention, but ultimately he’s genuinely invested in the future success of his students, and will even break the law for their sake and that of a human, a total stranger.

It’d seem obvious to give Wrath a stand like Jail House Lock (given its user, Miu Miu, is also a warden), but in terms of personality, I ultimately went with Bastet. Bastet is defined by creating attractions, and is associated with electromagnetism- Which itself doesn’t just pull things together, but repelsthem as well. Bastet’s user, Mariah, is attracted to Dio because of how powerful he is, among other traits. Wrath is attracted to Eda, letting his attraction override his own duties as a Warden because he thinks the two of them will make a Power Couple; Both him and Mariah want to go big, or go home! Bastet lures targets in through their curiosity, Wrath lures in Eda by having King’s Burger Queen crown… Finally, while this is never expressed by Bastet itself, the theme of magnetism also relates to repellingforces. And Wrath is clearly repelled by the abnormal, seeking to contain the deviants of society, and is easily disgusted by something as simple as a raspberry because of the potential germs it could spread.

As an alternative option, there IS Planet Waves- Its user, Viviano Westwood, is a guard at a prison. He’s a cruel, brute-force jerk whose Stand allows him to physically overpower and smash through most obstacles and foes, and he deliberately looks down on prisoners as the ‘scum’ of society, taking delight in abusing his position to torment them. These all sound a lot like Wrath, so if one feels like Bastet doesn’t adequately capture his personality, there’s always Planet Waves as an alternative.

Adegast was given Judgement, for obvious reasons- It’s a Stand that toys with a victim’s heart and plays on their desires. That’s literally what Adegast does- Plays on Luz’s desires to be deemed special, to live out her fantasy, only to cruelly tear it away at the last second and mock her for it. Both his illusions and Judgement’s clay constructs dissolve into dust. And while Judgement is physically powerful, contrasting with Adegast’s incredibly frail body, the cowardice of Cameo pairs well with Adegast’s nature.

For Tibbles, I briefly entertained Osiris and Atum, especially Osiris given its association with card games (and Tibbles is good at Hexes Hold ‘em), and the idea of gambles in general. Ultimately however, I stuck with Marilyn Manson, which operates on a similar basis of the user winning a game and utterly defeating the loser as a result. Marilyn Manson is special in that it prioritizes material wealth, aiming to reap money or anything else of similar value; Which fits into Tibbles being a greedy capitalist who acts like he owns King and takes him without either his nor Eda’s consent, just as Marilyn Manson can be used to steal a Stand Disc that was never disclosed as part of the arrangement.

Finally, the Bat Queen was given Atom Heart Father. She was another difficult person to assign a Stand to, but ultimately I decided on Yoshihiro Kira’s stand. I get that there’s irony of Atom Heart Father having a paternal name, compared to the Bat Queen’s maternal status, but just bear with me for a moment. Like the Bat Queen, Yoshihiro is a parent, but he’s one who has concern for the person he’s looking after, to the point where his attempts to protect that person can be overall detrimental to that actual person’s growth; In this case, his son Yoshikage.

The Bat Queen has taken it upon herself to look after a LOT of discarded, rejected Palismans, among them Owlbert. However, in her concern for their plight and any pain they might go through, the Bat Queen has unfortunately projected some of her views on Witches a bit; When Owlbert wants to reunite with Luz, she interferes on his behalf, believing she knows best. The Bat Queen wants to do what’s best, what’s ‘safest’ for Owlbert, but in reality she’s only hurting him in the long run. Thankfully, Owlbert is able to stand up for himself, and the Bat Queen listens to reason.

[hetacon]

Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Word Count: 2,584

Pairings: Prinxiety, Implied Platonic LAMP

Warning: Depression, anxiety, Roman teases Virgil a bit too much, breakdowns, panic attacks, crying, food mention, poor parenting, joking suggestion of murder, weed pillow, discussion about gender stereotypes within the context of prom, feelings of hopelessness about current situation, some swearing, physical abuse and harm from parents (mentions of bruises, light bleeding, etc.)

