#proverbs from hell

[kindaambitiouslylazy]

Lyle fell off of his chair when a lightning bolt struck his kitchen table and a demon appeared.

“Hello, my name is Dan, and I have been assigned as your personal demon.”

Lyle’s mind blanked and rebooted. “A demon? Why do I get a demon? Susie got a gnome and Jeff got a unicorn!” Seriously? He’d been waiting months for his familiar to manifest, and he gets a demon? Named Dan?

Dan the demon eyed him judgmentally from where it was sitting on top of his charred table. “Well, Jeff is a jerk and Susie is probably going to rule the universe. You don’t hear me whining about getting stuck with a pathetic human who can’t even suck out a soul.”

Momentarily distracted, Lyle blurted, “Wait, what? Some humans can suck out souls?”

“Yeah. Brunettes named Ann. No e at the end.” Dan inspected Lyle’s breakfast of soggy, and now sooty, cereal with disgust.

“Huh. That’s… oddly specific.”

“Yeah, it’s a whole thing. But the point is, you suck. Or to be more accurate, you don’t.”

“Well, I mean…I’m double jointed?”

“Both unimpressive and useless.”

“Oh shut up. What good is a demon, anyway?”

“We can take any human soul straight to hell, breathe fire, and we get a 50% discount at all Walmarts.”

“Huh. I can’t think of a need for the first two right now, but I do need to go grocery shopping. I guess I should feel something at knowing Walmart is the official store of hell, but, I mean, we all knew that.” Lyle nodded sagely.

Dan shrugged. “Yeah, it’s pretty obvious. Even if they refused to rename it Helmart, like Barry suggested.”

“So, um, what do we do first?” Lyle ventured.

The demon whipped out a clipboard and put on a pair of reading glasses. It muttered under its breath, marked off a few items, and then put the clipboard away.

“First, we will start with life lessons. Important and wise sayings to help you navigate your wretched and useless life as a human.”

Lyle was trying to be optimistic, but Dan was not helping. “Oh, like proverbs? My great uncle always says those at family reunions.”

Dan eyed him. “Is your uncle Sid the Destroyer?”

“No, his name is Fred,” Lyle said nervously.

“Hm. Well, one of my personal favorites is ‘The early bird destroys the other birds in their sleep,’” Dan announced gravely.

Lyle frowned. “Um, no, ‘it’s the early bird gets the worm.’”

Dan leveled him with a flat look. "Don't be absurd, why would anyone want a worm? You don't get up early for a lousy meal. You get up early to destroy your competition.”

“I think demon life lessons might be a little different than humans…” Lyle trailed off, not wanting to be offensive or insensitive to demon culture.

“That’s because humans are morons.”

Lyle blinked. Well, obviously Dan wasn’t worried about offending him. Which, rude.

“Okay, how about I say some of the ones that I know, and we’ll see if they match?” Lyle suggested. “I’ll go first. If at first you don’t succeed—”

“Blame someone else,” Dan finished immediately.

Lyle tried again. “A bird in the hand—”

“Will peck you, because birds are evil.”

“A penny saved is—”

“Worthless. Like worms.” Dan folded its arms.

Lyle plowed on. “A stitch in time—”

“Disrupts the space time continuum.”

“An apple a day—”

“Is better than worms. As is virtually everything.”

“Wow, you really have a vendetta against worms, don't you?” Lyle was getting a little irritated.

“They're pathetic, like failed snakes. Only a moron would want one,” Dan said flatly.

“Well, they're actually really good for the soil, and—” Lyle wasn’t sure why he was getting so defensive of worms. It’s not like he actually liked them. They kind of freaked him out, with their creepy little bodies. But now he felt weirdly responsible for them.

“Case in point.” Dan looked at Lyle judgmentally.

Lyle sighed. It was going to be a long day. “Okay, well, I’m not sure how helpful those life lessons were, but maybe we can move on. What’s next on the list?”

Dan inspected its clipboard again. “The eradication of worms.”

Lyle glared at the demon. “It does not say that. Aren’t we supposed to, like, bond or something? Sync up our powers and figure out our destiny?”

Dan nodded. “Exactly. We will bond through the eradication of the worm species. Then, we will destroy other universal blights.”

Lyle sputtered. “What? Are you saying my life’s purpose is universal pest control?”

For the first time, Dan smiled. It was not pleasant. “Yes. I had hoped for something nobler, but I lost the bid for both Susie and the delightful Maria. I have adjusted accordingly. While less glamorous, extermination brings me a certain satisfaction. Now, come. We must get to Helmart before it closes.”

Dan swept out of the room.

Lyle stared after him, then pulled out his phone and texted his mom, “Headed to Helmart to prep for worm genocide. :/ Wish me luck!”

She replied almost instantly, “That’s nice dear, please pick up some milk.”

Lyle sighed and trudged after Dan. Milk and worm poison it was.

[quotelr]

Some cats are angry at being called cats. To achieve peace with them, never call them by their real name

Bangambiki Habyarimana, The Great Pearl of Wisdom

[1794]

dude i just realized proverbs of hell title is a william blake reference (sorry i havent played yet its on my computer but i have to make my computer work better tomorrow(

BRO.

[merthosus]

Damn Brisket Five...

Summary: You stumble into a deli filled with multiple versions of Five, including one called Brisket Five, who urges you to choose a fresh start with him instead of forgiving your unfaithful Five. Both versions of Five plead for your affection, leaving you torn between the past and the possibility of something new. You're faced with a decision: forgive your Five or embrace a different path with Brisket Five.

Here a sexy poster from Five I fell in love with! With every purchase you automatically support me :) https://amzn.to/3yGK6Fm

"Can I keep her?"

The first time you put a foot up the train-station stairs, your heart was racing. It felt like you were paralyzed as you tried to read the instructions of the railways. Trying to decipher the Minecraft enchantment language you would have found easier. The different colors, which should make it better to understand wasn't helping you either. So your impatient self, thought it was a good idea to just get into one of the trains.

"No risk no story", you always told yourself, but now standing in uncountable of different train stations, you needed to admit to yourself, that this was the worst proverb you could've used in your situation. After clutching yourself on one of the train rods, you watched yourself leaving the station you were. Looking at the display boards didn't help you either to locate your current position.

It feels like a fever dream, every station looks the same, every train looks the same, every fucking thing is identical to the other. White tiles, dirty walls and brightly colored train cards. After your first encounter with a cockroach you stumbled back into the train and made some involuntary pull-ups as that thing was following you. After getting into the fourteenth train you stopped to count. Every train station was empty, no Five in sight.

Instead every time you set foot at a station you were welcomed with mind rotting flickering light and the screeching sound of brakes, which belonged to the train you just got out. Suddently you asked yourself if someone was steering the train, but your fear of see something you didn't want, kept you from it. An hour and twenty minutes after (yes you counted), you had enough. You liked Five, everybody except him saw that, but being trapped in an infinitive translation was too much, even for you.

"One last time", you promised yourself as you waited the doors to open. Suddently Five walked by. You couldn't believe your eyes and hammered onto the glass. As the door opens you squeeze yourself through them and run after him. As he saw you he suddently began to run and vanish behind a corner. "FIVE!!", you screamed madly. All of that searching only to get rewarded from him running away?

You came to a halt as bright led lights blinded your eyes. "Max's Delicatessen", you read. You no longer think and open the door, a loud bell announced your entry. The first thing you saw was Five. And Five and Five and another Five. Your mouth fell open. Three of them surrounded the one you chased, he was standing with the back turned. "Guys you will never believe what I just saw!!", he exclaimed to the others. All of the three stared at me, as the others did too. "Guess we will Five, don't worry", one of the three said.

Even though your wettest dream just came true you didn't know if you liked what you just saw. At least fifteen Five's looked at you, inspecting every move you do. "This is a dream right?", you ask out loud. A few of the Fives smiled. "It's not", you heard a voice in the back. A different looking Five came out of the back, he wore an apron and a white shirt. "Your Five already said that you would eventually show up. You know he Is one of the asshole ones", he says. You still were very confused as he comes to you.

"What the hell is going on here?", you asked. You thought that you already saw the most fucked up shit but this was a different level of fucked up. You heard a few Fives in the back mumbling. "Why is she here? Did her Five lost her?", one asked. As the five with the apron looked into my kind of intimidated eyes, he turned around. "Listen to me dipshits! Continue doing whatever you were doing! I am gonna explain it to her", he said. Most of the Fives listened to him.

Making a documentary about them would certainly be entertaining, I wonder which five had to be the herd leader of the group. "Why do you get her?!", the drunkly looking Five in the back screamed. "SHUT UP DRUNK FIVE!", everyone screamed at the same time. "I am brisket Five by the way", Five exclaimed as he turned back to you. You took his hand and shared it. "I am Y/n", you introduce yourself.

Brisket Five smiled. "I know sweetheart", he said, while guiding you to one of the tables. You began to get red so you tried to hide your face to him, by putting your hands on your cheeks as you sit down on the table. Brisket Five took the seat infront of you and just looked at you, you could read some pity in his eyes. "So... Your Five told me that you were gonna search for him", he began to speak. "Yes! Do you know where he is?", you asked curious, still wanting to find him. Brisket Five took your hand, Butterflys forming into your stomach.

"I hate being the Five who tells you this", he begins as he suddently let go of your hand as drunk Five bumped against the table. The sound of his flask fall against the hard wood made you flinch. "He fucked Lila!", he said slumber. As his last word fell, your heart arches. All the searching was only to find out that he fucked with Lila? "Have you ever heard about sensitivity?", Brisket Five asked him. "Look she's gonna be sad anyway, why being sensitive?", he asked.

"Do you have some baskets in the back", he looks at him, while getting into the kitchen and argue with another employee Five. "You have no idea how much I hate this guy", he tells you, but as soon as he looked into your eyes again he stopped talking. "Look we are all different variants from him. Everyone in here is coming out of a different timeline, everyone tried to fight the apocalypse and everyone horrible failed", he explained to you.

"And every one of these Fives lost their Y/n. You are the first one that got lost in here. So don't mind the reactions from one of them here", he sightly looks into the direction of drink Five. "Their Y/N?", you ask bewildered. A few Fives laugh at the table beside us, they were currently eavesdropping on our conversation. "Your Five is the only Five out of the 23 quadrillions, that didn't had the balls to ask you out. You know your Five is popular by the name scaredy-cat Five. Moste of us don't like him", he says.

You can't help yourself but laugh. "You know if he asked you out before he stepped into this fucked up train it would have never happened. I am sorry that you are the first and hopefully also the least Y/n that has to go through that", he says, while looking down onto the table.

Brisket Five notices the change in your expression. He leans forward and takes your hand again, this time with more firmness and urgency. "Listen," he says softly, "I know it hurts, but maybe this is a chance for something different. Your Five… he’s messed up, and sure, we all have our flaws. But you don’t have to be tied to his mistakes. You deserve someone who sees you, who’s not afraid to fight for you, someone who’s willing to be there without making excuses. I could be that person, Y/N."

Just as you gather the courage to respond, the door to the deli opens again. Another Five walks in, but this one is different. His clothes are disheveled, his eyes look tired and worn. It's your Five. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. For a moment, time seems to stand still. The other Fives in the room fall silent, glancing between you and your Five with curiosity. Your heart races as you look at him. "Y/N..." he begins, but you cut him off before he can continue. "Why?" you ask, your voice calm but cutting.

"Why did you do this Five?" Five looks you straight in the eye, and you see a depth of regret and despair in him that you’ve never seen before. "I made a mistake," he finally says, his voice almost breaking. "I thought I could control everything, that I had it all under control. But I was wrong. Lila... that was a mistake, a moment of weakness. But you... you were never a mistake." Brisket Five leans in, his gaze never leaving yours.

"But Y/N, think about it. Do you really want to stay in this cycle of hurt and apologies? I know I can’t erase what he did, but I can promise you something better. We don’t have to repeat his mistakes. We can start fresh, build something real, without all the baggage." Your Five looks between you and Brisket Five, a mix of panic and realization dawning on his face. "Y/N, please… I know I’ve messed up, but don’t let that push you away. I can make this right," he pleads, but his voice lacks the certainty it once held.

The room is filled with tension as both Fives wait for your response. Brisket Five’s hand tightens around yours, a silent promise of something new, something different. Everything now depends on you. You have the choice to forgive your Five and try again, or you can take Brisket Five’s offer and explore what could be a less complicated, more honest relationship. Maybe you’re wondering if you’re ready to continue with a man who made such mistakes, or if you should embrace the chance for something new with someone who’s already shown he’s willing to fight for you. You take a deep breath as you make the decision in your heart.

Let's be real who would you choose?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi! Hope you're having a great day! If it's possible, could you list or share resources to not so common idioms in english? Thank you 💜✨

Some Uncommon English Idioms

A different kettle of fish - To say something is a 'different kettle of fish’ is to say that something is very different from the subject being spoken about. [Wanting a car is one thing, paying for it is a whole different kettle of fish.]

Adventure is the champagne of life - Adventure is what makes life bubbly.

Better the devil you know - A shortening of an old proverb, which continues “than the one you don’t know.” You’re better off dealing with an undesirable situation or individual whose drawbacks you know than risk an unknown one with worse traits.

Cook someone’s goose - Ruin someone, upset someone’s plans. [He thinks he’ll get away with stealing my idea, but I’m going to cook his goose.]

Embarrassment of riches - An overabundance of something, too much of a good thing. [All four of them have their own cars but there’s no room in the driveway—an embarrassment of riches.]

Hell’s half acre - A wild, desolate, dangerous place.

Little pitchers have big ears - Young children often overhear something they should not. [Don’t use any swear words around Brian—little pitchers have big ears.]

Queen it - Act like a queen, domineer. [She queened it over the family, treating her siblings like servants.] This female counterpart of "Lord it Over" was used by Shakespeare in The Winter’s Tale (4:4). [c. 1600]

The worm turns - (also, the worm has turned) Even a very tolerant person will one day lose patience.

Tilt at windmills - Engage in conflict with an imagined opponent, pursue a vain goal.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

More sites you can visit with lists of English idioms: 1 2

Hope this helps with your writing!

[igotanidea]

Family rules: Damian Wayne x reader

Christmas bingo day 23 : midnight kiss

The first time she truly understood the meaning of the proverb heart over mind was on a school trip in September.

He was just standing by the wall, doing nothing except staring into space with those piercing green eyes.

Such pretty eyes

Such devilish, snake eyes.

Acting like he was who knows who.

Arrogant, cold, keeping his distant, rough, self-absorbed, not caring about anything or anyone.

Just like his father.

Damian Wayne.

***

Y/N had the misfortune of being born into a technological company family. Obviously she didn’t know it when she was a kid, but the word Wayne was inflected in her home on all occasions.

Wayne this, Wayne that...

 sort of spell or- more likely - a curse.

Damn it!

She was 12 when she gathered enough courage to ask her father what this was about. A mistake she only made once, cause even the mention of the Bruce Wayne and his famous, profitable company made her father see red.

That's how she found about the on-going competition between her father and Damian's one.

Obviously it was not like she was excluded from family rules and allowed to live in a bubble. Y/N was supposed to hate the entire Wayne family, the progenitor, his adopted kids and everyone who even came close to them. The only blood son included.

The only problem?

Said blood son was attending the same school, the same class as Y/N was. Which meant a lot of time spend together.

And you just command a teenager to do something and hope they'll listen. It's pretty much impossible, if not foolish belief.

***

In her defence - she tried.

She really tried to hate Damian.

But for five years, his name has been coming to her from every way on every occasion.

Wayne this, Wayne that.

Damn it!!

She could tear her hair out in utter desperation. How was she supposed to not think about him when all the world seemed to be dead set to remind her of his existence.

Of his stupid, unnecessary existence.

With his stupid, idiotic smile and his ridiculous handsome face and infuriating behaviour and the tendency to just be mean all the fucking time.

The internal fight between what she felt and how she acted made her clench her fist and grit her teeth every time Damian came into her view. The little bastard has been doing it on purpose just to see her flustered and enraged. It was like he was trying this best to show his superiority and just rub it into her face.

„L/N.”

„The hell you want Wayne?”

„Will you be attending this year’s New Year's Eve?”

„Will I what now?” she raised her gaze, unable to hide the confusion.

„want me to spell it out for you or something”?”

„Hm.” she muttered „I had no idea you knew how to do that Wayne.”

„I;m only telling you because I know you have problems with reading.”

„Clearly you have a problem with understanding simple things.”

„What I understand is that your father was left out when the invitations were being send. Are you finally going bankrupt”

„You little piece of-!” before she could stop herself her palm met with his cheek with a loud slap.

Shit.

He got exactly what he wanted. Provoked her and got the awaited reaction. She exposed herself, cause acting so dramatically only proved her contradictory, violent emotions he evoked in her.

„Nice one. Didn’t think you had it in you.” he wiped the little drop of blood she drew with her nails.

„Trust me I had it in me ever since you invaded the class.”

„I’ll let you make it even when you invade Wayne Manor for the party.”

„Though you said my family wasn’t invited?”

„It’s a charitable thing to open the door for the poor. I’ll see to it personally.”

„Such a generosity on your part, Mr. Wayne.” she rolled her eyes. „You can take your fake bounty and shove it up-”

„I can’t wait till you meet Todd. You two have so much in common.”

„Your older brother? Yeah, from what I heard you two have quite a rocky relationship. Maybe we’ll gang up on you.”

„Can’t wait.” Damian laughed dryly and with a mischievious glint in his eyes walked away not bothering to say another word.

***

„I;m not going.”

„You;re going.”

„I am so not going!”

„You don’t have a say in the matter!”

„Last year you said that new year’s party is not a place for kids!”

„You’re not a kid!”

„I’m 17! I;m a kid!”

„You ran away from home few months ago. You’re not a kid. You’re going. End of discussion.”

„If I’m not a kid then how come I can’t make a decision on this?” she smiled at her father with absolutely innocent eyes, pointing out all the holes in his logic.

Well-

He didn’t take her defiance in a good way.

Almost dragging her to the wayne manor, but dragging nevertheless.

***

Vomiting.

That’s how she felt entering the place,

Running away.

That’s how she felt walking up the steps and being thrown to the sharks when all the gazes landed on her and her father.

Hiding.

That’s how she felt when the gravity of being judged only based on her clothes and outlook sunk in.

Instead Y/N was forced to fake a smile, dance and do the rounds pretending to have fun.

All for the glory and good publicity of her father’s company.

Worst part?

He has been watching.

Like a predator in the darkness, waiting to strike when she was least suspecting it.

„Mr L/N.” Damian crept behind the girl and her father and she was sure he only did it on purpose to startle her. „Would you mind if I steal your daughter for a dance.

The tragicomic of the situation was truly poetic.

Her father went pale. Then red. His jaw got tense. Then loose. And then he smiled forcefully nodding his head, unable to say the dreaded yes. Apparently being torn between the devil (his daughter dancing with the son of his archenemy) and the deep blue sea (offending the host) was too much to handle.,

Too bad, Y/N had no chance to object or get away before Damian led her to the dancefloor.

„It’s not XVIth century Wayne, women can make their own decisions.” she hissed not really happy about his hands circling around her waist.

„Then run away if that’s what you want. I dare you.”

„I’m not going to make a scene here!”

„thought so.” he chuckled, capably leading her in the dance.

„what the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

„absolutely nothing.”

„I’ve known you for five years. There’s never nothing with you Damian.”

‘You used my name, Y/N.”

‘And you repeated my mistake.”

„Maybe it’s not a mistake?” he pulled her slightly closer, causing her to let out an involuntarily gasp. „I’m just saying-”

„I’m supposed to hate you.” she whispered making a turn and then a swirl

„So you don’t.” this was not a question but a statement, his hands trembling slightly. It was hard for him to keep the attitude while dealing with a whirlwind inside. He was 17 and liked a girl, having no idea how to behave to not make a fool out of himself, get embarrassed and lose in her eyes.

„don’t let it get into your head.” she whispered pressing herself closer to his body. They were dancing and it was only because of that.

„Me?” Damian smiled but it came unnoticed due to her head leaning on his shoulder „I think you’re the one who’s fantasising.”

„You sure you’re not hoping for a midnight kiss?” she mocked

„Are you?”

„no.”

„me neither.”

Bruce and f/n were carefully watching their kids.

Damian and Y/n couldn’t care less.

Family drama and conflicts seemed light years away at that moment.

 Future could be figured out later.

Part 2: moment of weakness

[fawnforevergone]

The Ultimate List of Dante References in Hozier's "Unreal Unearth" !!

Hello and welcome to my new-and-updated ultimate compilation of all 'Inferno' references I found in Hozier's new album! If I think of anything else, or if anyone else suggests something, I will be sure to add it, but, for now, enjoy this ridiculously long (you've been warned) list I made!

Since I didn't wanna make a post for every individual song and spam you all, the songs are separated by their respective circles! I hope that organises stuff a bit more :]

Usual disclaimer: I could be wrong about some stuff! I've read 'Inferno' and try to stick to the objective references, but sometimes I let subjective interpretation bleed through. If anyone has any corrections for anything, just lmk!! Okay, cool <3

DESCENT:

"De Selby (Part 1)"

We start the album not in the circles, but instead at the Gates of Hell. One of the main themes of Inferno is darkness, and these first two songs are embodiments of that.

The lyrics mention the idea of this being a "new empty space", suggesting that Hozier is being introduced to the feeling of Inferno through the relationship he's singing about, and, so, we begin the descent.

"The likes of a darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear." God is obviously a large theme of Inferno and is, biblically, the creator of light, hence the absence of it in Inferno. In fact, the first three stanzas all reference the heavy darkness of the threshold and its estrangement from God.

The Irish/Gaeilge lyrics roughly translate to: "Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. You and I, together. You and I, metamorphized. Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. The art of transformation is a dark art." The imagery of light and dark mixing together mimics the idea of walking from the brightness of Earth into the darkness of Inferno.

This entire album appears to be the recounting of a relationship and how it feels like walking through Inferno. Here we see the beginning of this relationship, of Hozier losing himself to the threshold.

"De Selby (Part 2)"

Part one appeared to be the step through the gates, whereas part two seems to be Hozier being enveloped by the threshold. In 'Inferno', Dante says the entrance to Hell is a darkness that no stars could shine in. We hear this shift from Earth to Unearth through the production alone; the weightlessness of part one falling into the heavy grunge of part two.

"Your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room." The theme of dark continues, as it will through the entire album, but, this time, Hozier feels it radiating from within his lover rather than the space around them. Though, him saying his lover carries darkness is not an insult. This extra depth to his lover is something more to know, something more to love. This idea actually differs from Dante, who sees the darkness as deceitful.

"I want to be so far from sight and mind." Inferno is a lawless place. He would be far from sight due to the darkness, and far from mind due to the insanity that persists within the circles.

"Let all time slow, let all light go." This lyric shows me that he has been submerged in the threshold. Again, the lack of light, but also the slowing of time. Punishment after death is eternal, something that time has no grasp on. Hozier is willing to let these aspects take a hold of him.

"I'd still know you not being shown you, I'd only need the workin' of my hands." Christianity is a heavy theme of Inferno, and this lyric plays on the proverb 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop', a proverb Hozier also hinted at in his song "No Plan" (from 'Wasteland, Baby!') - "My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand."

Now, though, Hozier's hands aren't idle, instead the opposite, his hands are working as God intended. Drawing us back to that idea we were given at the end of part one, we get the feeling that Hozier is bringing something light/Godly to Inferno, and he and his lover are fusing the ideas of Heaven/Earth and Hell.

FIRST (LIMBO):

"First Time"

We now enter circle number one, 'Limbo'. Limbo is an uneventful circle for those not worthy of punishment but also not fit for Heaven. It is mainly for those who do not believe in God, the unbaptised.

Firstly, to get to circles, Dante and his guide, Virgil, must be chaperoned by the Greek Psychopomp Charon down the river Acheron, and we see that in Hozier's first couple stanzas.

"And the soul - if that's what you'd call it, uneasy ally of the body - felt nameless as a river, undiscovered underground." This appears to be Hozier mentioning the river Acheron, one of the five rivers of the Underworld that surround Hades, and, in 'Inferno', are used to transport the souls of the dead to their respective circles.

"The first time that you kissed me, I drank dry the river Lethe." The river Lethe is another one of the five rivers, and is one that causes anyone who drinks from it to forget everything they know. Hozier is simply saying that kissing this person wiped his mind clean, similar to the end of "De Selby (Part 1)" where he mentions partaking in a transformation.

"Some part of me died / Some part of me came alive the first time that you called me 'Baby'." Relating to the previous quote, souls that drink from the river Lethe usually do so before being reincarnated, so they forget their past life. Hozier seems to experiment with the idea of being reborn by his partner's love for him - an idea prevalent throughout his entire discography.

"To share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering, but fighting off - like all creation - the absence of itself." This lyric tells us that we should not ignore the privilege of living just out of the fear of dying. This lyric is reminiscent of "All Things End" and the circle of Heresy. Since Limbo is home to those who don't believe in God, the theme of Heresy is a very fitting one.

SECOND (LUST):

"When I was young, I used to guess 'Are there limits to any emptiness?'" The punishment for those in Limbo is to exist eternally with the curse of a hollow, empty feeling meant to represent the lack of God in their lives. This punishment seems referenced in this lyric.

[ i ended up thinking about this song more so if you want even more "first time" content, here ya go: "first time dante references." ]

"Francesca"

Into circle number two, 'Lust', we have the story of Francesca Da Rimini, a woman Dante spoke to during his visit to circle two. Francesca fell in love with her husband's brother, Paolo, and when her husband discovered the affair he murdered them both.

Hozier seems to be singing from the perspective of Francesca/Paolo but throughout the album we see Hozier liken his lover to aspects of Inferno - darkness in "De Selby (Part 2)" or Lucifer in "Unknown / Nth" - so the story of Francesca and Paolo is fitting as another metaphor here.

"Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me?" Even in Hell, Paolo and Francesca physically cling onto another. They do not let their death affect their love.

"My life was a storm since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?" The punishment in Lust is an eternal storm meant to replicate the throws of passionate love - a storm also depicted in the production of the end of this song. Hozier/Francesca/Paolo says that it's impossible for them to care about this punishment when life was already as treacherous as it was.

The whole chorus emphasises the imagery of Francesca and Paolo not being able to let go of each other.

"When the heart would cease, ours never knew peace. What good what it be on the far side of things?" Francesca and Paolo lived their love secretly and anxiously, so what good would peace be in the afterlife when they've already become accustomed to difficulty?

"Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I." In the opening songs of the album, Hozier describes his lover as darkness, akin to something God cannot bear. Due to the depth of his lover, the mix of light and dark they've made, he believes Heaven would crumble beneath the weight of their relationship. That something as corrupt as Inferno is the only place suitable for them to live.

"I, Carrion (Icarian)"

Still in circle two, Hozier plays on Dante's own metaphor. In Canto 17, Dante refers to his own dread of descending Inferno to the same dread that the 'ill-fated Icarus' must've felt on his fall from the sky.

Hozier twists this, instead comparing his love to the hope Icarus must've felt as he flew towards the sun. He said, during a live show, this song is based on the idea hat Icarus never realised he fell, and woke up dead, too clouded by joy to realise what had happened.

"If the wind turns, if i hit a squall, allow the ground to find its brutal way to me." Again, we mention the storm of circle two. Lust is also said to have treacherous terrain - sharp rocks and jagged stone - that seems to be hinted at in the second half of this lyric.

"While you're as heavy as the world that you hold your hands beneath." This imagery seems reminiscent of the Greek Titan, Atlas, who holds up the Earth on his back. Dante talks about seeing Titans and Biblical Giants at the transition point of circle eight to circle nine, 'Fraud' to 'Treachery', which makes this lyric a sad hint to where Hozier will end up finding his lover; Taking the place of Lucifer in the deepest part of Inferno.

THIRD (GLUTTONY):

"Eat Your Young"

We enter the third circle of Inferno, 'Gluttony'. There are no specific references to Inferno, but the concept of gluttony is apparent. Hozier does what he frequently does throughout this album; He refuses to see the sin as "right or wrong" as Dante so stubbornly implies.

Hozier often divulges in a grey area, a spectrum or sale of severity, when it comes to the sin. Hozier's perspective seems more nuanced than Dante's, seeing sin as layered rather than objectively bad. In this specific song, he displays the different sources of hunger in humans, and where the line should be drawn.

"I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to something, let me wrap my teeth around the world." We start, and reference back to in verse two, a sexual hunger, a harmless passion between two people. This is an innocent side of the sin, not deserving of the punishment of Lust which is to be ripped apart by Cerberus (the three-headed dog from Greek mythology) for all eternity.

However, Hozier moves onto the hunger of politics.

"Pull up the ladder when the flood comes." The government refusing to help the people when the sea levels rise.

"Throw enough rope until the legs have swung." When you don't have a ladder, you use a rope. This lyric plays on the notion of when governments give the impression they are helping, but are only making things worse - a take on the saying 'Give someone enough rope and they'll hang themselves', since what else are they meant to do with it?

"Skinnin' the children for a war drum, puttin' food on the table selling bombs and guns." The hunger for power manifests in war.

"It's quicker and easier to eat your young." Here, Hozier uses the common saying in a more literal sense, saying that if these politicians are hungry enough to destroy the world, they may as well physically eat their young, since it'll have the same effect.

FOURTH (GREED):

"Damage Gets Done"

This song takes place in circle four, 'Greed'! The title of the song alone is already very meaningful. In circle four, the main punishment is that the inhabitants are split into two groups and are forever forced to charged into each other and fight. Dante describes them are being so injured and damaged that they have become 'unrecognisable'.

The song is about greed within the changing of the world. It's about growing up and losing the naivety and innocence you once had, no longer able to ignore the burden of politics and money. Hozier and Brandi sing about the excitement of being young and in love, but, with the rise of inflation, it's hard to exist like that anymore - You need greed to survive.

"Wish I had known it was just our turn being blamed for a world we had no power in." This seems to be a reference to two things. One, the idea that governments blame the people for their own poverty, and Two, the idea of arriving in circle four by no fault of your own. It's not their fault they wanted more money with the world being how it is, but, nevertheless, they're being punished for it.

"I haven't felt it since then. I don't know when the feeling ended, but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done." They talk about the enjoyment of the love they're singing about fading, and how they miss that, but they know that, again, this is not their fault. They know they didn't change, the world did, and they won't take responsibility for their 'sin' when all they did was adapt.

As aforementioned, the inhabitants of the fourth circle suffer extreme injuries, so Hozier saying "I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done" is him saying "I know that we are not at fault for being served the punishment of Greed."

FIFTH (WRATH / ANGER):

"Who We Are"

We enter the fifth circle, 'Wrath', where the inhabitants spend their time fighting to stay at the surface of the river Styx, another one of the five rivers of the underworld.

"Falling from you drop by drop." / "To hold me like water." These lyrics obviously give the idea of water, representing the river Styx.

"Or, Christ, hold me like a knife." This lyric comes in quite loudly, Hozier's voice strengthening with it. The subtle blasphemy of "Christ" and the violent imagery of "knife" comes across as a sort of anger. Being held "like a knife" is representative of how those is Wrath must feel - like they are something particularly dangerous, but still desperate to be held.

"We're born at night, so much of our lives is just carving through the dark to get so far." Again, this theme of darkness that is so frequently displayed in Inferno is mentioned again. After this song comes "Son Of Nyx", which Hozier said was the transition into the darker half of the album, and Nyx is the Goddess of the Night. Being "born at night" would make Hozier the son of the night, the son of Nyx. This gives the impression that, if the album is following on chronologically, this is the point where the relationship portrayed in the album begins to fray as Hozier starts to be consumed by the darkness.

"And the hardest part is who we are." Those in the circle of Wrath possess a 'savage self-frustration' that Hozier seems to represent throughout this whole song - A fierce annoyance with the way he and his lover let things go: "We sacrificed, we gave our time to something undefined", "Chasing someone else's dream", Etc.

SIXTH (HERESY):

"Son Of Nyx"

We have no lyrics for this song (though you can hear him faintly saying some things, one of which is him saying "who we are...") but we know it takes place in circle six, 'Heresy'. Heresy is a belief or opinion that is contradictory to religious doctrine, especially Christianity. As aforementioned, Hozier said this track is a transition song meant to replicate a descent into the darker half of the album.

Nyx is a Greek Goddess and is often known as the personification of night. She had many children all representing different things but the title would essentially mean 'The Son Of Night', and, as dissected in the previous song, we can see that Hozier sees himself as reborn into the darkness.

Once again, darkness is a large theme of Inferno, but Hozier saying in circle six that he is the Son of Night is particularly meaningful due to the association of light with God. He has been reborn as something that could not be further from God, something that opposes the idea of God, something of a Heretic.

Nyx was feared and respected by all, including Zeus, and, though I believe there is no reference to her in Inferno, she was described as residing in the dark recesses of the Underworld, which is heavily incorporated into Inferno.

"All Things End"

This song does not have many overt references to circle six but definitely incorporates the idea of heresy. As mentioned, heresy is an idea that contradicts (especially, but not always) Christianity. In this song, Hozier talks about the ephemeral nature of all things, particularly romance.

"When people say that something is forever, either way it ends." Whether it be death or a break-up, God doesn't plan for you to be able to spend eternity with your lover.

"Movin' on in time and taking more from everything that ends." Hozier, however, argues that things still have meaning beyond their end. That, even after moving on, we will remember and learn from the things we have lost.

"Just knowin' that everything will end should not change our plans." Throws back to the idea of the second verse of "First Time". If you avoided something just because it was going to end eventually, you would never achieve anything. That's like refusing to finish a movie just because you don't want to get to the credits.

When this concept of ignoring the end comes to death, we ultimately cross the concept of God. There are many rules people follow in religion, avoiding certain things because they are against 'God's Will'. Although this practice can be kept in moderation, it can quickly become self-imprisoning.

Not living your present life out of fear for an unproven afterlife can be limiting, especially if you dictate who you love due to what supernatural punishment may or may not follow. Hozier sings that we should not let God's plan interfere with what we need from life, allowing ourselves to indulge in love even if it will end - ultimately, Heresy.

SEVENTH (VIOLENCE):

"To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)"

This song places in circle seven, 'Violence'. Violence is split into three subcategories, or 'rings'; Violence against others, violence against self, and violence against God. I believe this song gives an overview of all three.

With this song, we recognise that the title says "To someone..." and Hozier said this song was a gift to someone who was from a geographical warm climate, but there is also a lot of heat in circle seven.

"A joy, hard learned in winter, was the warming of the bed." Throughout this song, Hozier describes himself as cold, and his lover as warm. The idea of warming the bed is a concept Hozier mentioned in his song "Nobody" (From 'Wasteland, Baby!') where he sings that, if he had a choice between the warm bed of his lover or performing on stage, he'd go home to the bed. Since this song comes after "All Things End" (the break-up song), this call back to "Nobody" could be instead referencing a permanent distance, rather than a temporary one (like the temporary distance in "Nobody").

"And, darlin', all my dreaming has only been put to shame." This could have two meanings. One, Hozier waking from a dream about his lover to find them not here. Or, two, Hozier's expectations of his lover falling short as their relationship has finally fallen through. These expectations could be a form of violence against self, the second ring, as he set himself up for heartbreak.

"And I wish that I could say that the river of my arms have found the ocean. I wish I could say the cold lake water of my heart- Christ, it's boilin' over." As mentioned, Hozier is cold, his lover is warm. His wishes he could find something to to fill the loss of his relationship, but he still feels the heat from his lover in every part of him.

"It's boilin' over." References the river of boiling blood in the first ring, violence against others, Hozier could be talking about the way his partner loved him, how that was almost an act of violence with how hard it is to now let go.

"Butchered Tongue"

This song has less references to 'Inferno', and is more of a commentary on the act of violence itself. Hozier sings of places and cultures lost to the violence of man, and he mourns this deeply.

"To say 'Appalacicola' or 'Hushpukena', like 'Gweebara'. A promise softly sung of somewhere else." This grieving for a time when native land wasn't colonised and culture wasn't violently erased is prevalent throughout the song.

In the second verse, he sings very strongly of the brutal acts inflicted upon Irish rebels by the British forces in the Wexford Rebellion of 1789. As we know, Hozier is from Ireland, and he incorporates both the Irish language and history into this album, and recounting such violent acts for this song feeds into the grieving of what has been lost: "Between what is lost forever and what can still be known."

In the context of 'Inferno', it feels as though Hozier is listing the sort of actions that would land someone within the circle of Violence whilst also appreciating the efforts those above ground take to preserve erased culture. Altogether, the song is a very moving commentary on modern violence.

EIGHTH (FRAUD):

"Anything But"

The eighth circle is 'Fraud', split into ten subcategories that are positioned around the circle in trench-like ditches, known as 'Bolgia'.

"I wanna be loud, so loud, I'm talking seismic," follows up with, "I want to be as soft as a single rock in a rain stick." Who he wants to be fluctuates between moderation and severity. He is changing, unreliable, possibly referring to bolgia one, Panders and Seducers. Seducers tend to 'lead astray', as Hozier's unreliable narration does.

The punishment of bolgia one is to be marched backwards and forwards rapidly whilst being whipped, very much evoking the imagery of a stampede: "If I were a stampede, you wouldn't get a kick." This alludes to the fact that if Hozier were sent to hell for the various sins he commits for his lover, he wouldn't resent them for it at all.

"If I was a riptide, I wouldn't take you out." The second bolgia of Fraud is for Flatterers, 'the act of giving excessive compliments, sometimes for romantic courtship'. Obviously, the song is filled with these compliments.

"I hear He touches your hand and then you fly away together. If I had his job, you'd live forever." The imagery of "fly away" gives the idea of ascending, perhaps to Heaven, as hinted at again by the idea of the longevity of living. Bolgia three is for Simoniacs, those who would sell church roles, offices, or sacred things. This seems to fit with Hozier saying that if he had a divine role, he wouldn't follow protocol, he would allow his lover immortality.

Simoniacs were sinners because they were disobeying God's trust, because the selling of divine roles would lead to corruption in the Church. Hozier is using this hyperbolically, saying that if someone were to sell him the role of God, he would most definitely be a corrupt power.

"I'd lower the world in a flood, or better yet I'd cause a drought." In bolgia four we have Sorcerers. Although Dante used this term in a more logical sense for fraudulent sorcerers - false prophets, fortune tellers, those who lied about the plans of God - Hozier uses the term in a supernatural sense. Sorcerers were punished for trying to interrupt God's prerogative, whereas Hozier is blatantly saying he would summon another flood, usurping God's plan overtly.

"I'm talking seismic." The bridge that leads to bolgia seven was collapsed by the great earthquake and, as we know, seismic activity leads to earthquakes.

"Worry the cliff side top as a wave crashing over." There happens to be a cliff near the entrance of circle eight that a large waterfall plunges over.

"Abstract (Psychopomp)"

This song appears to be the crossover point from circle eight to circle nine that I mentioned when discussing "I, Carrion (Icarian)". Before we get to that, the title itself is significant.

A psychopomp is a chaperon of death; Someone like the Grim Reaper, or Charon from "First Time", or Dante's guide through Inferno, Virgil. Here, Hozier is describing the act of hitting an animal with your car as taking on the role of a psychopomp, whilst also relating this idea to the act of letting a relationship die, leading it from life to death.

In the crossover point from eight to nine, Dante and Virgil stand and look at the large well that leads down to circle nine, 'Treachery'. The Titians and Giants burst out of the well, to big to fit, but their feet stand stubbornly in Treachery. I believe that, at this point in the album, Hozier stands here, too. He's visited all eight circles, and has one last place to go before he leaves Inferno, and ultimately his lover, behind. This song is him realising he has to let his relationship end, he has to act as a psychopomp for his love.

"Sometimes it returns like rain that you've slept through." Circle nine, 'Treachery', is a frozen over lake, aka a memory of water, similar to the residue of rain. With viewing this song as the predecessor to "Unknown / Nth", we can take this as a hint of what's to come.

"The Earth from a distance." Since Inferno is arranged in rings (like a circular staircase), Dante could feasibly look up and still see where he started his journey. The same way Hozier could look up and see where his relationship began, "De Selby (Part 1)", The Gates.

"Streetlights in the dark blue." We have the mix of light and dark again, as mentioned in the opening track, referencing back to Hozier and his partner falling in love.

"Darling, there's a part of me I'm afraid will always be trapped within an abstract of my life." Of course, Hozier is talking about the memory of the animal hit with the car here, but the way this relates to circle nine is beautiful. As we'll properly dissect with "Unknown / Nth", sat within the most central point of circle nine, the deepest part of Inferno, is Lucifer, the fallen angel. Lucifer was thrown down to Hell from Heaven, and found himself trapped in Treachery, his body too big to escape. Dante says that the more he struggles, the more stuck he becomes.

That moment he was struck down to hell is a moment he finds himself forever stuck in, just as Hozier is saying here. In the next song, Hozier relates his lover to Lucifer, but these lyrics are a gorgeous mirroring of Lucifer's experience, and another hint at the final circle we will now head to.

NINTH (TREACHERY):

"Unknown / Nth"

Okay, buckle in.

The ninth circle, 'Treachery', is also one split into subcategories, yet Hozier appears to be singing about the centre. The frozen over lake of Treachery gets more frozen the closer you get to the centre. The inhabitants start half-submerged in ice to fully plastered in it. Throughout Inferno, and the deeper we descend, a soft breeze becomes a strong wind, that, as we reach the centre, we find is caused by the violent flapping of Lucifer's wings. Here he sits, stuck and chewing on Judas, another one of God's biggest betrayers.

After "Abstract (Psychopomp)" Hozier is now exploring the final stage of his relationship. The circles of Hell had mirrored the love he once had, and Treachery is where it shall be buried. He also represents his lover as Lucifer, though not maliciously. In interviews, Hozier spoke about the song being about a heavy betrayal he suffered from someone he truly loved, and likening this to God and Lucifer is just heartbreaking.

"You know the distance never made a difference to me." The song is about knowing someone in their entirety, discovering their best and worst parts. Hozier uses Inferno to talk about the tiresome journey of finally knowing someone. He says he would've made the trip all the same, that he would've walked this far for his lover no matter what.

"I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea." This mirrors the previous lyric, but also references specific parts of Inferno. The are many fires in Inferno, particularly in circle seven, 'Violence'. The sea floor lyric reminds me of the lake of Treachery. Though a surface, not a floor, the lake would still be below any seabed, since Inferno is geographically below the Earth.

"Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy." You guys are probably sick of hearing me say it but... Darkness is a big theme in Dante's Inferno. It is meant to represent the deceiving nature of humans when light is not being shone. Secrecy is a running thread through 'Inferno', too, as Dante finds many people he thought had done no wrong residing there. Hozier is simply saying how (sarcastically) funny it is that he only truly knows his lover in the remains of their relationship; How he only knows them after seeing them in their cruellest form.

"Where you were held frozen like an angel to me." There are many angel lyrics, but this one specifically references the ice of Treachery. The fallen angel is indicative of Hozier's experience: Seeing someone he regarded highly, even heavenly, falling from that pedestal and turning into something that couldn't be further from God's work.

"You called me angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me. You smile, now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth, and, what's left of it, I listen to it tick. Every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me." Hozier references his ex-lover chewing on his heart the way Lucifer chews on Judas. He listens to it somehow still ticking, however slowly, and at the end of the song we hear something akin to a heartbeat. The beats are "going unknown as any angel to me" since he can no longer recognise his own heartbeat after it has been mangled by another, and, since he mistook someone alike Lucifer to an angel, the idea of angels must be "unknown" to him.

"Do you know I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you? That I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you?" We again have this imagery of walking far, referencing the journey of Inferno, and, even though he's aching with the realisation of who his lover truly is, he can't help but be grateful that he does now know them, no matter how painful that may be. That he would do this all again if it meant he at least got to the answer of who they are.

His weak heartbeat follows him through to final track as we begin the Ascent.

ASCENT:

"First Light"

The title is very meaningful for the Ascent. The song references both Dante and Virgil's ascent and the creation of light by God himself. Dante and Virgil leave Inferno through a tunnel that Lucifer left in the Earth as he was thrown down to Hell, and they emerge on the other side of the hemisphere. This song signifies Hozier stepping away from the relationship as he also makes that journey out.

"One bright morning changes all things." Dante is disorientated when he exits Inferno. He'd become so accustomed to the darkness that he asks Virgil, 'How is it that the sun progressed so rapidly from evening to day?' Hozier seems to recognise here that his relationship is no longer fit for him, that the darkness has become too encompassing, just as Dante realises on his ascent.

"The sky set to burst, the gold and the rust, the colour erupts...the sun coming up." Not only does this give the imagery of the birth of light, but it also represents Dante's view on his exit: 'Until...I saw the lovely things the sky above us bears. Now we came out, and once more saw the stars.'

"Like I lived my whole life before the first light." Hozier says that the darkness from his lover was so overbearing that it was hard to believe he'd ever felt light before - that light could not have exists with a darkness this heavy alongside it. It is a call back to "De Selby (Part 1)" - "A darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear."