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Summary: Virgil’s life is tough. Roman didn’t think Virgil could get more scared of his life. He’s going to do anything to help though.

______________________________

Roman saw Virgil getting out of his dad’s car, say a goodbye as he grabbed his bag, and slinging said bag over his shoulder as he closed the car door. The car drove off and Virgil’s eyes met his. Virgil walked silently to Roman, only offering him a grimace as Roman got up from one of the benches outside the mall, meeting him halfway.

“Hey Virge,” he said quietly.

“Hey..” Virgil replied with a weak smile, his eyes crinkling just a bit at the corners as he did so.

Roman could see the heavy bags under his eyes and the expression was down, in a defeated, tired sort of way. Virgil moved next to Roman like his legs were made of lead and Virgil was soon hugging Roman’s arm to keep walking.

This was going to be a long time out, Roman could tell by how Virgil held close to him.

Roman’s thoughts began to wander a bit, try as he might.

Virgil Knight was one truly magnificent human being to Roman Prince. It was truly a miracle that they’d been in a single activity for their freshman biology class and from there, things took off running.

Ok, not exactly. The two of them weren’t really comfortable with each other and with Virgil being as nervous as he was about everything, there were a lot of defenses. Most of those were encountered when they’d bicker between themselves for one reason or another and while they hung out, along with two of their mutual friends, Logan and Patton, they still didn’t get along.

All of that changed sophomore year, summer break past and a few months into school. Virgil was struggling with his classes and with personal issues. One slightly insensitive nickname broke down everything and Virgil was sobbing into his knees, unable to keep everything together anymore. Running on just 2 hours of sleep that day simply made everything too much. He told Roman everything that had been happening. Some of it involved drama with old friends, some involved his grades, others involved his parents. Roman ended up sitting with him for a while as they waited to be picked up. Even when Roman could’ve left, he waited for Virgil’s dad to pick him up, just wanting to make sure Virgil would be ok. Roman spent the entire time listening as he rested his head on Virgil’s, his arm wrapped tentatively around Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil didn’t refuse the contact so it was progress. Yeah, progress, that’s what happened from that moment.

They became fast friends from there and even though they still bickered, it was much more grounded in their genuine friendship with each other. It was meant as light teasing and things got a bit better for Virgil. It was still by far the worst year, his depression hit stronger than Roman had ever seen and as he started to catch feelings for Virgil, his sympathies towards him grew too. He couldn’t help it if he’d constantly be crying over Virgil and how bad the depression was. He didn’t know the extent of it in freshman year, due to them not being close, but he knew this was far worse of an experience than anything Virgil had dealt with. It took a lot of effort to build up Virgil’s view of himself and by the time the middle of junior year rolled around, he was doing a little better. Still as scattered as always but in a bit more of an organized way. Organized chaos really if Roman had to describe it.

But back to the present day, the two of them were currently eating in the food court, Virgil having picked up his favorite meal from the Japanese place there. Roman stole a little bit of it from time to time and Virgil was more than content to share with him. He really had always been such a sweetheart, even if Roman had been too dumb to see it at first.

They were holding hands as Virgil kept eating. Roman’s thumb gently rubbed over Virgil’s and he saw Virgil relax a bit.

“My dad got on my case about how I’m not helping around the house again,” Virgil finally sighed out, looking up to Roman.

“I take it you weren’t able to do much?” Roman asked.

Virgil snorted at the question. “No, are you kidding? It’s just easier to take it than fight back, he’s a lunatic who doesn’t listen to anyone line of reason other than his own.”

“I get that, I can’t imagine it’s easy to be honest with him based on what you’ve told me of them. I can still murder them for you, you know!” Roman said with a bright smile to which Virgil only laughed again, shaking his head.

“Nah, I just want to spend the day with you and forget about it for a while, yeah?”

Roman let out a relaxed sigh and smiled softer this time, giving Virgil’s hand a squeeze. “Nothing would bring me greater pleasure, anything for you, Virge.”