"One bright morning comes. Darkness always finds you either way, it creeps into the corners as the moment fades." He speaks of bringing light to a moment between them, but has it quickly smothered by the darkness inherent in his partner. Another call back, this time to "De Selby (Part 2)" - "And your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room."

"After this I'm never going to be the same, and I am never going back again." This lyric is heart-breaking. Hozier states that Inferno has changed him, but he has no wishes to re-enter it. At the beginning of this album, he was begging for the likes of Inferno - "De Selby (Part 2)": "Let all time slow, let all light go." - and now he is desperate to get away from it. In "Francesca", he said, "At the end, I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it.'", yet, now, he's at the end, he's ascended, and he has no desire to go back at all.

He is letting go of his lover because he recognises that this pain was not worth it, that this love was not worth the punishment he received, so he leaves.

---

That was Hozier's Inferno !! I hope this was helpful to some people since it was very fun to make (I'm exhausted) and it's very enlightening to see how these lyrics relate to Inferno (I'm heart-broken) !! Okay, wooooo !! Enjoy !!!

[punkpandapatrixk]

❤️‍🩹I Just Want to be Loved ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

We attract terrible loves for various reasons; so many lessons; but now sorrow has got to lessen. Let’s reveal patterns by exhuming roots. We’ve got to stop this cycle of disappointments. Done being made to feel as if we’re hard to love.

We’re not hard to love. Many of us were simply denied love, warmth and affection as we were growing up… Don’t know how to love self; don’t know how to love others; basically don’t know how to even receive Love… Who’s to blame now?

Why the hell were so many children denied love, warmth, affection…?

What are you going to do with yourself when you were denied love, warmth and affection as you were growing up?

☆♪°・.

‘The child who isn’t embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.’ – an African proverb

People denied warmth and affection tend to fall into a desperate loop of fishing for attention as a result of love-deficiency, right? Some learn to lick love off a knife; some pursue success (whatever that means) all too frantically; some…shoot complete strangers in broad daylight; and some who ain’t got the guts to murder complete strangers in public places go instead for antagonising strangers on social media… Gosh, that is desperate.

But you know what, not all hope is lost because there’s still plenty of us who are blessed with this incredibly RARE thing called self-awareness. There are plenty of us who will take our traumas to the graveyard than pass them down the next generations.

You, don’t deserve to have your sanity and your Life ruined by some psychos who didn’t know how to love you. Reclaim lost pieces of yourself by understanding THREE Houses in your natal chart, babe:

4th House: your roots; tells you what was lacking in your home; explains your erratic 10th House ambitions

8th House: your marriage or your desire for a bond like it; this the House where trauma manifests itself in full spectrum

11th House: your wish fulfilment; where you connect with people who support your visions; breeds a healthy sense of connection, even community

SONG: Emptiness by BoA

MOVIE: Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Because I Can’t Even Trust Myself

VIBE: Trust by Hamasaki Ayumi

lost pieces (pertaining to 4th House) – Ace of Pentacles Rx

It’s clear your childhood didn’t offer a sense of stability or security—the physical kind that children usually need. It could be that a grownup left early or it could be that you moved around a lot, so you easily lost contact with new friends you’d just made. In essence, it feels like you grew up feeling ‘everything disappears eventually; everyone leaves eventually’.

Some of you might’ve grown up not having a lot of material resources, but for the majority of you tuning into this Pile, it was more a feeling of a lack of warmth. For children, the pain of neglect and a lack of emotional connection do really affect our physical health more severely. You might’ve grown up poor and sickly due to all the grownups around you being inattentive, unaffectionate, and just…unreliable at best.

Because of this awareness, from a young age you realised you would have to do everything yourself. You wanted to grow up quickly and do your own things your own ways. It’s not like you had to grow up fast, you wanted to grow up fast to have your freedom and power! It was…hard to trust adults. It was hard to trust the world at large.

growing pains (pertaining to 8th House) – 8 of Pentacles

On the path of growing up, I think you became a hard worker of sort? This is very nuanced though—there are layers to your developing yourself to become a hardworking person. In many ways, you grew up responsible because you didn’t want to become like the adults who had disappointed you. But since this sense of ‘responsibility’ is a product of neglect and trauma…this is coming off as your feeling responsible for everything. Everything!

Some of you could’ve been too hard on yourself, expecting way too much for your age. You’ve felt like you’re always the one with everything to prove. It’s hard living like that. It feels like you’ve put so much effort into keeping everything together, and yet, nobody sees how much you care. Nobody truly understands the fear in your mind and pain you carry in your heart.

In matters of relationship, you cling extra hard to friends or lovers, too; because deep down you’re afraid of losing things and people, again and again. This unhealthy attachment—and to some extent, controlling behaviour—is truly your wounded inner child attempting frantically to keep your Reality from falling apart…

reclamation (pertaining to 11th House) – 4 of Cups

I’m very sure that at some point in Life, your Higher Self and team of Spirit Guides are going to kick in and meddle with your Earthly business. For some people, it’s possible you could lose contact with everybody you’ve ever known in Life and go into a hermit mode to find yourself again. For some, it could be that your whole Life is simply flipped, without necessarily losing key people in your Life, for you to look at Life and human connections from a very different point of view.

It’s going to be hard, of course. Emotionally, it could be devastating. Themes of abandonment and betrayal are big in your incarnation. But you know, ultimately, all of these challenges serve to remind you that the Cup of Love and Affection you’ve been looking for has always been right inside of you. You’ve had a bitter time with a lot of people because deep down you couldn’t trust them. You couldn’t trust other people’s loyalty because you didn’t even believe that you’re worthy of that Love and Loyalty you yearn for.

Your Spirit Guides are saying, that although at some point in Life things are going to get really tough, know that when you’ve graduated those lessons, you’re going to be rewarded with the most beautiful Soulmate-shit friendships, familyship and relationship. Truth be told, part of your Soul’s scenario in this incarnation is to find your Soul Tribe; and find your Tribe you shall~

A L O N E🔻💗

ALL of you – Red Alchemist (John Dee)

becoming ONE and whole – Priestess of Healing

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☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Misled by My Own Compassion

VIBE: Cry Me A River by Julie London

lost pieces (pertaining to 4th House) – Knight of Cups

It’s very likely your 4th House is in a Water sign, but if not, you’re still very much a Water-y person; perhaps your Ascendant or Moon is in a Water sign, or that you have Neptune/Moon near/in your 4th, 7th or 11th House. All of this generally makes you a deeply compassionate person. No matter what outer appearances give, you strive to look deeper into a person’s Soul. You have so much empathy and you want to believe in the good of people.

Alas! This rotten world doesn’t make it too easy. This world is not a world where kindness and compassion are truly rewarded, if we don’t learn to be a tad cruel ourselves. You’re not in the wrong for being so genuinely good and compassionate; it’s this world that’s the wrong world. You know that? Therefore, it is paramount you learn to be a bitchilante! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In spite of this PAC’s intro, I sense the majority of you tuning into this Pile actually grew up quite well. Many of you actually grew up in loving homes and that’s why it’s been quite challenging for you to grapple with the realness of the ugliness of the world outside of your loving home. Really…people in the real world…are monsters! And you were taken aback!

But some of you instead most likely grew up in chaotic, battlefield-esque homes and that’s why you’ve striven to be so good to a point of detriment.

growing pains (pertaining to 8th House) – 0 The Fool Rx

Be that as it may, you being you… Well, you do put in the effort to try and understand what makes monsters the way that they are, right? It’s all good and wonderful, until you get yourself in deep trouble where nobody can save you but your own monstrosity. Depending on your age when reading this, this could be something that’s happened in the past or will happen; where you will be forced to grow up in the sense of seeing the world as it is and get firm with assholes!

Dr Jordan Peterson has this gold shit to summarise this spiritual lesson you will be taking at some point in Life: ‘You should be a monster, an absolute monster, and then you should learn to control it.’ Well, that’s male speech. In female speech, we just say: ‘you gotta grow up and be a bitchilante!’

Be a bitch only to those who deserve it. How would you protect yourself from monsters if you don’t have the strength to fight them at their own game, darling? If you’re harmless, weak as a fawn, if anything, the real monsters in the world are going to toy with your sanity: ‘I saw my “crazy” side once and decided I wouldn’t be involved with anyone that would take me out of my peace like that ever again.’

Be a bitchilante. That whole concept of ‘good, harmless, love and light, positivity-only’ bullshit was put out there not to really make you good but to weaken you against the truly monstrous ones. WAKE UP, BITCH!

reclamation (pertaining to 11th House) – 4 of Pentacles

So? So what if you’re selective with your affection? Not everybody deserves your compassion. That’s for sure. There are many people in the world and you can’t be nice to all of them. One at point or another, you’re gonna be a villain in someone’s story—so what? Everybody else is the main character of their own Stories; that, you can’t control.

Be careful that you’re not falling victim to your own narcissism in wanting to be praised in everybody’s Story, yeah? So then, pertaining to your 11th House, weirdly enough, your wish fulfilment is in the form of a psychological liberation from your own idea of yourself in the minds of others. I sense that if you’re East Asian this is gonna resonate much harder and louder LOL

Anyway, I want to assure you that once you’ve graduated from your spiritual lessons, you will be met with unique, courageous, rebellious weirdos who will be just as clear as you are about what it truly means to be a good person in a world that’s often very bad. How good should a person be to truly be considered a good person?

‘If I offended you, cry me a river. I’ll bring snacks and a raft. I will literally float down your tears eating chips and working on my tan.’ – Fuckology

A L O N E🔻💚

ALL of you – Green Geographer (Gerardus Mercator)

becoming ONE and whole – Priestess of Success

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Lights Out; I’m Out to Find Myself

VIBE: To. X by Taeyeon

lost pieces (pertaining to 4th House) – Ace of Cups Rx

I’ve to preface this Pile by saying this the pile that gets a little violent…

You were originally such a positive, happy-go-lucky kid, but quite early on, this world gave you so much darkness. So many reasons to be sad. It’s not been a very kind life, to be honest. Defo many of you have tragical placements here—your 4th or 5th House could start or end in Scorpio; have Lilith/Pluto/Chiron/Saturn there or in the sign of Cancer/Pisces; or it could be that your Venus/Moon is imprisoned in the 8th or 12th House and harshly aspected, too...

If your childhood has been violent or mightily confusing, it’s a group thing, OK? You can think like that. It’s not your fault. Know that practically everybody who has these harsh placements has gone through very similar things as you. So you’re really not the only one who’s failing—whatever that means. You’ve been gaslit a lot into believing there’s something wrong with you, but it was your environment that was just filled with totally terrible Human beings. That much I’d like to assure you.

It wasn’t natural how you were abused psychologically and emotionally. The people around you drew a parallel to Cinderella’s stepsisters in the Disney classic. It’s ridiculous like that. I think you grew up terribly lonely and created comfort characters in your head to console your sorrows? It’s very likely that your comfort characters were in actuality a mirror fragment of your Soul Family’s existence locked in your memory bank.

growing pains (pertaining to 8th House) – XIV Temperance Rx

Life, unfortunately, isn’t a Disney movie. As a result of the psychological and emotional abuse you’ve endured in childhood, your friendships and relationships might’ve been quite turbulent, at times even violent. Juuust a small number of you could’ve dealt with being called a violent kid, or you could’ve struggled with anger management and have terrible tantrums. All of these have made human connections quite difficult to navigate.

It’s not like you want to be a nasty person, right? Many times, you couldn’t help the way you react/respond to what’s being said and unsaid because, somehow, there are many things that people do and say that trigger a trauma response in you. There’s a very difficult Mars thingy going on here. I think many of you resonating with this Pile have some difficult Mars (ruler of Scorpio) placements/aspects that affect the way you manifest human connections in your Life.

Speaking in terms of synastry, it could be that you’ve attracted a great deal of people whose Mars aspected badly in your natal chart—consequently triggering bad traumas and manifesting violent outbursts in your connections. Ultimately though, these negative experiences with other people could’ve enforced your belief about how unlovable you are, which, really, is a false belief…

reclamation (pertaining to 11th House) – 5 of Wands

It is a false Reality that you’re unlovable or unworthy of a healthy relationship. That bullshit was implanted in you through the creation of a harsh environment that caused you a great deal of rage. Of course, you’re accountable for how you behave towards other people, but your foundation was never quite healthy or peaceful or harmonious, so… How about we put it all behind us and focus on healing? After all, it’s not like the people you’ve had a beef with were completely innocent? XP

It's kinda selfish to think like that, but you can depend on your own discernment to distinguish who amongst the people you’ve hurt or had a beef with to apologise to. Remember: sometimes apologies only make you weaker and looking at the unique bullshit astrological placements you were born with… apologising to the wrong fucker would only get you gaslit even more! So, don’t. Don’t apologise for the distress you experienced under other people’s lack of support.

Burn that bridge and detach yourself from that old stinking world. With your sheer willpower, you have it in you to rebuild your own little world of love and peace. After all, those harsh placements you were born with, are you aware of just how much power they bestow you? These placements come with a lot of turbulences but once you graduate your first Saturn Return, they also give you a burst of power unlike any other!

Lights out. Not entertaining aenergies that seek to nip your power at the bud anymore. Burn, baby, burn strong! Burn the whole Tower and find yourself on new lands~!

A L O N E🔻💜

ALL of you – Gold Alchemist (Roger Bacon)

becoming ONE and whole – Priestess of Solitude

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

[borninwinter81]

William Blake - an introduction for Good Omens fans

I have sent @neil-gaiman an ask regarding his feelings toward the poet/artist William Blake a couple of times, but no doubt due to the size of the poor man's inbox I haven't received a response. So I did a Google search to see if he's spoken about Blake before, and it did indeed come up with a fair few hits. I think you might enjoy seeing this Twitter post if you haven't already, the painting is from William Blake's illustrations to Paradise Lost.

It's not surprising that an author like Neil Gaiman might have an interest in Blake. A visionary from a young age, his imagination was such that he was surrounded by angels made visible in his mind's eye, and he interpreted these visions through poetry, painting and engraving, and self-printed and published many of his own works. This gave him complete freedom to say exactly what he wanted.

Though he had a passionate faith in God, he also had a deep distrust of the church as an institution, and disliked the use of religion as a means of control. This poem from "Songs of Experience" perhaps summarises his feelings best:

"I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires."

In his poetry there is often an incongruity with the generally accepted religious ideas of what is good and evil, Angel and Demon. In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (there's a title that should make any GO fan sit up and pay attention) he tells us that "in the book of Job, Milton's Messiah is called Satan", signifying that he feels it is Lucifer/the devil who is the true Messiah of Paradise Lost.

He gives us The Voice of the Devil and Proverbs of Hell, and has Angels being transformed into Demons through enlightenment. He tells us that Jesus broke all of the 10 commandments, yet was still virtuous because he acted according to his own morality rather than rules.

The god-figure of his later works, Urizen, generally comes across as malevolent, seeking to bind and control, whilst Los, the Satan/Messiah figure represents freedom, imagination and creativity.

"Restraining desire" and acting contrary to your own nature seem to be the only real evils for Blake.

He expressed his faith through a love of the world and the beauty in it, summed up in this quote:

"When the Sun rises do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea? O no no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty".

He saw "God" in everything, in all the wonders we have around us, and considered writers/poets and religious prophets as essentially the same, since they both have a connection to the divine, and express it through stories.

It's quite ironic that probably his most famous poem, Jerusalem (the one that starts "and did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green"), was made into a very popular church hymn, yet it is supposed to be satirical in nature. The poem recounts the myth that Jesus may have visited England in his boyhood, and Blake is expressing his disbelief at that notion and the unworthiness of England.

Did I have a point to all this? Mostly to show my hand as a massive Blake nerd, but also to hopefully demonstrate that there's a lot of common ground between his ideas and those expressed in a show/book like Good Omens, and hopefully to inspire some of you who may not be familiar with Blake to seek him out. In particular I'd recommend The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to any and all.

EDIT: I should have thought to include this, here's Michael Sheen reading a Blake poem. I have the CD this is from, he reads several by Blake, as well as other poets I love ❤️ 😍

[judesmoonbeauty]

𝕁𝕦𝕕𝕖 𝕁𝕒𝕫𝕫𝕒'𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪: ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟙𝟞 + 𝕃𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣

This is a fan translation only. Please expect grammatical errors and translation inaccuracies. This is a full translation. Creative liberties are taken for characterization and smoother translation process. Cybird owns everything. Re-blogs are appreciated, but please do not post my translation elsewhere. Thank you for your support! ☾.

Jude: Haven’t forgotten yer promise, have ya?

The muttered words spilled from his lips with a thin smile, and my skin burned hot.

Kate: If anything happens, I’ll call your name, right?

Jude: Not that. The one ya brought up.

(Oh…..)

[Flashback]

Kate: Jude…..I promise you.

Kate: I will never die before you.

[Flashback]

—It was a heartfelt promise I made to Jude.

Kate: I definitely won’t die.

Kate: If I break my promise, you can come after me in hell and get revenge.

Looking straight into Jude’s eyes, I tell him my honest feelings.

Jude: Kinda damned masochist are ya, wantin’ to be tortured after ya die. Are ya some perv with weird tastes?

Kate: I’m not a masochist or a pervert with weird tastes, but a woman who doesn’t break her promises.

Lit. a woman/man who doesn’t have two words. This is an old proverb Kate is using.

Jude: Don’t want yer naive hogwash ‘bout bein’ in love. But…..

Jude: Yer bein’ gutsy, ain’t so bad after all.

Kate: ……..

The words he spoke so bluntly were also exuding something very similar to kindness.

(Even though he pushes me away, he still worries about my life.)

That's the kind of person Jude is.

(I had no idea what he was thinking before, but...)

Now, I have come to understand so much more about the heart that hides behind his cruel and ruthless behavior.

(So much so, that I find it endearing….)

My heart tightens as I think of Jude.

Kate: Jude.

Jude: What?

(What I’m about to say, will likely torment him again.)

(However��)

Kate: You said that love’s a curse, right?

Kate: So, what I'm about to tell you, may become a curse to you.

Kate: It might just end up being something that torments you.

—Curses and love are one in the same.

Everything in this life is like a thorn pricking and causing him pain.

Kate: I understand that—

Jude: If ya get it th—

Kate: But still…

Interrupting him, I grabbed Jude by his hand to keep him connected.

Kate: I don’t want you to give up either.

Kate: I want you to keep shouting at the moon forever.

My voice trembles with my selfish thoughts.

(Here it goes….)

Kate: Even if it pains you.

Jude: ………..

As I stared at him with unwavering determination, Jude's gaze took on a sharp sword-like glint.

Jude: D’ya even know what yer sayin’?

Kate: Of course I do.

Kate: I love you.

Kate: …..Because really, all I can think of is you.

I can confidently say that the thing that shines brightest in my heart, is my feelings for Jude.

(I will do whatever it takes to keep you in this world.)

Jude: …..Are ya daft?

Kate: I don’t care if I’m daft or not. So, just…..

Ellis’ Voice: Jude, Kate.

(Oh….)

Jude: ……Yeah, comin’.

Jude takes his hand off the wall, and shakes my hand away.

The figure that had covered the moonlight disappeared, and feeling heartbroken and lost, I quietly grasp my hands.

The specified meeting place was the laboratory.

Stepping into the dark room with Jude and Ellis, a hand stops me abruptly—

Kate: ……!

I restrained my voice that tried to rise.

All I could see was a blood soaked man sitting in a chair.

Ellis moved closer and gently touched his neck.

Ellis: …..There’s no pulse.

Jude: It’s that git……

Kate: Do you recognize him?

Jude: He’s the crime exec I’m s’pposed to meet today.

(What—)

Ellis: Someone killed the man you were supposed to meet up with?

Jude: …..Tch, s’that’s their play.

At that moment, the sound of multiple footsteps was heard from behind.

???: Don’t move, hands in the air….!

We were immediately surrounded by armed men.

The man at the front — with his shining, blond slicked-back hair, and muscular physique, stepped forward before us.

Then with his hands clasped behind his back, he spoke loudly.

Senior Officer Gilbert: We are the British Army. I am Senior British Army officer, Gilbert Murphy.

He is likely a general or a field officer during this time period, but I chose to title him Senior Officer since it's not specified.

Senior Officer Gilbert: You are charged of conspiring with a criminal organization to develop and smuggle missiles.

Senior Officer Gilbert: Jude Jazza, member of Her Majesty the Queen’s private army, Crown, you are hereby under arrest.

Jude: ………..

The military officer lifts his chin slightly, and several soldiers detain Jude.

(Jude!)

As I was about to run over, Jude's sharp gaze stopped me.

Jude: ………

Then he silently mouthed with his lips, “keep quiet.”

Ellis: Jude.

Jude: Ellis, don’t do nothin’.

Jude then stops Ellis, who is about to use his cursed ability.

Allowing himself to be tied up, as Ellis and I watch helplessly.

Kate: Why the British Army?!

Ellis: …..He was probably set-up.

Ellis spoke in a hushed voice.

(A setup…..?)

We were acting on the basis that the crime group was working with the British Army.

However, the British officer named Gilbert, said that it’s Jude and the criminal group who are conspiring to commit crimes.

Additionally, there’s the executive of the syndicate dying in front of us.

(And there’s something else that bothers me.)

The existence of Crown is a top secret that only a few people know about.

And yet, this British military officer just mentioned Crown.

(So, besides the syndicate and the British Army, a third party is call the shots?)

My heart makes a terrible sound.

(……Calm down. Think, who definitely knows of Crown’s existence?)

Her Majesty, Crown, me, as the Fairytale Keeper, and—

What came to me was a memory from when I had just become the fairytale keeper.

[Flashback]

Kate: Victor, who are the Privy Council?

I was being shown some of the reports that had been written by Crown members up to that date.

I found an account that caught my attention and asked Victor about it….

Victor: The official name is 'Her Majesty's Most Honorable Privy Council.'

Victor: Well, in short, they’re the higher-ups of the court, who have the privilege to give advice to Her Majesty.

Kate: They’re aware of Crown’s existence…..Does that mean they’re allies of Crown?

That’s when Victor made a complicated expression.

Victor: In a sense, we are essentially in a cooperative relationship, as we both serve Her Majesty.

Victor: However, the Privy Council is not pleased with the Crown. Kate, you should be wary of them.

[Flashback Ends]

(Seriously—)

Just as I held my breath, I heard footsteps...

Privy Councilman: You’ve captured Jude Jazza……Haha, well done!

A man in a suit appeared before us.

Ellis: That badge on his chest...it's the Privy Council’s.

(That man’s from the Privy Council......)

Jude: The hell’s a big wig from the palace doin’ in a place like this?

Privy Councilman: I discovered a certain fact related to your research.

Privy Councilman: That you Crown people are going to start a war against Britain’s allies.

Jude: …………

Privy Councilman: And then you’ll sell them the weapons that you’ve researched and developed yourself…..isn’t it an outrageous ploy?

Privy Councilman: It’s a most despicable act of treason, not only against Her Majesty the Queen, but against the British people here in England.

Although it was a brief, I have spent a lot of time with Crown on a daily basis, so it didn’t take me long to grasp the situation.

(The criminal group and Britain did make contact.)

In that sense, Nica’s information wasn’t wrong.

However, the contact wasn’t for the purpose of working together.

(It was to frame Jude.)

This whole scheme was planned and orchestrated by the Privy Council.

All so the Privy Council can destroy the Crown—

Jude's research is the perfect bomb to expose Crown as an evil entity and crush it on its head, by winning over public sentiment.

The moment that thought occurred to me.…..my hands started shaking with frustration.

(I can’t believe the desire to fulfill his promise to his sister is being treated like this….)

(What should I do?)

(What can I do in this situation….)

Senior Officer Gilbert: What about this other man? I see that he's on the Crown register.

Privy Councilman: Speak to him as a suspect. However, don’t use violence or do anything that could put us at a disadvantage.

Privy Councilman: Jude Jazza fell into my hands.

Privy Councilman: Crown will soon be forced to dismantle any way.

Privy Councilman: Ohhh……it’s repulsive that these wicked deviants serve Her Majesty!

(…...Just like I thought. The Pricy Council wants to dissolve Crown.)

(I have to do something.)

However, one wrong move and it could lead to Crown’s demise.

As I frantically racked my brains trying to think of a way to resolve this situation...

Senior Officer Gilbert: Who is this girl?

An intimidating gaze was directed at me—

A Note Scribbled Next to A Document

…..Kate likes me. Whadda rotten joke. Ain’t her fault that she feels that way. It’s my fault fer thinkin’ there was nothin’ wrong with lettin’ her in. I was complicit, just as guilty — After this, I'm goin' to hell. Doesn’t suit a carefree princess at all. …..Ain’t the least bit funny. 𝒥𝓊𝒹ℯ 𝒥𝒶𝓏𝓏𝒶

[Main Story Master List] [Chapter 17]

Tag list: @sh0jun @theimaginativelyreticent @sapphire-323 @velisle @nateko @greatwitchsongsinger @injudescoat @aeyumicore @complexivelovely @yuoi-the-magnificent @husbandosandladders @nawlink @justgiulia @vickietickie @greedyqueensfavourite @sharigax @belphiesleftpinkytoe @reimy1164 @barellorkilaam @cosmowgyral @lunaaka @rosalyne08 @8the-perfect-lie8 @voydsoul @goustmilk @kraiyne @midnightsrunaway

T/L Note: For the line in the letter, "I was complicit, just as guilty — After this, I'm going' to hell." This line does not include any personal pronouns and/or possessive particles. It literally translates like this: "Complicit/Accomplice, equal guilt.....-after this, going to hell". So, I am assuming based on context that Jude is referring to himself. However, Jude could also be referring Kate and her outcome due to loving him.

If you wish to be added (and 18+ YO), or removed from my translations tag list, please let me know!

[uyinq]

the weight of wanting ☆ owen taylor

part 2 — when the light flickers

[owen taylor x AFAB! reader] [somewhat slow burn] [religious trauma if you squint] [guilt] [shame] [yearning] [misty doesn't exist] [canon divergence]

❱❱ WORD COUNT﹕3,573

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

You’re the new girl at Holy Grace; you're quiet, strange, and eerie in ways that no one can quite explain. You don't wear provocative clothing. You're not a flirt. However, the questions you pose about damnation, free will, and what it means to desire something so strongly that God doesn't seem to matter are the kind that stick in Owen's head long after they are said.

He believes you need guidance. Yet every time he tries to lead you back to righteousness, he walks away more uncertain of his own.

❱❱ WARNINGS﹕profanity, heavy religious themes, religious trauma, guilt, shame, smut!!, spitting kink, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p in v, creampie, petnames (angel + baby), uhh what else, idk i'm really bad at writing smut

❱❱ NOTES﹕ Small disclaimer!!!

This is a work of fiction based on The Starling Girl. I fully recognize that Owen Taylor is a groomer and an abusive figure in the film. I am not aiming to romanticize or excuse his actions. This fanfiction exists in an alternate context, reimagining Owen as a different character outside the film’s canon. 

Grooming in religious communities often goes unpunished. And if someone is punished, it’s usually the victim. If someone ever exploits your beliefs for their benefit, you have every right to leave and to call them out on it. 

Please keep that in mind, and feel free to scroll past if Owen Taylor as a character disturbs or discomforts you.

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ parts ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - @pearlstiare @marvelenthuisiast

Owen can’t focus.

He shifts his weight on the splintered log he’s sat upon, the wood digging into his khakis as he quietly clears his throat. He’s supposed to be listening to the youth group reading from Proverbs. The words sound like a foreign language when he’s like this. They sound heavy, like guttural noises instead of English. 

He hasn’t even looked at you. Not since you sat down and the fire cast a warm glow upon your pretty face. 

The breeze picks up, and the pages of his Bible flicker a bit, like they’re trying to draw him back in. He’s not even on the right page, for God’s sake. 

He nods like he’s listening, muttering a quiet “Amen” at scripture that’s ringing hollow in his chest.

Because all he can think about is you. And how he’d rather be worshipping you at this very moment. 

It feels like he should be automatically transported to Hell just for thinking it. 

He finally moves past it. He’s back in the moment, knee bouncing as he follows along the lines of the oh-so familiar scripture. He’s heard it a million times, read it a million times. But he forgets about the next line.

“Do not desire her beauty in your heart, nor be drawn by her eyelids–”

Shit.

“Alright,” Owen suddenly grits out, clapping his hands once, a bit too loudly. “That’s probably enough for tonight, huh?”

A few kids look up, surprised. It’s earlier than usual.

He plasters on a smile, all tight corners and smile lines with no warmth behind them, as he moves to his feet and snaps his Bible shut. 

“Rain’s supposed to roll in soon anyway, and I think we’ve all earned an early night.” He gestures toward the fire. “Good job tonight. Y’all were focused. That’s what matters.”

He tries to distract himself with mundane tasks like picking up trash and rolling up the bag of half-eaten marshmallows. He waits and makes sure the fire pit is out and not at risk of burning down the woods surrounding the church.

The last of the group begins to trickle toward the parking lot, the distant rumble of thunder finally starting to roll in, low and slow. The wind’s picking up now, and a few cold drops hit the back of Owen’s neck as he turns toward the building.

Then he hears it.

The low sputter of an engine trying– and failing– to turn over.

You should’ve known your car wouldn’t start.

It sputters once, coughs like an old man clearing his throat, then falls silent. You try again. Nothing. Just the hollow click of failure.

You lean your forehead against the steering wheel, closing your eyes.

Of course, this would happen tonight– after a bible study bonfire that ran late, after too many polite conversations and charcoal black smores. After Owen spent the last hour not looking at you like he wasn’t thinking about the last time he almost touched your skin.

There’s a soft tap at your window.

You look up to see him, squinting through the glass with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Need a ride?” he asks through a crooked smile.

You hesitate for just a second before you nod.

The ride to your house is silent, aside from the very faint sound of the radio and Owen’s hands gripping the leather of his steering wheel a little too hard. 

He clears his throat halfway through the drive, catching your half-asleep attention.

“Did you come up with any new questions tonight?” 

You smile faintly, tilting your head toward the window. “I had one.”

Owen glances over. “Yeah?”

You nod.

 “M’just wondering when you’re going to admit it.”

His jaw tightens. “Admit what?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

The rain gets progressively worse throughout the drive. It feels like the storm that’s been brewing in his mind for weeks– getting more and more unpredictable the longer it goes on. 

When you finally wind up at your house, it’s pouring. Thunder is rumbling, and you can’t even begin to see out the windshield. 

Owen gives you a look. You give him one back.

“I can make a run for it,”  You offer, with a little shrug.

“I have to walk you to your door.” 

His brows furrow, like part of him doesn’t agree with that statement. 

You’re both moving without thinking, slinging your doors open and slamming them shut as you run to your front porch. You squeal, and he bursts into laughter like it's the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

You get to the porch first, sundress soaking wet and sticking to your skin. Owen follows shortly after, trips on your rug, and slams into the side of your house. 

You’d ask him if he’s alright if you weren’t busy laughing so hard that you’re crying.

Owen lets out a muffled groan, leaning back against the siding as he places his hands on his knees and steadies himself.

You reach out and lightly hit his arm– a habit that comes out when you’re sent into a fit of giggles.

Both of your chests are heaving as you gasp for air and laugh between exhales. Every time you calm down, you start back up again. It makes him… happy.

“Are you– you… Okay? Are you okay, Owen?” You finally manage to ask.

He huffs out a breathless laugh, wiping the water from his eyes. “You gotta get a new rug,” he says, voice rough and amused.

He pushes his hair back from his face, blinking up at you through the rainwater still dripping from his lashes. “Trying to take me out before I even get to your front door.”

You laugh again, quieter this time. There’s something different about it now– something softer, breathier. Owen notices. Of course he does.

You’re both still catching your breath, both drenched to the bone, both standing much too close. He sees the way your dress clings to your skin, sees the raindrops sliding down your collarbone. He tells himself not to look, but his eyes betray him.

“I’ll write you a sermon about it,” you say, your voice gentler now. “Thou shalt not trip over wet porch rugs.” 

The mocking tone in your voice is what makes him chuckle, low and quiet. 

Another crack of thunder rolls in the distance. You should go inside. He should say goodnight. But neither of you move.

You look up at him, a soft breath escaping your lungs without permission. You reach up without thinking, brushing a piece of wet hair off his forehead.

Owen’s eyes flicker shut, like avoiding your gaze will make it easier to ignore his desires. To push down temptation and save it for another day.

“Damnit,”  He whispers under his breath, before he leans in to kiss you, soft and unsure of himself.

When he pulls away, your lips make the sweetest sound as they separate from his. It lingers in the space between you like a thread refusing to snap.

His breath his shaky, his gaze set on your face, trying to read your reaction. 

He’s waiting for the guilt of sin to set in. The shame that sends shivers down his spine every single time he looks at you for too long. But it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t feel it this time. 

Instead, he smiles, a laugh of disbelief escaping him, like he can’t believe he mustered up the courage to kiss you.

“You gonna do it again?” 

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it shakes him to his core. You’re not teasing him– You’re permitting him.

Not the kind of permission that goes hand-in-hand with consent. The kind of permission that comes with ownership. Possessiveness and claims. 

Owen’s been a man his whole life. And as far as his role as a Christian man goes, he’s supposed to command. He should probably take offense to the way you look at him half the damn time, like you’re the leader and he’s the follower. But he likes it.

So he leans in again, nose brushing your own as he kisses you a second time. 

This one is different. It’s not hesitant. It’s not unsure. It’s deep and claiming, and it comes from the part of him that’s tired of resisting.

He’s sure now.

Sure, that this was meant to happen. That God works in mysterious ways, and that he was supposed to sin before he found his salvation. That maybe grace doesn’t come to the clean, but to the desperate.

Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he lets you—let's you take the lead again, let's you teach him a new kind of prayer.

Salvation turns into surrender when you pull away long enough to open your front door. 

Surrender turns into corruption when you push him against the wall and kiss him like you’re suffocating to death, and he’s oxygen.

His hands are big, but careful on your waist, pulling you in but not too hard. Then you bite down on his lip hard enough to make him gasp, and all rational thought goes out the window. 

He grabs you harder now, calloused hands squeezing your hips as he kisses you harder than he’s ever kissed anyone else before.

You’re both soaking wet, water dripping off your clothes and onto your clean hardwood floors as you gasp and groan into each other’s mouths.

He spins you around before he can think about it, hand resting on the back of your head to prevent it from slamming into the wall. He’d apologize if he wasn’t so focused.

His kisses move away from your mouth, starting at your jaw and trailing down your neck. He’s not even conscious of what he’s doing as he sinks lower, lower, then lower. Then he’s kneeling. 

His kisses move down your throat, your collarbone, kissing the middle of your chest through your dress until he’s level with your stomach.

He glances up at you– not for permission or consent. But for you to assure him that he’s doing what you want him to do. 

You nod once, still catching your breath as you reach down and push his hair back with one pretty hand. 

He continues to mouth at your stomach, one hand wrapping around your calf while the other finds your shoe. He slips one off, then the other.

He lets out a ragged breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he presses his forehead against your abdomen. 

The soft thud of your shoes hitting the floor is barely audible over the sound of the rain still hammering the roof. The storm hasn’t let up, and neither has he.

His hands trail up your thighs now, fingers ghosting along the back of them as if he’s memorizing the way they fit into his hands. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,”  He rasps quietly.

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you tilt his chin up with your hand and say, firm and quiet, “Don’t make me ask for it.”

It unravels something in him.

He doesn’t answer. Just grips your hips like a man possessed and leans in, letting devotion take the shape of his mouth as he dives underneath the hem of your dress.

He mouths at you through your panties, a wicked smile spreading across his lips as you shudder. He could do this all night– just suck and kiss at your clothed heat for hours.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches up, yanking your panties off with one rough finger. His mouth doesn’t pause. He doesn’t stop and gaze upon you to appreciate your form or the way you’re already dripping for him. 

His worship is shown through the way he immediately latches onto you with his lips, rough kisses and licks along your slit and your hood.

You squirm and he responds, balling up the hem of your dress and pinning it to your hip. Just so you can see him– just so you can see what you do to him. 

The sounds he makes, the way he looks, the whole scene is completely and utterly… filthy.

You suddenly grab his hair and yank him back, palm pressing down on his forehead as he cranes his neck to look up at you. He fucking whines.

“Open your mouth.”

He’s confused. But he doesn’t show it. He listens, opening his mouth with a soft exhale through his nose.

Your hand moves from his hair to his jaw, opening it just a little wider. Your thumb presses down on his tongue and then–

You spit in his mouth. 

“Fuck…”He hisses, eyes falling shut as he tries to decide whether or not he should laugh or groan. 

He realizes all at once– He was never in control. He was never going to fix you or make you some saint. 

You were always going to ruin him. 

And he wants you to.

You pull him back toward you, and he latches onto you like a magnet, lips wrapping around your clit so that he can suckle on it. He’s not even looking at you. He’s in the moment, eyes closed as he licks, sucks, and kisses at your mound. 

When he suddenly slips a finger inside, you jolt, and he grins evilly. Sneaky little bastard.

He finally looks up at you when your knees start to buckle, and you whine enough to grab his attention. He moves one of your legs over his shoulder, steadying you and pulling you closer with a rough hand. 

He curls his finger, and you moan.

He decides he needs to hear that sound once a day from this point forward.

Owen’s never been a giver. He’s always taken, preferring to be on the receiving end of things like head. But it feels different with you– like he wouldn’t want you to scuff up your pretty knees or gag too hard on him. 

He had no intentions of making you come when he got on his knees– he was just trying to get you ready. 

But suddenly, he’s eating you like a man starved, adding a second finger just to hear you whimper. He finds that gushy spot that makes your eyes roll back and he laughs– the sound rumbling and electric against your cunt.

“Owen–” 

You sputter, but he doesn’t let up. 

And when you come? He keeps going, holding you up with his hands as he continues to lick and suck at you until you’re pushing him away weakly.

He stands up after a moment, hands on your hips as he pulls you into his arms. He lifts you carefully, kissing your neck while your head lolls onto his shoulder. He makes sure your legs are around him and you’re secure before he starts walking.

“Where’s your room?”  He asks between gentle kisses, one of his hands gently rubbing your shoulder blade to bring you back to Earth.

“First room on the left.”  You grumble out, and it’s enough to make him chuckle again. 

You barely register your back hitting the bed when he finds your room. You make out the sound of him fiddling with his belt, before he’s patting you on the cheek.

“Still with me?” 

You nod once, and he snickers.

“Need some verbal confirmation.” 

“M’fine.”  You manage to say, still catching your breath from your first orgasm. Your vision starts to focus again, and you glance down, very aware of the way he’s holding his cock in one hand.

“Jesus Christ, Owen.” 

“Don’t bring him up right now.” 

You sit up slowly, laughing breathily at his joke that isn’t a joke. You reach out, hand hovering over his own. You glance up for permission, and he nods once.

You run your thumb over his tip, gleaming at the way he shudders and lets out a soft grunt at the sensation. He moves his hand out of the way so you can stroke him a few times. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth while your hand works on him.

“Can I… Mnh… Have you now?” 

The words seem to have stronger implications than this moment. 

You run your free hand over his chest, which was once covered by the shirt that mysteriously disappeared between your front door and your bedroom. You smile, dragging him into another deep kiss.

“You could’ve had me ages ago.”

He’s on you like bees on sweet after that, kissing you harder as he presses you back against your mattress. He pulls your dress off of you, sliding it off your shoulders and down your hips with a little help from you.

He finds your gaze as he lines himself up with your entrance, triple checking that this is what you want before he sinks inside– slowly.

He’s a fair length, enough to reach those spots that’ll make you see stars. But the most impressive thing about him is how thick he is– thick enough to make you let out a little “oh!” when he starts to push in. 

You cling to him, and he clings right back, pressing soft kisses to your cheek to keep you in the moment.

“S’okay, almost there. Just hold on…” 

When he finally bottoms out, you groan in unison, loud enough to make each other laugh. 

There’s a beat where you both pause and take each other in, and Owen smiles. Not that crooked smile he wears when he’s being a tease or a flirt, not that smile he wears when someone pats him on the back at church or tells him how good of a youth pastor he is.

A real smile. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

He hides his face against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your skin as he starts to move. It’s gentle– it’s slow. Something you weren’t expecting from a man like him.

When he finally gets you to moan softly, he smiles again, reaching down to hook one of your legs over his hip. He starts to move a little faster, tilting his hips and pushing in different ways to see what makes you make the most sound.

You whine when he thrusts a little deeper, and he chuckles– sucking a spot into your neck when your nails dig into his back.

“Right there?” He whispers, and you nod twice, a little too enthusiastically for your liking. 

He hits the same spot again, and again, and again– until you’re squirming and panting.

Then he speeds up, low grunts and groans tumbling from his lips as he whispers soft praises into your skin.

“S’good… so good… It’s okay, angel… doing s’good…” 

When you start to get quiet again, biting down on your lip to muffle your moans, he reaches down inbetween you to find your clit.

“Mnh..”  

He fights back a chuckle as he starts to rub you in tight circles, enjoying the way you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into another deep kiss.

“C-close.”  You whisper, and he groans against your lips. He makes a point to press his forehead against your shoulder, puffing out rough huffs and desperate sounds as he starts to thrust harder again.

You would cringe at the sound of skin on skin echoing in your room if it didn’t feel so good. 

Five more quick thrusts and you're coming on his cock like there’s no tomorrow. You clench, and he gasps, his fingertips digging into your thigh as he bites down on your shoulder.

“Fuck, baby–”  He starts to pull out completely and you whine at him, yanking him loser as you chase the remainder of your high. His hips start to stutter, and before he knows it, he’s spilling into you without much control. 

He groans loudly near your ear, melting into you as you both pant and ride out the rest of your orgasms. 

After a few minutes, he lets out a soft huff against your chest.

“Please tell me you’re on birth control.” You laugh at the grumble, reaching down to card your fingers through his hair.

“We’re fine.”  You whisper, and he deflates even more with relief. 

Owen presses a soft kiss to the center of your chest, sitting up with a sound of discomfort as he starts to pull out. You whine in return, and he shushes you with a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Owen, don’t make a mess, please…”  

He’s laughing before he can help it, grabbing his underwear off the edge of the bed and using them to gently wipe the cum that’s leaking out of you.

“Sorry, sorry…” 

He whispers, balling up his underwear and tossing them toward the corner of your room. He lies back down on top of you once he’s done, cupping your cheek as he pulls you into a soft kiss. Several more follow, and he doesn’t stop until you swat him off your mouth. 

You both bask in the afterglow for a while, sharing gentle pecks and praises as you snuggle up and drift off here and there. Your room feels warmer than it usually does, like Owen has brought something a lot more stable and comforting into your home. 

After a while, Owen speaks again.

“Can I take you on a date?” He whispers so quietly, you almost miss it. 

You glance down at where he’s got his face smushed against your stomach, and you laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can.” 

And he smiles.

[gemsofgreece]

Origins of Modern Greek folk sayings

NOTE: By "origins" here I do not mean absolute exact origin as this would be impossible to know. It rather signifies the likely first documented usage of the saying in the Greek literary heritage.

Ένα χελιδόνι (ή ένας κούκος) δεν φέρνει την άνοιξη. Meaning: A single swallow (or a single cuckoo) does not bring the spring. This is where the english idiom "one swallow does not a summer make" come from as well. Origin: Μία χελιδὼν ἔαρ οὐ ποιεἶ ( A single swallow does not create the spring) - Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle (384 - 322 BC). Aristotle said this phrase inspired by one of Aesop's tales (620 - 564 BC).

Το ένα χέρι νίβει το άλλο. Meaning: Each hand washes the other. It exists in English as well as in other languages, spread through Latin "Manus manam lavat". Origin: ἁ δὲ χεὶρ τὰν χεῖρα νίζει - Epicharmus, 5th century BC.

Ό,τι σπείρεις θα θερίσεις. Meaning: You will reap what you sow. Widespread proverb. Origin: Εί κακά τις σπείραι κακά κέρδια αμήσειν (If one sows bad things, he will reap bad things) - Hesiod (~ 750 - 650 BC).

Κάλλιο να σε ζηλεύουνε παρά να σε λυπούνται Meaning: It's better to be envied than to be pitied by others. Origin: κρέσσον γὰρ οἰκτιρμοῦ φθόνος (for envy is better than pity) - Pindar, (~ 518 –  438 BC).