They spent a while around the mall, just looking around. Of course Virgil managed to drag Roman by the hand into Hot Topic to check out the anime shirts. Virgil held his hand the entire time, not even realizing that he had Roman wrapped around his finger as he dragged him through the store.

Roman would be lying if he said he didn’t spoil his best friend. He got Virgil an outfit he’d been absolutely dying to have forever but due to his parents’ views of his clothes, he had been unable to until this trip when Roman caved and bought him every single piece of his dream ensemble. He and Virgil had gone to get Virgil’s shampoo, the reason he’d asked Roman to come as he felt it would be a nice experience to get out of the house.

They eventually ended up walking around one of the stores, cracking up over a weed pillow they managed to find. As they walked through one of the department stores, Virgil joked about how fortunate he was to be saving money by not going to prom that year and how he didn’t plan to go the next year either.

“Well yeah but what if someone asks you to prom?” Roman asked as he looked through the rack of expensive sparkly prom dresses that had caught both their eyes.

Virgil only gave him slightly amused eyebrow raise. “Yeah, cause girls ask guys to prom. I’m not out at school, no guys would think to ask me. You and I both know that regardless of whether or not anyone could ask me, no one would want to. I don’t have any secret admirers like a certain Prince Charming,” he teased.

“Oh come on, I’m not that popular.”

“Yeah, and I’m the queen of the Nile,” Virgil mused.

“Oh, my apologies your royal highness!” Roman exclaimed, bowing down on one knee. He took Virgil’s hand, placing a kiss on the back of it as he watched Virgil flush a little. He chuckled at Virgil’s reaction. “Too embarrassing?”

“Just a bit,” Virgil muttered, hugging his arm to his side. Roman wanted to kiss that boy so badly in that moment but didn’t, getting up to look through the dresses again.

“What if I asked you?”

With a surprised look, Virgil turned to him. “What?”

Roman knew that sounded a bit strong so he pulled himself back a notch. “You know, like as a group with Logan and Patton. What if we all went together?” he suggested, looking over to Virgil.

“Oh. Maybe, no promises though. Can’t get your hopes up too high,” Virgil quipped.

“Ah but everyone always forgets that Icarus also flew. High hopes means heartbreak, yes. But that shouldn’t stop us from dreaming the best for ourselves,” Roman told him with a smile. He finally saw Virgil’s smile that day.

_____

“I don’t know how I’m going to handle living with my parents for four years, Ro. I really don’t...” Virgil muttered, lying on Roman’s bed with him.

‘The joys of senior year,’ Roman thought to himself.

Virgil continued on. “I mean, should I reconsider colleges? Should I try applying for some art colleges now rather than go to community?”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere, we’re planning on going to the same college remember? I’m still right here,” Roman offered as consolation, knowing it wouldn’t help much.

“I guess but I’m going to have their attention focused on me for 4 years. God, why’d I have to be an only child to shitty parents?” Virgil sighed out.

Roman leaned his head against Virgil’s, letting out a deep breath. They stayed like that in the silence for a bit.

“You could always stay here, I’m not moving out either. My parents love you after all.”

“Mm, I dunno. Maybe. I just don’t know if they’re going to suspect anything if I leave just to move in with you. I’m still trying to stay on their good side so they pay for college. They’d be offended if I moved out, yeah?”

“Maybe.. I see your point. But I’m definitely available to act as your knight in shining armor should you require my assistance!”

“Yeah, thanks Roman,” Virgil hummed, burying his face into Roman’s neck. “Can I take a nap?”

“Always,” Roman chuckled.

With that, Virgil was fast asleep.

_____

“I might be having a panic attack because of him right now,” Virgil’s text read out.

“Why? What’s up?”

“He’s getting mad because of something. Not at me but he could..”

“Can you get out of the room?”

After a while of delay, Virgil messaged back. “Did that, I’m in my room. I’m gonna try to calm down for a while, sorry.”

“Alright Virge, let me know when you want to talk!”