Έπαθε και έμαθε Meaning: He suffered so he learned Origin: τὸν πάθει μάθος (the suffering becomes a lesson) - Aeschylus (~ 525 - 455 BC)

Μη με συγχίζεις Meaning: Don't confound me, meaning "don't make me upset" Origin: μή μοι σύγχει - Homer (8th century BC)

Μη με σκοτίζεις Meaning: "Don't put me in the dark" meaning "don't annoy / bother me" Origin: Αποσκότησον με ("Get me out of the dark" AKA the notorious "Don't hide the sun and gtfo" line) - Diogenes to Alexander the Great

βίος αβίωτος Meaning: "Unlivable life", unbearable life Origin: Ἀβίωτον ζῶμεν βίον (We live an unlivable life) - Philemon (362 BC – c. 262 BC)

Ἐχει και του πουλιού το γάλα Meaning: "It even has the bird's milk" meaning it has anything you can imagine Origin: δώσομεν ὑμῖν γάλα τ᾽ ὀρνίθων (We will give you even the milk of birds / hens) - Aristophanes (446 - 386 BC)

Άει στον κόρακα Meaning: Go to the crow, an equivalent of "go to hell" Origin: ἔρρʼ ἐς κόρακας! (go to the crows) - standard phrase, frequently used by Aristophanes

Κάθε αρχή και δύσκολη Meaning: Every beginning is also difficult Origin: Αρχή δήπου παντός έργου χαλεπωτέρα (the beginning of every project is the hardest) - ancient saying

Η αλήθεια είναι πικρή Meaning: Truth is bitter Origin: ἔχει τι πικρὸν ὁ τῆς ἀληθείας λόγος (there is something bitter in the words of truth) - Demades (380 - 318 BC)

Η αλήθεια δεν κρύβεται Meaning: Truth cannot be hidden Origin: Ἀδύνατον τ' ἀληθές λαθεῖν (It is impossible to hide the true thing) - Menander (342 - 291 BC)

Φοβάται και την σκιά του Meaning: He's even afraid of his shadow (used when someone is afraid all the time) Origin: τὴν αὐτοῦ σκιὰν δέδοικεν (he's afraid of his own shadow) - Aristophanes (446 - 386 BC)

Καμιά δουλειά δεν είναι ντροπή Meaning: No job is shameful Origin: Έργον δ' ουδέν όνειδος - Hesiod (~ 750 - 650 BC)

Χτίζεις στην άμμο Meaning: You build in the sand, meaning you're doing something pointless, that will be ruined or over very soon. Origin: Εἰς ψάμμον οἰκοδομεῖς - Plutarch (46 - 119 AD)

[unconventialsailormoon]

Don’t Wait for Me

Pairing - Erik Killmonger x reader

Warnings - Slow burn, enemies to reluctant allies to almost lovers, soft angst, cultural healing, yearning, forbidden tenderness

Summary - You were just supposed to teach him Wakandan, language, history, tradition. Not fall in love with the prince who swore to burn it all down.

You meet him on the third day of your new post.

The first two are filled with whispered warnings in palace halls.

“Keep your head down.”

“Speak only when spoken to.”

“He doesn’t want to be here.”

“He’s dangerous.”

You expect a storm.

You get a man in gold and leather, eyes so sharp they cut into your quiet like a blade. He doesn’t knock when he enters the study room, just pushes the door open with the back of his hand, saunters in like he owns it.

(Technically, he does.)

“Where’s the tutor?” he asks, already unimpressed.

You glance up from your table, brush a speck of dust from the Xhosa scrolls. “You’re looking at them.”

He scoffs. “You?”

You lift an eyebrow. “Yes. Me.”

He stares. You stare back.

A beat. A breath. A challenge.

“Fine,” he mutters, dropping into a seat. “Let’s get this over with.”

⸻

You try to keep the lessons clinical. Neutral.

But he keeps bleeding into everything.

His presence is oil in water, loud, slick, unignorable.

He stretches in his chair like he’s bored. Answers questions with a smirk. Dares you to snap.

He calls your pronunciation “cute.”

You call his Wakandan rusty and full of bullet holes.

You think he might actually like that.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?” he says one day, after you correct him for the third time. “Because you grew up here?”

“I think I’m better at grammar,” you reply, deadpan. “That’s why I’m the one teaching.”

That earns you a laugh.

You hate that it sounds like honey.

⸻

Still, he keeps showing up.

Once, he brings his own pen.

Another time, he repeats a proverb back to you, perfect tone, perfect structure.

You don’t praise him. He notices.

“You got somethin’ against me?” he asks after a particularly long pause.

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t have one, God knows you do.

But because the problem isn’t that you don’t like him.

It’s that you’re starting to.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about that.

⸻

One night, it rains.

Thick, silver sheets against the palace windows. You’re late to the lesson, soaked to the bone. You expect him to mock you.

He doesn’t.

Just looks up from the table and frowns.

“You walk here?” he asks.

You shrug. “I live off the edge of the grounds. It’s not far.”

He looks at you like it is. Like he knows what far feels like.

He tosses you a clean cloth from the back of a chair. “You’re drippin’ all over the scrolls, [Name]. Dry off.”

You blink. It’s the first time he’s ever said your name without sarcasm.

It lands different.

Soft. Sincere. Like maybe you’re not just a means to an end.

“…Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t reply. Just goes back to writing.

But when you glance down at his page, your breath catches.

It’s a proverb about home.

“A person without knowledge of their past is like a tree without roots.”

⸻

You don’t say anything the next day.

But you bring a book he hasn’t read yet.

You leave it on the desk without a word.

He pretends not to care.

(But the next time you enter, it’s bookmarked and underlined.)

⸻

It becomes routine.

Lessons, smirks, long silences.

Your fingers brush when you pass him ink.

He holds your gaze a little too long when you correct his cadence.

His accent softens. So do your walls.

Once, he calls you “uThandwa lwami.”

You flinch.

“You know what that means?” he asks, almost teasing.

You meet his eyes. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, N’Jadaka.”

He stiffens at the name. No one uses it.

No one dares.

But you do.

And he doesn’t tell you not to.

⸻

Then comes the garden.

It’s late. Past curfew. But you can’t sleep.

You find him under the moon, shirtless and scarred, sitting beneath the shade of a flowering baobab.

You mean to leave.

But he says your name again, quiet, like a song with no audience.

“…You ever hate this place?” he asks, not looking up. “Even a little?”

You sit beside him. The air hums with something thick and unspoken.

“No,” you say truthfully. “But sometimes I hate the way it forgets people.”

He exhales hard. Like you punched the wind out of him.

“My mama used to tell me stories about this place,” he says. “Said it was made of gold. Said it was ours.” He leans back, bitter. “Then she died in a shitty apartment in Oakland while the king of Wakanda looked the other way.”

You don’t apologize. He’s not looking for pity.

“I don’t know how to forgive that,” he whispers.

You reach out. Touch his hand, slow and trembling.

“Then don’t,” you say. “But don’t let it take the rest of you.”

He looks at your hand. Doesn’t pull away.

Just stares. Like maybe this is the first time someone touched him without trying to take something.

“…You soft,” he murmurs.

“You’re not.”

He smirks. “Not yet.”

⸻

After that, things change.

He brings you fruit from the kitchen before lessons.

You correct his tenses without flinching.

You argue about history, about kings, about legacy.

One day, you say “You could be a good one, you know.”

He goes still.

“…A good what?”

You smile, sad and secret. “A good king.”

He looks away.

“You think they’d let me?”

You don’t answer.

But the silence says it all.

⸻

You’re not supposed to fall in love.

He’s not supposed to stay.

But he kisses you anyway, on the last night before he’s due to speak in the council chamber.

It’s soft. Brief. Like a promise wrapped in regret.

“Don’t wait for me,” he says, voice ragged against your skin.

“..I know ” you whisper back.

⸻

Then he leaves.

Not a word. Not a letter. Just echoes in the study room and an empty seat where he used to sit.

⸻

A month passes. Then two. You try not to look for him in every shadow.

You fail. Often.

But one night, you return to your quarters to find a single sheet of parchment on your bed.

It’s a proverb.

Written in imperfect, familiar handwriting.

“The tree remembers. The axe forgets.”

And at the bottom -

“I remember everything. - E”

[lamaenthel]

Train Your Daughters To Be Stronger

[read on ao3]

Jango sucks on his teeth as he thinks. He shouldn't bring her back to Kamino. He knows that. He has a plan. He doesn't need the distraction of a little Togruta, his focus needs to be on training Boba as his apprentice. He should just drop her off at an orphanage. (But he knows what Jaster would do.) Jango Fett "finds" a Togruta youngling on a job. Things change from there.

Characters: Jango Fett, Boba Fett, Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Padme Amidala, Count Dooku/Lord Tyranus, CT-7567/Captain Rex Rating: M for Mature (violence) Wordcount: 22,565

Ke barjurir gar’ade, jagyc’ade kot’la a dalyc’ade kotla’shya. Train your sons to be strong, and your daughters to be stronger. — Mando’a proverb

These days, Jango Fett doesn’t get out of bed for less than half a million credits. He doesn’t have to. For becoming the clone template and staying on Kamino to train them, Lord Tyranus pays him five million a year that Jango funnels into five dozen investment accounts. After three years, they’re already up by thirty percent. By the time his decade is up, he’ll be sitting on a cool hundred million at least.

But still, he takes on the odd job. Part of it is the fear that Tyranus will welch on his end, or the grand plan will fail and Jango will emerge from his exile on Kamino with nothing but a clone of himself to show for it—if he’s lucky. The other part is to get the hell off Kamino, to see a sky filled with something other than lightning, to see a wall that’s not blinding white… maybe even touch grass, if he’s feeling adventurous.

(And partly, it’s because he needs to remind himself that he can leave. He is a guest of the kaminiise. He’s not in prison. He’s not a slave.)

The planet that Chomai F’tarr, his potential employer, has taken over for herself doesn’t have grass. It doesn’t even have a name, just a set of numbers. A small desert planet that’s bright red from orbit, nothing but sand in every direction and hotter than sin. Not too different than Chomai’s home planet, so it makes sense she’d pick it.

Jango’s not fond of Zygerrians. He doesn’t care for slavers, not after what he’s been through, but with Chomai’s offer of a million credits…

(He can overlook a lot for a million credits.)

“My brother must be removed from his position before he drives our enterprise into the ground.” Chomai has sleek fur, dark gray streaked with white, and wears a chain encrusted with red jewels around her slender neck. “He has left me with no choice. His recklessness will doom our whole family.” Her pointy ears twitch as she speaks.

“So you’ve said.” Jango lounges on the red chaise opposite of the overgrown cat, slouching like he hasn’t a care in the world. Can’t let on that Chomai’s palace gives him the creeps. The occasional wail of despair from one of the Zygerrian’s slaves leaks through the paper walls. He ignores it, like a professional.

She hands him a datapad. “I’ve outlined his itinerary. He is very predictable, but his security is formidable.”

Jango’s eyes skim over the details. “Seems easy enough. I should have him out of your fur by the end of the month.”

“Excellent. Let us drink on it.” Chomai snaps her fingers. “Girl!”

A little Togruta slave girl barely older than Boba emerges from behind one of the curtains, carefully bearing a silver tray with two shots of glowing pink liquor. She’s bright orange and wrapped in blue silk the same color as her eyes, with little bells on the fringe that tinkle when she walks. When she silently offers Jango his drink, he gets a good look at the collar around her neck.

(He can overlook a lot for a million credits. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.)

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Chomai croons, petting the Togruta’s head. She tolerates it, but from the way her jaw is clenched, Jango is reminded of a massiff that wants to snap. “She was a gift from a lover of mine trying to earn favor.” A dark laugh. “He claimed she was a Jedi. He tricked her village into handing her over to him, promising she’d be trained.” Chomai’s sneer turns into a frown. “But she’s not. I’ve never seen her do anything a Jedi can do.”

“Shame,” Jango lies. He hopes it’s true for her sake—female slaves don’t have bright futures to look forward to, and having the powers of a jetii would only make her life worse. 

“I keep her as a pet.” Chomai smiles at the girl in a facsimile of fondness. “She is adorable, even if she is useless. And being raised in servitude is good for her temperament. She will fetch a good price when she is of age.”

She looks four, maybe five. Jango doesn’t know what Zygerrians consider “of age” and is afraid to ask. He schools his face in a neutral mask before he takes off his helmet to drink. “Just so you’re aware, this doesn’t take the place of a signature.”

“Bah.” Chomai waves dismissively. “Do not fear, Fett, I’ll sign your contract.”

“And pay in advance.”

“Half.”

“Full amount.” Jango bares his teeth in a grin. “You know my reputation. I don’t break contracts.”

(He’s suddenly very curious if the Togruta girl can see his eyes through his visor.)

Chomai looks unhappy, but she’s not willing to argue, not when the problem of her brother is so close to being solved. “Very well. I’ll ensure the money is wired before you leave.”

He almost—almost—blurts out that he’ll go down to half if she throws in the girl. But he swallows it at the last second and instead says, “Then, in that case…” and raises the shot, avoiding the little Tog’s big blue eyes. “Oya.”

“Sünmendbee.” Chomai throws back the shot with a shiver of delight. “Now—”

Jango sees the little green laser dot on her chest a scant instant before Chomai’s breast explodes in a shower of gore. In under a second he tosses his glass aside, tucks the little girl under his arm like a bolo-ball, and rolls behind the chaise for cover.

“Easy, Fett, I’m not here for you.”

Jango would know that drawl anywhere. He stands with the Togruta kit still tucked under one arm and squints at the door. “You just cost me a million credits, Bane,” he says crossly.

“And I just earned a million.” Cad Bane lets out a dark, raspy snicker as he strolls through the door. The Duros snaps a holo of Chomai’s body still twitching on the floor. “Sorry, pal. Just business.”

Jango grunts and toes Chomai’s corpse, frowning. “Let me guess—Jomai F’tarr?”

“The very one.” Bane grins. His knife comes out. He removes a finger next.

“Exploding rounds a bit overkill, aren’t they?”

“He warned me that she’s been wearing armor.” A shrug. “Didn’t feel like taking chances. Was she trying to hire you to take Jomai out?”

“Yep.” Jango sighs, disappointed. It’s not like he needs the money, but a million credits is a million credits. “Some family.”

“Don’t suppose you feel the need to seek revenge on behalf of your client?”

“Seeing as she didn’t pay me yet, no.”

“Good thing for me.” Bane tips his hat before he drifts back towards the door. “Well, I’d best be going. Happy hunting, Fett.”

“Can’t even be bothered to throw me a stack for the fuel, of course,” Jango grumbles under his breath. He can’t blame Bane for the hasty exit, not with a million credits on the line. He briefly considers trying to race him to the client—and suddenly remembers he’s still got a tiny Togruta slave under his arm, politely waiting for whatever comes next. He gently puts her down, wipes the blood off her face and considers his next move.

He may be a bastard, but he’s not about to leave a slave child barely out of toddlerhood alone with the corpse of her owner. He could take her back to Shili, to her family. Maybe even collect a finder’s fee. But Shili isn’t known for wealth outside of the royal clans of Corvala. He doubts it would even cover the fuel it’ll cost to get there, and as he considers it further, he finds he doesn’t really want to give her back to the people who handed her over to a stranger claiming to be a Jedi without question. They clearly weren’t too attached—and with such osik judgement, who’s to say they wouldn’t lose her again in a fortnight?

“What do you want?” Jango asks her bluntly. “Do you want to go home?”

The girl blinks at him. She’s like a convor, eyes taking up half her face. “Niikhmönüü?” she asks in a squeaky voice.

Jango doesn’t speak Zygerrian, but he recognizes it. “You don’t speak Basic, do you?” he asks.

She bites her lips and looks down like she’s embarrassed. “Uuchlaarai,” she whispers, fiddling with the bells on her skirt.

Jango sucks on his teeth as he thinks. He shouldn’t bring her back to Kamino. He knows that. He has a plan. He doesn’t need the distraction of a little Togruta, his focus needs to be on training Boba as his apprentice. He should just drop her off at an orphanage. 

(But he knows what Jaster would do. Even if Jaster wouldn’t have come within a parsec of a Zygerrian on purpose.)

Jango closes his eyes and sighs, finally accepting what he subconsciously decided the second he picked her up. “Let’s find the key to that collar,” he mumbles, kneeling beside Chomai’s body. 

Underneath the collar, the skin on the girl’s neck is softer than silk, and scarred with two ugly burn nodules from being shocked into submission. He rubs them as he walks back to the Slave I.

(He can overlook a lot for a million credits. But, as he told Bane—Chomai never paid him.)

---

The Kaminoans don’t put up as much of a fuss as Jango expects when he shows up with a stray Togruta in tow. They do a full workup on the girl and find her free of diseases, inform Jango he isn’t to let her around the clones for a month—until her vaccinations have had time to kick in—and turn her back over to him with a datapad full of information on Togruta biology. He says the gai bal manda that same night, with Kal Skirata to witness, and gives her a soul. She nods solemnly, not understanding a single word, but she seems to work out that it’s important. 

“Ni kar’tayl gai sa’ad, Arla Fett,” he says to her, knowing she can’t understand, but needing her to hear it anyway. He squats down and cups her cheeks, runs his thumbs over the rhombuses on her cheeks. “I am Jango. I’m your buir now. Su’cuy.”

Arla tilts her head. “Um… soka,” she repeats awkwardly, pointing to her chest.

Kal laughs. “Close enough. Ibic cuyi yust.”

Jango hugs her. At first she’s stiff, but it’s like a switch goes off, and then she relaxes and melts in his arms. That’s when he discovers that when she’s happy, she purrs.

(He graciously pretends he doesn’t hear Kal sniffling.)

---

Boba, two years younger—ish—quickly becomes obsessed with his new sister. He screams when Jango pries his little fingers off Arla’s lekku—she’s quiet and polite, and if his pinchers hurt, she doesn’t let it show—and every night Jango finds Arla in his bed, curled protectively around Boba like a strill, purring like a motor. 

She picks up Basic quickly and Mando’a even faster. Jango starts tying her to his back while he’s training the Alpha cadets and she spends every moment silently watching with her big blue eyes, never in the way, never a distraction. More than once he forgets she’s even there and walks into a fresher with her still perched on his back, only remembering after he sits down and hears a panicked squeal.

She’s quiet at first. Even when she hurts herself, she catches any cry before it can escape. Once she’s comfortable, once she learns she won’t be punished for speaking or laughing or crying, she starts chattering in a mix of Mando’a and Basic, with a few foreign words that sound Zygerrian thrown in. She still flinches at loud noises, and she has a tendency to go silent when she’s nervous, but she’s not afraid to laugh out loud anymore.

Kal is enchanted by her. He takes her for an afternoon and introduces her to the Nulls. Upon her return he gleefully informs Jango that she bit Jaing and Mereel for tickling her (he insists it’s fine, they needed to learn, and Jango tells her later how proud he is that she stuck up for herself), but Jango has to put a moratorium on giving her candy after she bounces around his quarters until four in the morning hyped up on sugar.

Once the carnivore is on a proper diet of meat—actual meat, not that fungus-based protein osik the Kaminoans make—she shoots up like a weed and stands a head above the cadets her same physical age. Her little montral buds bloom and grow, lengthening into draconic horns that tilt backwards, and her lekku reach her shoulders. Her face markings split, and the day Jango notices they no longer touch in the middle of her forehead he wants to cry.

---.

She doesn’t know her birthday, so a year to the day that Jango gave her a soul, he declares Arla six. She can’t—can, but shouldn’t—eat normal cake, so Kal and Mij conspire to make her a monstrosity out of ground nerf. It looks like a pile of osik, but when she smells it her eyes light up. While Boba and the Nulls clumsily destroy the uj cake Kal baked, she inhales the pile of meat in one sitting and gives the two grizzled Cuy’val Dar purring kisses of gratitude. 

(Jango does not ignore the sniffling this time, but Kal takes the ribbing in stride, though when Mij joins in he starts swinging.)

---

The literature the Kaminoans gave Jango claim that young Togrutas need lots of hunting practice, so Jango hides sachets of roba jerky around Kamino and sets her loose. Arla crawling along the white floors on all fours following a scent becomes a common sight. It unnerves the kaminiise and they ask him to make her stop. He ignores them. Often she’s joined by Vau’s strill, and even though the crotchety old bastard wants nothing to do with her—or so he says, but the little smile he wears when he watches her crawl through the halls says differently—Lord Mirdalan is as enraptured by her as Boba. Whenever his children go missing, Jango usually finds them curled up alongside Mird in a musky pile in some out of the way corner, jerky on their breath.

Arla takes to training with the same ease she takes to everything else. She’s relentless, determined, extraordinarily graceful. She’s a crack shot and fights like she’s dancing. Once she learns her forms she’s unstoppable. She has an eerie talent for anticipating her opponents’ next move, and more than once Jango wonders if her village was right about her having powers after all. 

(But he tells himself it doesn’t matter if she does, because she’s not like the jetiise. She’ll never be like them. And he puts it aside because Arla is his daughter now, and any jetii that wants her will have to go through him.)

---

She doesn’t remember her parents when Jango asks. She doesn’t remember Shili. When he asks what it was like with Chomai F’tarr, her giant eyes well up with tears and he never asks again.

---

Arla doesn’t understand why she can play with Boba and Ordo and Mereel, but not the Alphas nor the CTs. One day Jango finds her staring down at them, nose fogging the glass. He tries to explain that they’re not like Boba, they’re just drones, but she looks even more confused. 

“But they’re clones?”

“They’re not like Boba, ner Arl’ika. They’re soldiers.”

“So are the Nulls.” Arla tilts her head like a pup, like it’ll make sense at a different angle. “Kal Ba’vodu says they’re—”

“You never mind what he says about it,” Jango cuts her off sharply, and makes a mental note to tell Kal to watch his shabla tongue around his daughter. “They’re different. Programmed to follow orders and not much else. They’re just cannon fodder.”

Arla frowns. “They don’t look different,” she says softly, nose pressed against the glass. “And they don’t feel different.”

He doesn’t ask what that means. He picks her up, takes her back to their quarters and distracts her with a puzzle. She still stares at the CTs when they pass over them, but she doesn’t ask again.

---

Jango still takes jobs, though he finds himself going on fewer and fewer as the years go by. He takes on enough to keep his reputation alive, but mostly he stays at home and teaches his children. Even though they have separate beds, there isn’t a single morning where Jango finds them sleeping apart, and even fewer when he finds them in their room at all. Usually they’re curled up like puppies in a pile under his covers.

Jango soon learns that Arla has an uncanny ability to sense his moods. She knows when he needs a cuddle or a distraction, and she knows when he needs to be alone. Sometimes she leaves him and lets him have his time, and others she refuses to leave his side, as stubborn as a strill. He usually ends up grateful that she didn’t let him win. She brings a strange sense of balance to his family. Serenity. She’s soft with Boba when Jango is too hard, but also pushes him, trains with him day and night. He still misses them when he has to leave, but he doesn’t become paralyzed with guilt for leaving Boba alone. The weight of Jaster’s legacy, ever present on his shoulders, just doesn’t feel as heavy as it used to with a third bearing it. 

Jango reaches for his trusty bottle of tihaar after a particularly rough day and realizes it has dust on it.

She has bad dreams some nights, kicking and whimpering in her sleep. Jango doesn’t know if they’re memories or her imagination, but he learns that if he wakes her up cold, she won’t be able to get back to sleep the rest of the night. He holds her tight to his chest and quietly sings Mando’a songs until her heart stops pounding. Boba clings to her from behind like a little jetpack, sandwiching her in their love, shielding her from her dreams. It’s those times that Jango curses the Zygerrian race as a whole. He tries not to wonder if he left any other children behind, reassuring himself that the other slaves would have taken care of them. 

(They would have taken care of Arla, too, he knows. They may have even known who her family was. But he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, because Arla is happy with him and safer on Kamino than with the di’kute that gave her to a Zygerrian.)

A week after Boba turns seven, Jango wakes up with both children tucked under his arms and stares out at a rare, sunny blue sky. He makes them egg sandwiches and takes them out fishing. Arla swims around the boat like a little orange shark, scaring everything away. Jango forces her back in the boat. Eventually Boba catches an eel the size of Jango’s leg. Pulling it in, the fin on its back slices his arm halfway to the bone, but Boba doesn’t cry, not once. Mij stitches him up, and the whole time Boba holds Arla’s hand hard enough to turn it white. They make tiingilar out of the eel and fall asleep on the sofa watching holovids.

---

Jango starts taking the children out with him on easy jobs. Partly to get their faces out there, to introduce them as his apprentices and give them the bare bones of a reputation; partly because he misses them to the point of distraction when he’s gone. The day they run into Cad Bane, he recognizes Arla immediately as Chomai F’tarr’s slave girl. He laughs until he turns purple and knocks one of his breathing tubes loose. He stops after Arla bites his trigger finger, then it’s Jango’s turn to laugh.

---

There’s unique traditions among the Mandalorians of Concord Dawn. As they weren’t nomads like their ancestors, the local tradition of graveyards was adopted and modified into what became the taap’echoy—the traditional place of mourning for members of a clan to remember their dead. Mandalorians cremate their dead instead of letting them rot in the soil, but on Concord Dawn, when a person dies without a descendant or a clan member to pass their beskar down to, it’s buried deep in the ground under their mourning stone like aruetiise do with bodies. 

When Arla is twelve, Jango takes her and Boba to Clan Fett’s taap’echoy—where the beskar’gam of Jango’s great-great aunt Ruusaan Arla lies buried. They dig all night, reaching her coffin around dawn. 

(The story goes, Great-Great Aunt Ruusaan was the last surviving member of Clan Arla. When she married Jango’s Great-Great Uncle Jona, he didn’t leave Clan Fett, but he agreed that their daughters would inherit Arla rather than Fett and rebuild the clan. Three months later, they were both killed protecting Jona’s sister’s children, and to honor her sacrifice and keep the memory of Clan Arla alive, the name was passed down along the line of first-born daughters. Her beskar was laid to rest in the soil, symbolically bestowed to the daughter Ruusaan herself had been carrying.)

Jango knows he could’ve just bought Arla a new set, as hard to find as beskar is to find under the Kryze regime. Stars know he can afford it. But he wants her to have a piece of his clan’s history, and who better to reclaim it than the last living Arla of Clan Fett? 

(And, to that point, he never wants her to doubt that she’s his daughter, no matter how he found her. Aliit ori’shya taldin.)

Arla, covered head-to-toe in gravedirt, holds the armor like it’s a holy relic. Her eyes go big—bigger than usual. “I get my own beskar’gam?” she whispers. She crouches and hugs it to her chest, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Of course you do.” Jango gets down on one knee and cups her round cheeks. The rhombus markings that were on her cheeks when he found her have split into wings. “You are a Mandalorian. You are my first daughter. You are Arla Fett.”

“Vor’e, Buir.” Arla throws her arms around Jango’s neck, purring deep in her chest.

“But what about mine?” Boba whines, brow furrowed.

Jango can’t help but laugh, because it’s exactly what he said when his father presented his sister Arla with her grandmother’s beskar’gam. “You’re too young yet, son. You’ll get yours in a few years.” Also, he’s not positive how many other mourning stones have beskar buried beneath them—he only knows about this one because of the family tradition.

Boba joins in. All three are filthy, sweaty, and exhausted; Jango wonders if his father ever felt this happy when he held his children in his arms.

---

He takes the plates to Sundari, to an armorer he trusts. The ancient Twi’lek, in full beskar’gam that’s as blue as the forge he works, spends a day and a half repairing the flaws and shaping the pieces to fit a smaller frame. One of his lekku is amputated halfway up, capped with nerf leather. “That one I can tell you made,” he says, pointing to Boba with a decrepit chuckle and a leather-tipped jab. “Looks just like you. Where’d you find your daughter?”

Jango considers lying for a moment, but ends up saying “Zygerria,” because it’s not quite the truth, but not a far off enough lie for him to feel guilty about telling.

“Ah.” The armorer huffs sadly. “You did well getting her out of there. Evil creatures.”

“Tell me about it.” Jango watches Arla play peekaboo with the armorer’s pet convor. 

“You know, if the jetiise were good for one thing, it was driving those chaakare to near-extinction. They’re still slavers, but they’ve never gotten back the power they wielded during the Old Republic. They had entire armies of slave verde back then. Poor ade. Bred for war, raised knowing their only future was to die for their masters.” The hammer rattles inside Jango’s rib cage every time the armorer brings it down. “From what I hear, the jetiise were able to sabotage the collars of the verde, so they could disobey orders without shabla val nari mishi’an. They immediately turned on their masters.” Clang clang clang. “They wiped most of ‘em out in one night, coordinated across the galaxy. Pure carnage. Well deserved, I say.” Clang clang clang. Arla laughs at the convor, a high tinkling sound. “In the end, the slaves freed themselves, not the jetiise. But the jetiise sure cleaned the Zygerrians up.” Clang clang clang. “Hundreds of dynasties wiped out. And good shabla riddance, I say. It’s only a shame they didn’t get them all.”

“Ner Arl’ika!” Jango calls, turning away, feeling clammy. “Did you pick your colors out yet? We’ll go see the sal’gotal’ad later and get your paint.”

“The sal’gotal’ad?” Arla raises one brow marking. “Is there special paint you’re supposed to use? I’ve seen Vhonte Ba’vodu touch up their armor with speeder paint.”

“You don’t have to use anything special, no.” Jango leans forward; at twelve—ish—she’s too tall for him to go down on one knee anymore. He’s never known a grown Togruta under two meters at the forehead, he has no reason to think Arla will turn out any different. “You don’t have to use anything at all.” He taps his naked breastplate. “But if you don’t want to have to touch it up every time you bounce off the corner of a table—and, my love, we both know you do that at least twice a day” —They both laugh— “We need to get the good osik.”

“If you say so, Buir.” She flashes him a fanged grin. “Can we go to the arcade now? Boba wants to do the 4D dance machine and it needs two people.”

“Go ahead.” Jango sends them off with a pocketful of credits and a smooch on Arla’s forehead. Unlike Boba, she’s not too grown-up to accept a kiss from her buir in public. 

---

The next day Arla picks out a bright scarlet paint, but after the first stripe across her chestplate, her excited grin turns to a frown. After whispering with the sal’gotal’ad, she returns with a paint that’s a deep, rich maroon. “This is better.” She swipes it on, and grins. “Ori’jate.”

“She’ll need to be refitted every year until she’s fully grown,” the armorer informs Jango. He’s got a set of laminar sheaths in his hands—forged with additional beskar that Jango shelled fifty thousand out for—to protect her lekku. “Her lekku will keep growing for her entire life, but they usually slow down once they’re mature.”

“Any idea of how long they’ll end up?” Jango eyes his daughter’s wagging rear lek, animated and happy as she paints. Boba helps by doing detail work on all the nooks and crannies. 

“Depends on where she’s from. Did you know her buir? Usually they match.” Jango shakes his head. The armorer shrugs. “Eh, hard to know, then. I once saw a Tog from Kiros whose lekku went all the way down to her ankles, and she was evaar’la yet. Suppose she’ll be tying them around her shoulders by the time she reaches middle age.”

Arla’s lekku grow in spurts, but so far they’ve stayed proportionate to her head, barely brushing her shoulders. Jango tries to imagine them to her knees; he can’t help but wonder where Togs hide all the shabla neck muscles needed to keep the weight of those things from turning them quadrupedal.

“You’re a good buir, you know.” The armorer claps Jango on the back. “Not too many still honor tradition like this nowadays, not with the New Mandalorians in charge.” His disgust of the Kryzes is palpable. “She’s even a foundling! Kandosii, Jango. Remember: gar taldin ni jaon’yc; gar sa buir, ori’wadaasla. Jaster would be proud.”

Jango watches his daughter. He suddenly wonders if she looks like her mother.

---

They’re walking through the deep space fuel station of Eburnea on the tail end of a job when Arla comes to a sudden stop, her eyes narrowed. She draws her 19X—one shot to the head, and the Pantoran following them falls to the ground. The disintegrator rifle hidden beneath his cloak clatters to the floor.

Jango stares at the rifle. He had the Pantoran tagged in his HUD for the last five minutes, but never spotted the disintegrator. As quick as he is, if the Pantoran had gotten off a shot… if it had hit one of the children… he’s getting sloppy in his old age.

“Knew it,” Arla says triumphantly. She spins the blaster before she tucks it away. “Don’t worry, Buir. I’ve got your back.”

Jango pats her between her montrals. “Never doubted it.” 

They don’t wait for station security to come sniffing around. They leave on the Slave I as fast as they can and only when they get into hyperspace does Jango ask, “How did you know he had a disintegrator?”

Arla shrugs. “I just had a feeling.”

Jango doesn’t ask her to elaborate, but later, when he goes to sleep with Arla and Boba cuddled to his chest, his eyes don’t want to close. 

---

After some digging, Jango finds out the Pantoran worked for a sentient trafficker on the Black Sun Syndicate’s payroll. He’s gone from Kamino for two weeks. When he returns, he has two new blaster burn scars and a crate full of datatapes.

Three weeks later, a span of high-profile arrests rock the Core, and the Jedi are lauded for their success in bringing a galaxy-wide sentient trafficking operation to a close. They thank the anonymous source that sent them terabytes of evidence. 

(The jetiise are good for one thing, Jango remembers.)

---

Jango’s mid-pour of his caf one afternoon when Arla barges into the kitchen, more upset than he’s ever seen her.

“Come with me,” she says, already dragging him towards the door. 

Deprived of his afternoon caf, Jango is caught between annoyance and amusement at his daughter’s antics. “What’s got your lekku in a twist?”

“You’ll see,” she says darkly. Her rear lek thumps against her back as she walks, painting an angry drumbeat. 

His curiosity turns to suspicion as she leads him through Tipoca City’s white halls, all the way to where Dred Priest’s cadets are housed. Where she is not supposed to be, because she’s not to be fraternizing with the CTs.

No one notices them slip into the back of the training room. The wall of cadets arranged in a ring are too transfixed by the four within them beating the ever-loving osik out of each other, bare-fisted and bleeding profusely. Priest overlooks the fighting with his arms crossed, a sadistic smirk on his ugly face that grows wider with every blow.

A battle circle. And just like that, the mystery of why Mij has had to patch up so many of Priest’s cadets is solved. None of them have ever revealed the source of their injuries; when questioned, Priest always claims it’s from standard combat training, but he’s never had an explanation for why they occur three times more often than the other squads. 

Jango is disgusted. This isn’t training. There’s no lesson being learned here. This is violence for violence’s sake, brutality for the amusement of a sadist. Jango knew what Priest was before he invited him to Kamino, but he put him in charge of a hundred cadets anyway because the bastard is also one of the deadliest soldiers Jango has ever met.

A bald cadet in the ring takes an uppercut to the chin. Arla rumbles with a growl, low and deep in her chest, and Jango is tempted to join her.

“Atten-tion!” Jango bellows. The room falls silent, the cadets snap their heels together, and the smirk falls off Priest’s face like a leaden weight.

“Afternoon, Jango.” Priest strides forward with confidence, though there’s wariness beneath the bravado that most wouldn’t notice. “What can I do for you?”

“Tion’gar di’kut’la?” Jango shoves him hard, blood boiling. “Tion’gar suvari ibice verde cuyi waadas’la? You’ve got a million credits beating on each other for your entertainment!”

Priest shoots a glare at Jango’s daughter. “As I explained to your little mongrel—”

Jango sees red and shuts him up with the full strength of a beskar-studded fist. Priest reels back, wheezing from the shock, and Jango hits him again before he can recover. The cadets watch silently as Jango hits their trainer again, and again, until he hears the tinkling of teeth fall onto the tile floor.

“Udesii, Buir.” Arla wraps her arms around Jango from behind and pulls him off. “Udesii. Kaysh suvari.”

Jango takes a few seconds to catch his breath, to stamp the wildfire of his rage into embers. “No more battle circles,” he tells Priest, though with how loud he’s groaning, he’s not sure he hears him. He turns to the cadets, to the sea of faces identical to his own. “No more, do you hear me? You tell him no if he tries it again. On my orders. He’s here to train you, not abuse you.”

The bald cadet—no, not bald, now that Jango’s close he can see that he has his platinum-blond hair buzzed close to the skin—steps forward. “Sir, yes Sir!” 

“And if you ever call my daughter a mongrel again, I’ll throw you into the fucking ocean.” Jango kicks Priest in the gut one more time before stalking away, holding onto Arla’s hand like a lifeline.

---

“How did you know?”

Arla has her arms crossed and her lips pursed in a pout. Her eyes are locked on the floor instead of Jango, who can’t help but pace back and forth, full of furious energy and nowhere to put it.

“I asked you a question, Arla,” Jango seethes. “How. Did. You know?” 

Arla throws her hands up. “I just had a feeling, okay?” 

“A feeling. You had a feeling that Dred Priest was running battle circles?”

“No, not… kind of, I guess?”

“Tell me the truth, daughter.” Jango skids to a halt and glares at her. “Now.”

Arla hesitates, wringing her hands. “Do you ever just walk into a room and feel that something is… wrong? Off? It felt like that.”

“Of course. That’s called instinct. It’s what keeps you alive. It doesn’t alert you to forbidden battle circles in an area of Tipoca City you’re not supposed to be anywhere near. How many times do I need to tell you to stay away from the CTs?” 

Arla deflates. “I was… I just… I had a feeling that something was wrong! And I followed it, and I ended up there and saw what Priest was doing!”

“You followed—” Jango breaks off, threading his fingers through his hair. 

Arla hugs herself. “I’m sorry I made you mad, Buir. But isn’t it good that I did it? Because you were able to put a stop to it. Priest won’t hurt them anymore.”

Oh, he’ll hurt them. Once he picks his teeth up off the floor, he’ll take out all of his humiliation on the cadets, and after his woman finds out… Jango is half-tempted to throw them both in the ocean. He’ll have to have another talk with Priest just to keep him from killing them.

“I don’t want you around them,” Jango says, jaw clenched. “I gave you an order, but you defy me over and over again. You’re such a good girl otherwise, Arla, why won’t you listen to me about this?”

“I’m not trying to be disobedient.” Arla wilts like a dying veshok stalk in her shame. “When I get these feelings, I can’t just ignore them. It’s like something is shouting at me, and if I don’t listen, it just gets louder.”

Jango’s heart cracks in half. He crouches down, runs his thumbs over the wings on her cheeks, and touches his forehead to hers in a reverent kov’nyn. 

“These feelings I get… Is there something wrong with them?” A tear rolls down Arla’s cheek. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“You are my daughter. You are a Mandalorian. That is what matters, Arla Fett.” He makes a fist, rests it over her heart. “What’s in here is all that matters.”

---

Later, when the adrenaline has faded, what begins as a stern talk about staying away from the CTs ends in a shouting match, with Arla being confined to her quarters for a standard month and a promise that the next time he finds out she’s been down there, he’ll take her armor and make her earn it back one piece at a time.

---

Arla repents in time to turn thirteen and embark on her verd’goten. Jango decides to mix traditions and takes her to Shili to hunt an akul. Boba tags along, though Jango forbids him from interfering. The three travel deep into the wilderness to find a tribe who lives in akul territory. After two days on foot, they find a small village. Once they get a good look at Arla and Jango explains why they’re there, the tribe invites them to stay the night.

First they speak to the chieftain and pay her for the privilege of hunting on her land, then they’re taken before a shaman who wears a crown of akul teeth coated in iron. In a dark, smoky tent, he bites the head off a thimiar and splits its guts open to read the secrets of its entrails.

After several silent minutes pass, “Tomorrow is a good day for a hunt,” he finally announces. He’s ancient, with wrinkled blue skin, sits hunchbacked, and is weighed down by a heavy set of violet-striped lekku that droop to his waist. “You will find victory when Bogan’s moon is high.”

“Oya!” Arla says, beaming.

The Togrutas are hospitable beyond expectation. They give Arla a strip of akul leather so she can familiarize herself with its scent and teach her the signs of its passing; the footprints, the scat, the gouges it leaves on the trees after sharpening its claws. The chieftain shows her how to hang and prepare the body and patiently goes through what organs are safe to eat (heart, lungs, kidneys), safe in small quantities (liver, brain), and utterly toxic unless prepared correctly (testicles). She demonstrates how to pull out the beast’s fragile teeth without breaking them with an iron pinching tool, then gifts it to Arla.

After being served enough meat to put a rancor into a food coma, Jango and his children settle down to sleep in a tent prepared for them. Their bed is made of fragrant, freshly-picked pine boughs and covered with furs.

“Do you think they know who my people are?” Arla whispers once they’re nestled within the furs. “Or maybe… maybe they’re my people? What are the odds?”

“I didn’t see much orange out there,” Jango replies casually, willing his heart to stop beating so damn hard before Arla hears it. 

“True.” Arla rests her head on Boba—he’s already asleep, worn out from the walk and the feast. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m a Mandalorian. You’re my people.”

“Never doubt it.” Jango pets her between her montrals until she falls asleep. 

The next day, after the shaman rubs a thumb full of blue paste on their foreheads (for luck), Arla leads them deep into the forest, letting her formidable nose and Togruta instincts—and, undoubtedly, her feelings—guide their hunt. They break twice to eat and rest; once by a river floating with chunks of spring ice, the other in a towering grove of trees that are ten feet in diameter, with red bark and a near-black canopy that blocks out the sun.

In her maroon beskar’gam and ocean-blue kute, Arla practically disappears into the foliage. Jango and Boba have to scramble to keep up with her.

“Does she know where it is?” Boba pants. After chasing after his sister all day, he’s exhausted, while Arla seems to gain strength by the hour.

“I’m… not sure.” Jango watches Arla leap from branch to branch above their heads like a kowakian monkey-lizard. She seems to have a destination in mind, but shab if Jango knows where she’s headed.

But he does notice she’s thriving here, quite literally in her element. He has a handful of hideaways in mind for when this is all over, and he considers adding Shili to the list.

Darkness falls. Three of Shili’s six moons are high in the sky. Mindful of Boba, who’s about to drop from exhaustion and desperately trying to hide it, Jango is about to call it for the night and make camp when Arla’s head turns on a swivel and her nostrils flare. The blue in her eyes disappears, overcome with black as her pupils expand.

“It’s close,” she says, a feral grin splitting her cheeks, and takes off.

Jango glances at the sky; he’s not sure which of the moons is Bogan’s, but the red one is higher than the other two.

If it was hard to keep up with her before, it’s nearly impossible now. Jango trips over every root and fallen branch, Boba not faring much better. 

Petrichor gives way to the stench of feline musk. Jango hears snarling and growls that make his whole gut clench in fear. He can’t see Arla. He takes a firm hold of Boba’s arm, jets up to a high branch and scans the forest.

“There!” Boba shouts, pointing.

Arla and the akul face off in a clearing a few dozen meters ahead. It’s enormous; a massive feline, with red fur striped with blue and a mouth big enough to swallow Arla whole. They circle around one another, two predators sizing the other up. Arla holds her blaster in her left hand, steadying it on the one holding a knife, eyes locked with the creature. 

“We’ve got to help her!” Boba lurches forward. 

“This is your sister’s verd’goten,” Jango reminds him, though he’s fighting his own urge to rush ahead and help his daughter. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to protect his child. He fights it off, breathes through it—this is his test as much as hers. If he trained her well enough, she’ll survive.

The akul strikes first. Arla rolls under the swipe of its massive claws and scores a slice on its side. It spins with a scream of pain and lunges again. Arla lets it tire itself out, dodging every deathblow, jamming it with blaster bolts that don’t penetrate its tough hide. All while Jango watches with his heart in his throat, his fingers clenched around Boba’s arm tight enough to leave a bruise.

“Buir…”

Jango tastes blood. “Just watch.”

The akul lunges. Arla doesn’t dodge in time, and they both roll down the hill, out of sight.

“Arla!” Boba cries out.

Jango’s already in the air. He jets over the clearing, over the hill, lands next to the pile of stinking red fur and rips the five hundred pound creature off his daughter with one hand.

She’s covered in steaming blood, red from head to toe, moonlight reflecting off her manic grimace. “I did it,” she pants, “I got it in the heart.”

Jango searches the creature. After a few seconds he pulls out the knife that’s buried to the hilt in its chest. He helps Arla to her feet and embraces her tightly. “You did it.” She shakes like a leaf in his arms, adrenaline coursing through her like electricity. “You did it, daughter. Gar cuyi verd jii. Jii bal darasuum.”

They hang the beast from a tree and bleed it dry. Before they pull its teeth, skin it, and dress it for the tribe, Arla cuts its heart out of its chest and eats it while it’s still warm, her face transcendent.

(Boba wants to try it too. Arla makes him swear he won’t spit it out if he doesn’t like it. When he gags, she claps her hand over his mouth and makes him swallow.)

---

Upon their return, the tribe celebrates by dropping everything and gathering for a massive feast on the edge of the village. They devour the beast raw. Younger Togrutas ensure certain organs are passed to the elderly, while others hurry to make sure the dangerous organs are out of reach of the many colorful kits pouncing on the flesh. They don’t stop until they’ve reached the bones, which are parceled up to families for roasting. 

The shaman’s grandson offers to tan the hide for Arla and send it on when it’s ready in a few weeks, an offer she gladly accepts. The shaman helps her pick out the luckiest teeth, and after carefully hand-drilling minute holes in their bases, dips them in molten tin to protect them. 

Three days later, the first thing Arla does when they board the Slave I is bestow a thumbprint of blue paint on her buc’ye.

(“For luck,” she whispers when she’s done.)

---

Arla no longer leaves their quarters without her beskar’gam. Although they’re only meant to be worn during combat, she even slips on the beskar lekku sheaths. She adopts a swagger as she stalks the halls of Tipoca City so her akul-leather kama will sway behind her. She shows anyone who asks—and many who don’t—her akul teeth, dipped in beskar and embedded into the crown of her buc’ye courtesy of the armorer.

(Getting them coated in beskar set Jango back eight grand, but he couldn’t very well allow her to wear them coated in tin. She’s a Mandalorian. And what the hell is he squirreling all of his money away for if not for special occasions like this?)