_____

A tap on Roman’s window woke him up and he heard sniffling coming from the other side of the glass. He glanced groggily to the clock, finding 3:08 glaring at him.

The tapping got more frantic and Roman shot up from bed, switching on the lamp before opening the curtains and pulling up the window.

Very familiar brown eyes looked into his, welling up with heavy tears.

Roman was soon catching Virgil as said boy quickly collapsed into him as soon as the glass barrier had been removed.

With Virgil sniffling and crying frantically into his shoulder, Roman reached out to hook his arm under Virgil’s knees, carrying him over to his bed.

Usually Roman was thrilled about Virgil visiting him in the middle of the night. It meant that he was most likely not having a good time but that meant that they’d get to spend time together. With Virgil being unaware of Roman’s feelings, he clung to any moments alone with Virgil that he could. But regardless of the situations, this was a fairly common occurrence. Roman was always the one Virgil came to and even with them living on the other sides of town from each other, and with Virgil not having his drivers license, he walked the entire way to Roman’s house just to be with him. Virgil knew by how that he didn’t need to warn Roman that he was inviting himself. Unfortunately for both of them, tonight was not one of the nights they’d be thrilled about as Roman finally got a look at Virgil.

He was covered in cuts and bruises, his lip bleeding. He had the start of a black eye. A searing red hand print marked his cheek. Many more bruises were apparent on his arms and Roman would discover too, his legs.

“Oh my gosh, Virgil, what happened?” he breathed out, looking over all the injuries once more before looking into Virgil’s eyes. Virgil looked up to him and his breath hitched before loud sobs left his mouth. Luckily no one but Roman was home for a while so the two didn’t have much to worry about in terms of interruption.

While Virgil cried, Roman simply held him tight, picking him up to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. He couldn’t help it as he smiled a little when Virgil held on tightly, his legs wrapping around Roman’s waist. Roman started to hum a soft song, kissing his hair gently. He felt Virgil relax a little at that.

“That’s it, you’re going to be ok. Everything will be ok. I’m right here for you,” Roman whispered. Virgil nodded slightly against his neck.

“My parents,” the boy in Roman’s arms whispered.

“What?”

“They.. They did this. I-I wasn’t expecting them to- to hit me, I wasn’t expecting it, I wasn’t and they- they just started hitting me. I didn’t know what to do, I ran here, you were the only one I could think of coming to and I just can’t, I can’t do this!” he sobbed out, breathing heavily.

Roman hugged him tighter before placing him back down on the bed, leading him through his breathing exercises. He opened up the first aid kit once Virgil’s breathing was settled.

“Let’s patch you up,” he muttered softly, starting to dab a cloth gently on some of the more heavy cuts.

Virgil stayed still as much as possible, watching the absolute concentration on Roman’s face as he patched Virgil up. Roman glanced up to see Virgil staring at him and lowered his hands down into Virgil’s lap, smiling gently.

More tears started to stream down Virgil’s cheeks as he surged forward, kissing Roman desperately.

Roman caught him, surprised as he stared ahead, eyes wide. Virgil panicked and started to pull back but Roman held him tighter, reconnecting their lips. Virgil let out a sob into Roman’s mouth, kissing back.

Roman couldn’t believe this was actually happening in this moment but he eventually broke the kiss and stroked Virgil’s cheek.

“I love you so much, Virge,” he whispered, starting to cry himself. Virgil let out a teary, pained, and happy giggle, sniffling and trying frantically to wipe his tears away.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Promise?”

“With my last dying breath.”

After sitting on the floor for a while, Roman went back to patching Virgil up before giving him a spare change of clothes. Virgil snuggled up to Roman’s side in bed once he changed into an old theater camp t-shirt of Roman’s and Roman kissed his hair gently, pulling him close.

“You’re going to stay here ok?”

“I’d like to stay for the night, yeah,” Virgil nodded.