She thinks she looks so tough. Maybe she does to strangers, but Jango thinks she’s adorable. He does his best to keep his expression neutral and lets her keep her delusion of toughness. 

(And he remembers when he was the same. Jaig’ika, Jaster had called him, little hawk; fully fledged, but still crashing into branches.)

Jango takes her on more dangerous jobs. She’s primarily in charge of guarding her unarmored little brother—Boba whines about getting his own beskar’gam more and more, and Jango’s located another set in the taap’echoy, but there’s currently an inoculation-resistant strain of Keratos running rampant on Concord Dawn and he doesn’t want to risk it—but by Mandalorian tradition Arla is now an adult, and that means she is allowed to participate in adult life. Like working for a living.

In their line of work, that means bars and firefights. And Jango doesn’t go to bars.

Jango shoves down the urge to tackle her every time he sees a blaster bolt whizz past her head. He reminds himself she’s grown. He trained her as a warrior, as a survivor. She doesn’t need him to protect her anymore. She’s not just his daughter, she’s his apprentice, and she’s a damn good one.

She’s eerily good at dodging bolts anyway. She always seems to know where they’ll land. She’s trained to deflect them with her beskar, but she rarely needs to. After they hunt down a bounty on Bothawui, she liberates their quarry’s chuka and starts carrying it in her off hand, using it interchangeably with her vibroblade. 

(She almost gets them executed by their client after he spots it on her belt. In her defense, Jango didn’t know the Bothan stun stick was that culturally important, either.)

After she accidentally discovers that she can use the chuka to bat a blaster bolt back towards its sender, she spends hours practicing the technique with Boba. He shoots stunners at her from behind an M3 blast shield, then they invent a new battle strategy they name kad bal aran: sword and shield. Boba stands behind her and shoots while she smacks blaster bolts at the training droid. They become frighteningly good at it.

Jango suspects she trains with more than just Boba. Sometimes she disappears for hours, conveniently reappearing just as Jango decides to check the CT training domes, sweating and clearly fresh off a high-intensity workout. But he can’t figure out how she’s doing it. Or why.

---

An updated vaccine is released for Keratos a few months later. Jango’s busy planning their trip to Concord Dawn when his comlink alerts to a frequency he always dreads seeing. He makes sure his quarters are empty of children and locks the bedroom door behind him before setting up the holoprojector.

“Lord Tyranus.” Jango stares impassively, making his face a stone mask. “It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”

The hologram nods its head, a simulacrum of pleasantry. “Jango. I have a job for you.”

“Another assassination?” Jango looks away. He’s no pillar of morality, but Tyranus only ever contracts him for killjobs, and after the last one…

(He still hasn’t figured out how a clone managed to escape Kamino. But he can’t help but see the face of the baby boy that clone fathered when he closes his eyes, and no matter how much money he funnels into the savings account, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it.)

“Indeed.” Tyranus chuckles, low and deep. “Is that a problem?”

“ ‘Course not.” Jango crosses his arms. “Who’s the target?”

“The information will be securely transmitted to your terminal, as per usual.”

“And my fee?” 

“I trust a million credits should suffice.”

It must be someone high profile. Tyranus paid him half that for the last one. “That’ll do nicely.”

“This job must be completed quickly. Before the end of the month.” 

“Not giving me much time to plan,” Jango points out.

“I trust in your ability to improvise. Get it done, Fett.” Or else, hangs unspoken in the air. Tyranus’ hologram flickers away.

Jango’s terminal dings with a new transmission. He sees why Tyranus is paying a million when the target’s profile pops up. And just like he expected, it won’t be an easy job. He won’t be able to make this look like an accident, he doesn’t have the time to be that meticulous. He’ll have to go big—a bomb, maybe. There’ll likely be casualties, which leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

But Padmé Amidala is well known for using decoys, and Jango can’t risk missing her.

---

Jango finds Arla in the mess hall. She sits across from Ordo, staring him in the eyes as they play kal’geroya. The knives tapping between their fingers are a blur.

“I’d wait,” Kal advises Jango before he can interrupt. “Unless you want someone to lose a finger, of course, then by all means.”

Jango sighs. “How long have they been at this?”

Kal checks his chrono. “They just passed thirteen minutes. New record.”

Jango sighs again, louder.

“Don’t distract me, Buir, I’m winning.” Arla’s eyes are locked on Ordo’s, unblinking and eerie.

“If the winner is whoever doesn’t stab themselves, how is she winning?” Mereel whispers to Jaing.

Arla strikes out like a serpent, slams the hilt of her dagger into the back of Mereel’s hand and returns to her rhythm without missing a beat. “That’s how, mir’sheb,” she says calmly over his howl of pain.

As amusing as it is, they’re on very limited time, so Jango says, “We’ve got a job, daughter,” and gives her the Look he’s spent a decade perfecting.

Arla goes from tapping the table to tossing the knife across the room in one fluid gesture, burying it to the hilt in a wooden target block—dead center. “I forfeit,” she announces, cheery as a sunrise. She collects her buc’ye, leaves the Nulls with a cheeky wave over her shoulder and happily leans under the arm Jango offers her once they’re walking back.

“So what’s the job?”

“I’ll brief you on the way. Pack light.”

“What about Concord Dawn?” 

“It’ll have to wait. We’re pressed for time.”

“How pressed?” 

“Four standard days.” 

Arla’s mouth opens in a surprised little o. “Someone go missing?”

Jango’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Not yet.”

---

Boba watches them pack with an utterly dejected look on his face. He doesn’t like being left behind. Jango doesn’t like leaving him, either, but this time, he has to.

“What if I stay on the ship?” he asks—he keeps trying to come up with compromises, but Jango rejects them all.

“Not this time, son. I told you this job is dangerous. I need Arla to be completely focused. We can’t afford any distractions. If she’s worrying about you, I won’t have all of her.” Jango ruffles Boba’s hair. It’s getting long, overdue for a cut, but every time he brings it up Boba does his best impersonation of a tooka faced with a bubble bath. “Do know what I was doing when I got the call about this job?” Boba’s lip quivers. “I was planning a trip to Concord Dawn. For you. It’s time you got your own beskar’gam, ner Bob’ika.”

Boba’s eyes light up. “Really? You promise?”

“Vercopa gise epa’a ner sur’haaise meh ni nari jehaat’an.” Jango offers him a smile. “I promise, when we get back it’ll be our first stop.”

Boba looks a little less despondent as they leave. But not much.

---

One good thing about Kamino; the scientists there come up with some pretty impressive toys. They give them to Jango to test on jobs, and he’s never been one to turn down free ammo. While he appreciates the poison grenades and the thylaxium gel that turns his flamethrower white-hot, he’s eager to try out the demi-kill darts—one hit, and the target is virtually dead for five minutes. Their heart slows down to five beats per minute, their breathing so shallow as to be undetectable, then they wake up fresh as a felucian daisy. Or so the longnecks say; he hasn’t had an opportunity, or a reason, to use them yet. 

“She’s pretty,” Arla says softly. She sits cross-legged on the floor of the Slave I’s cockpit, reading through Padmé Amidala’s file. The blue light of hyperspace makes her eyes glow like sapphires. “She’s only twenty four. A senator. She was the queen of Naboo when she was only fourteen. The things she’s campaigned for… she seems like a good person.”

Jango gets out his polishing kit and starts cleaning his WESTARs so he has something to do with his hands, somewhere to look other than Arla’s inquisitive face. “It’s not relevant,” he tells her, hoping it’ll be the end of it. “You can’t think about the good and bad of it. You’re a professional who is offering a service. Once that contract is signed, you are the hunter, they are your quarry, and you don’t stop until they’re yours. Your client is the one who gets to worry about morality.”

Arla puts the file aside and tucks her knees under her chin. And just like that, akul teeth and all, she goes from fourteen to five. “How do you choose jobs?” she asks.

“The pay, mostly.”

“So if they offer you enough, you’ll sign on for anything?”

“Not anything. You know I don’t do slave catching.” The old cadence he memorized as a Haat’la Mando’ade cadet comes back. Power cell out, set aside, check the chamber, open wide! “Or anything to do with kids—other than bringing them back home.” He offers her a smile.

Arla doesn’t bite. “I thought it was women and children. Isn’t that in the Supercommando Codex?”

“Young mothers and children.” Barrel twists, then comes free, clean it well, no debris! “I’ve killed plenty of women. They die the same as men.” 

Arla watches him silently. Jango can practically see the wheels in her big head turning. “But if our quarry is innocent…”

Jango snorts. Scope is last, nice and neat. “Nobody’s innocent.” Put it back and now you’re sweet!

Arla’s face sours. “But if they haven’t done anything worth being killed over…”

Jango bites the insides of his cheeks. “I already told you, that’s your client’s problem.”

Her mouth twists. “Not ours. Not as long as they pay us enough.”

“That’s right.” He puts his blaster down. “Why are you struggling with this? You killed your first man at twelve.” And she’s killed fourteen since then, Jango knows. He keeps count.

The glare she shoots him could melt durasteel. “I’ve only killed people who shot at me first. Or who were about to. This… doesn’t feel honorable.”

It isn’t that he disagrees with her. On flimsi, Padmé Amidala is a saint. She took back her planet after the Trade Federation’s invasion at age fourteen, led the charge into battle herself and took back her capital city. She’s campaigned against slavery, genocide, and corruption for her whole senatorial career.

But she’s also against the Military Creation Act. The wheels are in motion, Jango knows the clones will soon be revealed to the galaxy, and she has too much influence on her fellow senators. Paragon or no, she has to be removed.

(Jango can overlook a lot for a million credits. And he can overlook almost anything to see the plan to its ultimate completion.)

“We’ll do it quickly. Painlessly. She won’t even feel it.” Jango changes the subject instead of letting the weight of Arla’s gaze crush him. “Go be useful and calibrate the guns, will you?” 

Arla stalks out of the room, kama swinging, leaving him alone to stew in silence. He polishes the pieces of his blaster until he can see his reflection, though he looks anywhere else.

---

They arrive on Coruscant the night before the senator is scheduled to arrive. Jango’s intel tells him where and when she’ll be landing—all top-secret information that Tyranus shouldn’t have, but it makes Jango’s job a hell of a lot easier.

They change into maintenance jumpsuits, slice into a few droids and use them to wax the landing pad with one of Kamino’s fun new weapons—explosive nanodroids. Completely undetectable and bearing a yield comparable to Czerka thermite, Jango’s excited to see how well they work. They have just enough to cover the primary pad, so the secondaries flanking it, where the senator’s escort will land, escape their explosive coating.

(Arla is happy because it means less casualties; Jango reminds her that it’s always better to be thorough, but since they don’t have any more, there’s no point in arguing about it.)

Jango programs them with a dual detonation sequence; first the pressure of the ship landing will activate them, then sixty seconds later—long enough for the passengers to disembark—boom. Before they go back to the ship, Arla slices into Coruscant’s live air traffic feed and gets them eyes on the landing pad. 

When they’re done, Jango gives her a bone-crushing hug. She smells like cleaning fluid from the droid that took offense to her portable scomp link and defensively sprayed her. For the first time in her life, she lets go first.

They spend the night on the Slave I. They both pretend to sleep. Neither of them do.

Padmé Amidala is scheduled to arrive not long after dawn. When Jango gets up, Arla is already in the cockpit wearing her full kit.

“They’re descending through atmo now. CAT just reported it.” Arla stares at the small viewscreen. “Thirty seconds.”

Jango’s knuckles go white gripping the back of the co-pilot’s chair. They both hold their breath as the ship lands, the docking ramp sliding down a few seconds later.

A figure in white, flanked by an entourage—small, but bigger than Jango expected—strolls down the ramp. As they reach the end, the camera shakes, the landing pad fills with black smoke and fire, and Jango finally lets out the breath he’s been holding. It was risky, using experimental Kaminoan tech on a job this important, but it would have been a hell of a lot harder to rig the landing pad with anything else.

“That’s it, then. It’s done.” Arla doesn’t sound happy. 

Jango squeezes her shoulders. “Not yet. Always confirm your kill.”

They wait for the smoke to clear. One of the fighter pilots, spared from the blast on the platform they didn’t rig, pulls their helmet off and falls to their knees beside the senator. A mass of brown braids falls over their shoulder.

“Shab,” Jango growls, realizing.

Arla bites her lip. “Is that her?” 

“Yes. She used a decoy. A shabla decoy.” Jango pinches the bridge of his nose, breathes out hard. He knew the dalgaan used decoys, but he didn’t know she could pilot a shabla fighter. It wasn’t in her file. If he’d known… “It’s… it’s fine,” he forces out, fighting to stay calm and not call Tyranus right karking there and tear him a new one.

“But now they know that someone is after her,” Arla points out.

“They already suspected, or they wouldn’t have bothered with the decoy.” Jango slaps her on the back with a forced smile. “It’s fine. This just means we go with Plan Besh.”

She follows him out of the cockpit. “What’s Plan Besh?”

He doesn’t answer right away, because while he does have Plan Besh, Cresh, Dorn and Esk, they’re all half-assed and not ready to go, having only put them together within the last twenty hours. He does a quick bit of mental math and decides which one is most feasible in the shortest amount of time.

“Ner Arl’ika,” Jango starts once he’s slid down the ladder, “the lesson you’re going to learn today is the most important one of your life.”

Arla peers down at him, lekku dangling. “And what’s that?”

Jango forces a grim smile. “The skill of improvisation.”

---

Just before sundown, Jango meets Zam Wesell on the maintenance deck of a nightclub deep in the Frostline; one of Coruscant’s many party districts, primarily Pantoran and overwhelmingly neon. It gets brighter here at night than it ever does in the day. He turns on the solar shading in his HUD with two quick blinks of his left eye.

Zam leans against her speederbike, a small smirk on her face. She’s in her Human camouflage; though Jango knows what she is, she doesn’t like to let everyone know she’s a Clawdite shapeshifter right off the bat. She shakes a little canister at him. “I got what you asked for. You know, I was headed to Nar Shaddaa when you called.”

“Lucky me.” Jango tosses her the chit with ten thousand credits on it; he doesn’t take offense when she checks it on her scanner. He’d do the same. 

She tucks it into a pocket, tosses him the canister. “Was that you earlier? The Naboo delegation bombing?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jango replies blithely. He turns the cylinder over his hand. A glimpse of too many legs inside makes his stomach clench. He pockets it before he tosses it off the edge like his instincts are telling him to.

Zam snorts. “Sure you don’t. Now be careful with those kouhons. They’ve been starved for three days, they’ll bite the first thing they see.”

“That’s the idea.” Jango turns. “Take care, Zam.”

“Before you go,” Zam calls, “I heard a rumor you might find interesting.”

Jango pauses, turns back around. “Go on.”

Zam crosses her arms with a little smile, tilts her head; Jango tosses her a second chit with an exasperated sigh. She pockets it after checking the balance and says, “Word is, Senator Amidala from Naboo was placed under Jedi protection after the bombing. Anyone going after her better be loaded for gundarks.” 

Jango bites the insides of his cheeks until he tastes blood. Shab, a Jedi is the last thing he wants to deal with on a job with Arla in tow. “How many?” he asks.

“Two. A knight and his Padawan.”

So a Jedi and a half. That’s something, at least. Jango nods his farewell to Zam and returns to the speeder where Arla waits.

“What happened?” she asks as soon as he takes off. “Did she not have the kouhons?”

“She had them.” Jango reaches over without taking his eyes off of traffic, squeezes his daughter’s limp hand. “She let me know Amidala is under the protection of two jetiise, now. We’ll have to be careful from here on out. We can’t afford to make any more mistakes.”

After thirty heartbeats of silence, Arla finally returns his squeeze.

---

The kouhons in the canister make Jango uneasy. If one of the creepy little chakaare were to chomp him, he’d have about ten seconds to shoot himself up with the antivenom; if he had any, which he doesn’t. Everything’s so last minute, it’s a miracle he got his hand on anything at all.

Arla doesn’t seem bothered by them, but she’s never been put off by creepy-crawlies. He used to find her playing with the wispy, thin Kaminoan spiders in the maintenance shafts when she’d go jerky hunting. She balances the container on her knees and watches them, staring like a tooka in a high-rise condo watching porgs build a nest outside its window.

They stole a PH4 delivery droid on its way back to the pharmacy that dispensed it, smacking it with their speeder first to trigger the impact alarm and fool headquarters into believing it’s yet another casualty of Coruscant’s traffic. Jango carefully presses down the access hatch. “There. Told you, the encryption protocols on these pharmacy droids are laughable.” 

“Yep,” Arla says tonelessly.

Jango holds out his hand for the kouhons. She hands them over and pulls her knees to her chest. “You said we have to use a droid because the jetiise will sense us,” she says, “and they can’t sense droids like living beings.”

“That’s right. And why else?”

“Because if there’s a way to neutralize your target without a direct confrontation, then it’s always the better option,” Arla recites. She rests her chin on her knees. “But Buir, the kouhons are living beings. Won’t they sense them?”

“They’re bugs.” Jango pops the canister into the delivery chamber. “It doesn’t matter how luxurious that penthouse is, there’s not a single set of walls on this planet that doesn’t have bugs in them. They won’t sense them.” He’s counting on it.

“I guess that’s true.” Arla adjusts her kama. “Do we know that they don’t have the windows shielded?”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s why we’re using this thing.” Jango pats the droid’s black metal dome. “They’ve got a little gadget that splits force fields. Let’s ‘em make deliveries while the customer’s not home.”

“What if they have ray shields?” 

Jango dusts off his knees, stands with a wince as one pops. “Well, then we go to Plan Cresh.”

“And what’s Plan Cresh?”

“You distract the jetiise with a little dance, and I shoot the bitch while they’re watching you.” Jango grins, trying to make it a joke.

Arla doesn’t laugh. 

Jango’s comlink alerts him to the last person he wants to talk to at the moment. “Be right back,” he tells Arla, and escapes to the cockpit.

“Your first attempt failed,” Tyranus says without preamble, face sour—more sour than usual. “You’re losing your edge, Jango.”

“Yeah, well you left out some pretty pertinent information, didn’t you?” Jango bites off. “If I’d known that Amidala knew how to pilot a fighter I’d have been a little more thorough with the nanodroids. This job was hard enough to put together with such short notice, I don’t need you making it harder.”

“Save your excuses for someone who cares to hear them.” Tyranus leans forward, lips twisted in a scowl. “My patience is running thin. You have two days before the vote is called, Amidala must be dead before then.”

“I was about to head out when you called.” A shrug. “She’ll be dead in an hour.”

“Unless you fail again.” Tyranus’ eyes are like black holes in his blue, holographic face. “I have done what I can to feed misinformation about disgruntled spice miners from the moons of Naboo being behind the bombing, but you must take every precaution to prevent the Jedi from tracking you back to Kamino. No more Kaminoan weaponry. They mustn’t discover the clones until it is the appropriate time. They mustn’t discover you.”

The idea that his decade of exile could be for nothing, that the plan would fail at the last second because of his carelessness, sends a chill down Jango’s spine. “Then I’ll kill them, too,” he snaps. “I’ll go big, take the whole building out. I can get thermite in a few—”

“No. If you kill the Jedi assigned to her, you will incur the wrath of the entire Order. Don’t touch them.”

Jango chews on his tongue. “Very well. I’ll call you when she’s dead.” He disconnects before Tyranus can throw another jab at him and stalks down to the hangar, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. 

He’ll have to stay out of sight, which means Arla will have to take a more active role than planned. The last thing he wants to do is potentially expose his daughter to the jetiise, but Tyranus is unfortunately right, and he shouldn’t risk it. He has to stay hidden, stay in the shadows.

“Plan’s changed,” he announces to the waiting Arla. “You’re taking point.”

Arla’s eyes go wide. “I am?”

“I’ll explain on the way.” Jango jerks his head towards the waiting speeder. “Let’s move.”

---

Jango waits on a rooftop half a kilometer away from Arla. She’s perched on the edge of a maintenance catwalk ten blocks north of 500 Republica, waiting for the PH4 droid to return from its special delivery.

Jango is used to waiting. Waiting is half of the job, but he’s getting tired of it. With every second that passes, his anxiety ratchets up. He just wants to know, damn it, know that the kouhons have taken out Amidala, and then he can take his daughter home. Take both of his children to Concord Dawn.

He’s getting too old for this life. His heart hasn’t been in it for years. He’s tired—both in body and soul—and he’s ready to find a quiet place where his children can grow up happy and safe.

(Somewhere far, far away from the war to come. Somewhere no clone trooper would ever step foot. Somewhere Arla won’t be in danger from the millions of drones programmed to kill anyone like her.)

“I see the droid,” Arla announces over comms.

Jango lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. Collect it and—”

“Wait.” Arla sounds nervous. “Oh, osik.”

“What?” Jango barks. “What is it?”

“There’s someone… hanging from it.”

“Hanging?” Jango asks, incredulous. 

“Yeah, he’s holding onto it. What the… hold on, I’ll shoot him off.”

There’s only one kind of person insane enough to hang from a delivery droid in Coruscant traffic. “Arla, wait!” Jango says frantically. “Don’t—”

But he’s too late, and he hears her rifle fire over comms. “Arla? Arla!”

“I got him!” Arla says proudly. 

Shabla haran… Jango feels panic claw at his throat like a rabid animal. She has no idea what she’s done. She has no idea she just killed a Jedi. “Get to the rendezvous!” he orders. “I’ll meet you there. We’re leaving straight away.”

“But I didn’t confirm the kill!”

Jango wants to scream, and barely swallows it down. “Now!”

“Okay, okay, I’m going!” She has the nerve to sound annoyed with him.

Jango uses his jetpack to skip across rooftops, conserving fuel, mentally planning the damage control he’s going to have to perform for Tyranus the whole way. If they can get off world, they’ll be fine. There’s no way to track Arla to Kamino; red armor is hardly unique among Mandalorians, and even if the Jedi saw her akul teeth, he’s dead now, they’ll be—

“Uh oh.”

Jango instantly skids to a halt. “What’s wrong?”

“I think… yep, there’s someone following me.” 

“Lose them!” Jango orders.

“I’m trying to!” Jango keeps jumping rooftops, listening to his daughter grunt and swear under her breath the whole way—he absently reminds himself to have a talk about her language when they get home. He’s halfway to the rendezvous when Arla sighs. “I lost him. I’m clear.”

Under his helmet, Jango grins. “Good girl. Keep going. I’m ten minutes out.” 

“I’m nearly there. There’s a—ack!” She screams. “Where did you—get off!”

Jango slides to a stop on top of a bank, heart racing. “What now?” he demands.

“He fell out of the sky!”

“Who?”

“A shabla Jedi! He’s on top of my speeder!”