“No,” Roman stated firmly. “You’re going to stay here until you’re 18 and your parents can no longer claim you in any way possible. And even then, you’re staying right here with me. For the rest of my life if possible. No one’s going to hurt my best friend and love. I’m going to protect you, storm cloud, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Mm,” Virgil hummed out as he laid his head on Roman’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I’d like that.”

Roman made sure Virgil was asleep before picking up his phone on the nightstand, opening up his group chat with Logan and Patton. He typed out a message.

“How do we keep Virgil’s parents away from him?”

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Taglist: @virgils-paranoia, @marshmallow-the-panda, @ambersky0319 (DM me if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists!)

[twistedhaloau]

Twisted halo deep dive #8: the angelic brood part three

Hermit Halos

Hermit halos are large creatures the size of a horse or cow that live within Alice face shaped shells in a similar manner to that of hermit crabs and other crustaceans.

These creatures are unique in that they are capable of intelligence and reasoning with Susie and as a result it is not uncommon to find these members of the angelic brood selling and trading items in certain places of the studio. These creatures love collecting shiny and intricate objects and hoarding them within their shells for safekeeping. This becomes a problem when they steal keys and levers necessary for Susie to progress through the studio. When provoked these creatures will charge at Susie stabbing at her with the large stinger on their faces.

These creatures have horrible balance and can often be knocked down upon which they may take hours or days to right themselves up. These creatures can use their near impenetrable shell for protection against enemies and will often hide within them for days at a time in the event of extreme danger.

The tall Alice with a very Sharp Object (TASO)

The tall Alice with a very sharp object is indeed a 6 foot 4 inch Alice clone wielding an extremely long and dangerous straight razor. These Alices tend to separate themselves from the angelic horde of Alice clones in favor of a solitary lifestyle. These Alice's love to lurk around corridors and tight hallways in order to more easily ambush their prey and slice them open.

The size of these Alices makes them particularly dangerous as they tend to have a long reach with which to grab or slash at Susie with their straight razors, additionally these tall Alices are more quiet and reserved than their more vocal and chaotic angel siblings and as result can sneak up more easily on prey. Somehow despite their size their footsteps are often extremely quiet and they are able to easily slip in and out of the shadows to attack at a moments notice.

Beyond the danger of their trusty razors these tall Alices have an extremely strong grip and can easily strangle prey with their long spindly fingers. The best way to deal with these Alices is often to just avoid them as much as possible however attacking their long legs can prove effective.

The music box

The music box is a screeching and unsettling monster that has had its organs repurposed by the ink machine to function as a grotesque gramophone of sorts and it is one of the most extreme examples of how little ink creature biology makes sense to human understanding.

These creatures often like to try blending in among the standard Alice creatures as they have a similar shape and size and then without warning emit loud blaring wails that can knock a person off their feet. Additionally, the music of these creatures can cause severe headaches, disorientation, and nausea in humans and as a result should be dealt with as quickly as possible in order to avoid being swarmed by their angelic brethren.

In addition to these creatures gramophones they have a large split head filled with jagged teeth in order to provide additional offense against prey and attackers looking to dispatch it. When un disturbed these creatures will often play songs at a gentler rate almost as if calming themselves and it’s common to find other Alice clones huddled around these music box creatures enraptured by their crooning music.

Purifiers

Purifiers are symbiotic creatures that can latch onto other angel clones and giant hand monsters in order to give them divine purpose and more importantly greater intelligence.

These creatures are often lured to large gatherings of agitated angel clones Susie is fighting and will latch onto one of the clones forming an immediate bond and mutation between the two of them. The presence or addition of a halo to the infected Alice clone increases their knowledge and can even cause mutations within them that are never the same between incidents and as a result make them an absolute menace to Susie in her quest to escape the studio.

On their own these purifiers cannot fend for themselves and are often easy enough for Susie to dispatch on her own however they are hard to spot and oddly quick despite their appearance which makes dispatching one before they bond with another clone a painstaking task.

Contributing artists:

@hamberry-art

@omnipenneartblog

@aureolinzestro