Jango listens helplessly—he hears blaster fire, the subsonic fwoom of a lightsaber, the squealing of damaged electronics. “Arla? Arla, answer me this instant!”

“I’m trying to focus here!” 

“Arla!” Jango growls.

“I—oh, shab—”

Jango hears more blaster fire, his daughter crying out in pain, then the channel goes silent.

“Arla?” His daughter is not dead. His daughter cannot be dead. He quadruple checks her vital signs and presses on, hailing her over and over. His eyes are blurry, burning; he blinks the tears away. “Arla? Arl’ika, baby, answer me, please…”

His comlink beeps, the channel reconnects. “B-Buir…” Arla says weakly.

“Arla!” Jango nearly sobs from relief. “Are you hurt?”

“I crashed the speeder.” Jango hears a loud crack—transparasteel breaking. “But I’m okay, I just have to… get out…”

Jango squeezes his eyes shut, traps the panic ripping him from the inside out, and lets out a long, shaky breath. “I’m coming, daughter. Run and hide. The jetiise have your scent now, you have to lose them.” 

Arla sniffles. “Okay. I’m sorry, Buir.”

He hesitates—cold logic bites his chest like the jaws of a wolf, whispering in one ear that he should leave her; the plan is weeks away from its completion, and she isn’t integral to it. He can’t let it all be for nothing for one girl.

The other ear hears the tinkling of bells on the skirt of a five-year-old slave girl, wrapped in silk the same color of her eyes.

(Jango is willing to overlook almost anything to see the plan to its completion. Not everything. Not his daughter.)

“Don’t be sorry. Just stay alive until I can get to you.” Jango activates her location beacon and throttles full blast into the sky. 

If the jetiise see him, then so be it. To hell with Tyranus. To hell with the plan.

---

Jango tracks Arla’s beacon to a nightclub on the forty-seventh level. His HUD warns him that his jetpack has less than ten percent fuel remaining.

He pings Arla’s comm and waits. 

“Buir?” she whispers after a few seconds.

“I’m outside The Outlander.” Jango scans the line. “Are the jetiise in there with you?”

“Y-Yes.” Arla’s voice is so quiet, Jango has to turn up his receiver. “I’m hiding in the ladies’ fresher. They’re looking for me.”

“So you don’t know exactly where they are?”

“No.”

“Do you have your vocabulator muted?”

“Yes.”

“Then speak up. They won’t hear you.” Jango uses a tiny bit of fuel to jump to the roof opposite of the alley beside the nightclub. Nine-point-nine percent. “There’s a back door on the western side. Which door are you closer to?”

“The back. But I don’t know where they are. What if they—”

“Move aside, this is Jedi business.” A young, haughty male voice busts through comms on Arla’s end, quickly followed by half a dozen female voices protesting his presence in Basic and Rodian. Jango turns the volume back down before he goes deaf. “Anyone who isn’t an assassin,” the male continues, “get out of here while you still can.”

“Buir…” Arla whimpers.

“Is that the jetii?”

“Yes.”

Jango steels himself. “Listen to me, daughter. I know you’re afraid, but remember: fear is nothing more than your will to survive overpowering your other senses. Focus, follow my orders, and use it to survive this. Are you in a stall?”

“Yes.” 

Jango winces at a loud bang—the jetii is busting doors down. Arla’s out of time. “Prime your flash when he’s one stall away. When he opens your stall, I want you to toss it, then use your flamethrower to force him back. Even if he’s still got his senses, his lightsaber can’t parry flame. Once he’s out of your face, run for the front door, because the other one will expect you to go for the back. They’ll split up. I’m covering the back exit for when the other one runs out. You keep. Running. Once I take him out, I’ll get yours from behind. Don’t try to fight him. Just run.” 

“O-Okay.” Arla takes a deep breath. The bangs get louder as the jetii gets closer. Jango closes his eyes, imagines his daughter crouched on top of a toilet, shaking in fear. “Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum, Buir,” Arla whispers. “J-Just in case.”

Jango’s heart cracks in half. “Darasuum, ner Arl’ika.”

A loud bang, a hiss of fuel—a shout of pain, surprise. Jango holds his breath and listens to Arla run, then—

“Ahhh!”

“Gotcha!”

“Let me go!”

Jango nearly bites through his tongue. His pulse pounds like a war drum. 

“What the—she’s just a kid!”

“Hold her, Anakin, hold her!” The second voice is obnoxiously posh, thickly Coruscanti.

“I said let me go!”

Humming, screaming—the back door busts open and Arla stumbles outside, her chuka dangling from her left hand, two jetiise on her heels.

The taller, younger jetii tackles her before she can escape and wrestles her into a chokehold. The older, bearded one rips off her helmet.

Jango can’t kill them, and he doesn’t have a clear shot with Arla squirming like a damned squid—-though of course he approves, that’s exactly what she’s trained to do.

“Oh.” The jetii sounds surprised. “She is a kid.”

“I’m not a kid, I’m fourteen!” Arla seethes, and jams her elbow into the gut of the jetii wrapped around her. He lets out a comically high-pitched squeak. 

Jango watches and waits for his opening. If there’s still a chance he can get her out without being identified by the jetiise, he’ll take it. Now that she’s pacified—sort of—their vows state they can’t kill her, so all he needs to do is get them away from her. Tyranus told him no more Kaminoan weaponry, but he doesn’t see another option; he loads up a demi-kill dart and waits.

“Young one, what in the blazes are you doing wrapped up in all of this?” The jetii extinguishes his lightsaber and stakes his hands on his hips. “You’re far too young to have been hired for an assassination this high-profile. Who put you up to this?”

“Ke’shab, jetii chakaar.” Arla spits in his face. Jango can’t help but be proud.

“Who hired you?” The young jetii tightens the arm around Arla’s throat.

“Your mother!” Arla wheezes. 

Fire ignites in the Padawan’s eyes. “Wrong answer,” he growls, squeezing harder.

“Anakin, if she can’t breathe, she can’t tell us anything.” The older jetii crouches down so he’s at eye level. “Udesii, ad’ika. You’re Mandalorian, right? You don’t need to be afraid.” 

Above, Jango chokes—the bastard knows Mando’a? 

“We’re not going to hurt you, little one, but I won’t lie—you’re in a great deal of trouble. Tell us who hired you and we will help you, I promise.”

Arla lashes out with one of her coltish legs and kicks him in the chest, knocking him onto his shebs. 

It’s the opening Jango’s been waiting for, and with a silent prayer of apology, he shoots the dart into his daughter’s throat. She instantly collapses in the one called Anakins arms, unconscious.

The flatline alert in his HUD sends adrenaline spurting through his veins like tibanna. He forcibly reminds himself she’s fine, she’s fine—

“She’s dead!” Anakin exclaims, eyes wide with shock. 

“She’s fine,” Jango whispers to himself. He fires a bolt at their feet to get their attention and jets into the sky.

“There! Follow him!”

Jango skips rooftops, rationing his fuel—nine-point-four, nine-point-three—careful to not go too fast. The jetiise have to catch up, but not get close enough to identify him. He leads them three blocks north and it’s only when he hears footsteps right behind him that he jets straight up into the sky, far out of reach, leaving them to watch his contrails. 

Arla’s vitals bloom to life in the corner of his HUD. “Daughter,” Jango immediately bellows over comms. 

“Buir!” Arla coughs, gasps wetly. “What—”

“I’ve led them away, now run!”

“I’m—”

“Arla, run!” Jango roars.

He jets to the rendezvous point—a grimy diner, with a neon sign of a kragget drinking from a cup of caf blinking erratically in its large window—and lands outside with one-point-one percent fuel remaining. He waits for her inside in a corner booth, ignoring the cup of caf he ordered for the privilege of the seat.

It feels like hours, but it’s only ten minutes before Arla stumbles inside, almost dead on her feet. She falls into Jango’s arms, shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, “I screwed everything up. I’m so sorry.”

Jango checks her neck for the dart—his heart sinks, seeing it’s gone. All he can do is hope that it fell out far enough away from the scene for the jetiise to miss it. He closes his eyes, tightens his arms around his daughter. “Let’s go home.”

---

They take the long way back to Kamino, traveling hyperspace lanes outside of Republic space. It takes almost forty hours to get back—but, as Jango always tells his children, it’s better to be thorough.

Arla spends the ride curled up in her rack, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

Later, Jango checks the holonet and sees that Senator Amidala survived. He gets three calls from Tyranus and ignores them all.

He fumbled the plan at the last second. The clones can’t be revealed until after the act passes. The Jedi have to be forced into this, they’ll never do it unless they’re compelled. 

Arla twitches like a kicked pup in her sleep. Jango sits on the floor, whisper-singing Mando’a songs until her heart stops pounding.

---

They set down on Kamino an hour before sundown, though the only light that reaches the surface of the stormy planet is from the lightning overhead.

“Looks like another hurricane,” Jango says to his daughter, who still won’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to get stuck here. Go pack for Concord Dawn. We won’t be here long.”

Arla nods and slips away, silent as a ghost.

Jango finds Boba in the library jamming bangcorn in his mouth, watching old holovids from the High Republic. Something with shabla jetiise, the little traitor. “Buir!” He rushes into Jango’s arms. “How’d the job go? Did you get ‘em?”

“Don’t I always?” Jango teases—not the truth, not quite a lie. 

“Where’s Arla?” Boba asks, peeking behind Jango.

“Around. Go pack. Quickly, now. I want to leave for Concord Dawn as soon as possible.”

“Already? You don’t want to rest first?”

“Nah, I got plenty on the way back.” An outright lie. Jango hasn’t slept in almost fifty hours. “Hurry up, son.”

“Okay!” Boba skips off, merry as a spark-drunk mynock. Oblivious. Jango would prefer he stay that way, but he’s well aware that his entire world is about to change. 

(Failing Tyranus will have consequences. Jango does not intend to stay on Kamino long enough to find out what they are.)

---

Boba is packed and ready to go within minutes, as is Jango, but Arla is nowhere to be found. With her beskar’gam—and tracking beacon—locked away in their quarters next to his own, Jango can’t just ping her, so when he doesn’t find her with Kal, Mij or Vhonte, he borrows Lord Mirdalan from Vau and sets it on her trail.

“Find her, verd’ika.” Jango holds her buc’ye, lets the strill drink its fill of her scent, then follows it through the white halls of Tipoca City. Its bum wiggles as it trots, eager to see its friend.

Jango’s not surprised when it leads him to the CT domes. Disappointed, annoyed, but not surprised.

Mird finally comes to a stop and sits in front of a maintenance doorway, drooling and smiling in its unnerving way.

“Good job, Mird.” Jango tosses it a piece of jerky. It swallows it without chewing and tilts its head; more? it seems to ask.

Jango ignores the beast and slips through the door. The maintenance tunnels are as white as the halls, but half the size. Jango bumps his head against a pipe that hangs down just far enough to be a nuisance, rubs the bump with a wince, and continues forward until he hears voices.

“ …everything up. I’m so stupid.” That’s Arla. He can’t see her, but she sounds like she’s just behind the curve up ahead.

“Hey, that’s not true.” Jango narrows his eyes. It’s his voice—the voice of a clone, but with that rounder accent they all seem to get. “You’re brilliant, Arla. Yeah, you made a mistake, but—”

“I didn’t just make a mistake, Rex, I screwed up the whole mission!” Arla says miserably. “I disappointed him. You didn’t see the way he looked at me, like… like…”

“Like what?”

Jango frowns. Yeah, like what? He was terrified for her life, doesn’t she realize that?

“Like I was a mistake,” Arla whispers.

Jango’s heart sinks. He didn’t look at her like that, did he? He certainly didn’t mean to.

“I don’t think this was just any old job. I think it was a lot more important than he let on. We’re going to Concord Dawn as soon as I get back, and I… I just have this feeling that we’re never coming back here.” 

“You don’t know that.” The clone—what did she call him, Rex? Jango can’t help but wonder if she named him that—says soothingly. “And if that’s so, then… well, that’s how it is. I’ve got your frequency memorized, I’ll contact you when I can.”

Arla laughs, a dry sob. “Yeah, because you have access to a comhub, right?”

“I might one day. We don’t know what’s in store for us. Just the war.”

“Just the war. Right.” Arla sounds as bitter as week-old pog soup. “Let’s hope you don’t die on the first day, ‘lek?”

“Well, yeah.” Rex laughs. “Come on. Give me a hug and go find your buir before he hunts us down and shoots me for talking to you.”

Jango can’t help but smirk—too late for the first bit, and he’s still deciding on the second—but then it drops off his face, because going fifty-one hours without sleep has made him slow to realize that his daughter has been sneaking off to meet with a clone trooper in a secret maintenance tunnel. 

How long has this been going on? And just what else have they been doing down here? He peeks around the corner and sees Arla snuggled up in the arms of the blond cadet who was getting his osik handed to him in Priest’s battle circle.

His blood ignites like coaxium. “Arla!” he barks.

The two separate faster than he can blink, jumping to their feet, staring at him. Both of their faces are awash with guilt—and fear.

Jango eyes Rex, looks him up and down, and with a deep huff, turns away. “We’ve got somewhere to be, daughter.” Jango snaps his fingers. “Move it.”

Arla spares one final, lingering glance at Rex—standing at attention, watching Jango with wide, terrified eyes—before following him. 

Mird trots beside them trying to get Arla’s attention. She gives it a meek head pat and hurries to catch up.

“How long has this been going on?” Jango demands once they’re back in their dome.

Arla avoids both the question and his gaze, choosing to stare at her feet.

“I asked you a question, Arla.” Jango stops. “How long?”

“Six years,” Arla whispers, wringing her hands. “Rex is my friend.”

“Your friend, eh?” Jango narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, my friend,” Arla says, defensive. “I know what you said, that the CTs are just drones, but—”

“Just friends?” Jango cuts her off.

Arla’s nose crinkles in disgust. “Yes, just friends. Buir, come on, he looks just like you. You don’t think I’d…” —her mouth twists— “with someone who looks like my father? Ew.”

It’s… a fair point, and it’s still a relief to hear her say it out loud, but she still looks a little too nervous for his liking. It’s the lekku. They’re stiff, and the stripes are darker than usual. “We’re leaving for Concord Dawn,” he says curtly, turning on his heel. “I’m going to pop into the sanisteam. I want you packed and ready by the time I’m out. Do you understand me?”

Arla nods, wisely choosing not to argue. “Yessir.” 

“And Arla…” Jango softens his tone. “You are not a mistake. Bringing you home was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

Then Arla smiles for the first time since they left for Coruscant, and the knot in his chest eases.

---

Jango’s just slipped his shirt over his head when he hears Boba calling for him. “Buir! Taun We is here!”

Jango sighs, not in the mood to deal with the kaminiise. He opens the fresher door, mumbles “Hurry up,” at Arla—elbow deep in a duffel bag—on the way, and…

And beside Taun We, politely waiting for him in their small dining room is a jetii. Not just any jetii. The one that went after Arla, the who called her ad’ika and got a boot to the chest for his trouble. He’s around the same height as Jango, with clear blue eyes, a reddish beard, and a pleasant, diplomatic smile. He bows in greeting. 

“Jango, welcome back,” Taun We says pleasantly. “Was your trip productive?”

Jango buttons his sleeves back, keeping his face neutral. “Fairly.” He signs at Arla to stay behind his back and keeps himself in between his armor and the jetii’s line of sight.

“This is Jedi Master Kenobi. He’s come to check on our progress.” Taun We continues on, oblivious.

“Your clones are very impressive.” Kenobi’s smile is as fake as the artificial lighting. “You must be very proud.”

Jango’s smile is just as real. “I’m just a simple man, trying to make my way in the universe.”

“Ever made your way as far into the interior as Coruscant?” Kenobi’s smile doesn’t falter.

“One or twice.”

“Recently?” Still that damn plastoid smile.

“Possibly.”

“Then you must know Master Sifo-Dyas.”

Jango knows that Kenobi knows. And he knows that Kenobi knows he knows. Still, he keeps up the facade, and strolls to the other side of the room, keeping the jetii’s eyes on him and not his very recognizable daughter a room away. He casually says to his son, “Eh, Boba–uded sso yyp,” and turns around. 

Close the door. Boba’s face changes, and now he knows that something’s wrong, because Jango never uses Kaminoan.

“Master who?” Jango asks.

“Master Sifo-Dyas,” Kenobi repeats. Boba hits the door key, stone-faced. “Is he not the Jedi who hired you for the job?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Really.” Kenobi’s smile finally falters, flattening like his tone.

“Really. I was recruited by a man called Tyranus on one of the moons of Bogda.” Jango steps closer, smiling, getting in the jetii’s space to unsettle him. 

Kenobi doesn’t flinch. “Curious.”

“Do you like your army?” Jango tilts his head, still smiling.

“I look forward to seeing them in action,” Kenobi says. His smile no longer reaches his eyes.

“They’ll do their job well. I guarantee that.”

Kenobi watches him impassively for a few seconds, the gears in his head turning. “Thank you for your time,” he finally says, bowing his head.

“Always a pleasure to meet a Jedi,” Jango replies.

(He wonders if Kenobi would be as pleasant if he knew Jango had killed six of his kind with his bare hands. He suspects not.)

“Sorry, there was one more thing.” Kenobi pauses in front of the hall door. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of someone named Ahsoka Tano, have you?” 

Jango raises an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t. Who’s he?”

“She.” Kenobi’s smile returns, and it’s far too wide to be genuine. 

“I am Jango. I’m your buir now. Su’cuy.”

Arla tilts her head. “Um… soka,” she repeats awkwardly, pointing to her chest.

“She’s a Jedi—or rather, she was meant to be. She’s a Togruta girl from Shili, kidnapped from her village at three years old by a Zygerrian slaver posing as a Jedi, promising to take her to the Temple. That was… eleven years, ago, I believe. She’s been missing ever since.”

 Jango forces a smile. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“We tracked her to a Zygerrian slave trader named Chomai F’tarr,” Kenobi continues. “When we arrived, we discovered that Chomai had been assassinated three days earlier. Ahsoka was the only one of her slaves missing. The window for her to join the Order has regrettably passed, but we haven’t forgotten her. Her investigation is open to this day. We never stopped looking for her.”

Jango inwardly tells himself Kenobi isn’t edging towards the door key, his nerves are making him imagine it. “What’s she got to do with this?” he asks.

Kenobi shrugs. “Well, you are a bounty hunter. Who better to ask about a missing girl than a man who finds people for a living?”

“Haven’t heard of her.” Jango leans against the counter. “Sorry.”

“A shame.” Kenobi slips into the hall, followed by Taun We, and Jango doesn’t like the way the shabla longneck is looking at him. 

(There is nothing wrong with what he did. He saved Arla. He saved Arla. Not just from the Zygerrians. From the jetiise, too.)

The door to the bedroom slides open. Arla stares at Jango, her mouth slightly open. “Am… Was he… Am I…”

“Pack everything,” Jango says with a calm he doesn’t feel. “We’re leaving.”

“But—”

Jango walks into the kitchen and runs the cold water at full-blast over his face.

(It’s that, or scream.)

---

Jango’s soaked down to his shebs, halfway up the ramp helping Boba load the last crate onto the Slave I, when he sees Arla freeze.

“Buir!” She points behind him. “The jetii!”

Jango drops the crate and reaches for his blasters. “Both of you, get on board!”

“Ahsoka, wait!” Kenobi shouts, barely audible over the thunder. Steam surrounds his blue lightsaber, the rain that hits the plasma boiling away with a hiss. 

Jango unleashes an avalanche of bolts in his direction, holding him back, giving his children the time they need to flee. Damned Kenobi deflects every shot, forcing Jango to take to the skies. He jets behind one of the ventilation towers and grabs on.

The servos of the Slave I’s guns whirr and clank as they shift into position. Jango grins; he shouldn’t be surprised they’re going on the offensive—his children are well trained, after all—but he still feels a flush of pride. 

He creeps around the side of the tower and fires a rocket at Kenobi, knocking him off his feet. The Slave I’s guns blast him as he staggers back up, throwing him back again—and his lightsaber flies out of his hands, safely out of reach.

Jango wants to laugh, but he’s got the scent of blood in his nose now, and he wants Kenobi dead. 

(How dare he interfere. How dare he plant that osik in his daughter’s head about looking for her. Any jetii that wants her will have to go through him.)

Jango rockets towards Kenobi, goes to kick his shebs off the edge of the landing pad—

And Kenobi kicks him back, the chakaar, and knocks his WESTAR out of his hand for good measure. They grapple for a few, frustrating seconds, meeting blow for blow. Kenobi pulls back, swings—Jango headbutts him and sends him flying. Kenobi recovers too quickly, rolls to his feet, reaches for the lightsaber that’s too far away to grasp, but it flies toward his hands anyway.

Jango shoots him with whipcord and binds his bastard hands at the wrist, takes off dragging him across the pad. He’s almost got the jetii to the edge when his cord comes to a sudden stop. Jango crashes hard onto the landing pad, his jetpack taking the brunt of the impact, shooting off his back and into the sky.

As luck would have it, his fallen WESTAR is only inches away. Jango reaches for it, manages to pop off two shots at the jetii rushing for him before the chakaar’s boots connect with his chest and send him sailing over the edge.

But the Kaminoans built domes, not towers, and so Jango slides down the fat edge instead of dropping straight into the stormy ocean—though his WESTAR goes flying into the ocean. Thinking fast, he digs his wristblades into the plastoid and slows his descent.

He can’t help but laugh when Kenobi slides right past him and goes over the edge. But it stops being funny when the whipcord goes taught, and Jango almost goes down with him.

With a grunt, Jango releases his whipcord and dumps the dangling jetii before he can pull them both into the water. 

“Buir!” Arla shouts, peering over the edge. She shoots a length of whipcord down and tugs him up. “Are you—”

“Are you alright?” Jango cuts in. She nods. “Then we need to go. Now.”

“But don’t you need to confirm the—”

“Now, Arla!” Jango drags her towards the Slave I. Boba peers down at them from the viewport, his face screwed up with worry. 

Thirty seconds later, they’re in the air. They jump into hyperspace as soon as they break atmo. Only then does Jango remove his helmet and allow himself to breathe.

(He can leave, and he did. He’s not in prison. He’s not a slave. He never will be again.)

---

Three hours later, the comhub lights up with a call Jango doesn’t have the option of ignoring. 

“You are needed on Geonosis,” Tyranus says. No admonishment. No mention of the jetiise discovering the plan. 

“I’m not taking on any jobs right now,” Jango replies stonily.

“This is not a request.” 

“I don’t take orders.”

“You do from me.”

“I’m not one of your slave soldiers bred to obey every order, Lord Tyranus,” Jango says icily. “I’m done. I’m out. You’ve got your army, I’ve got my payment. Let’s keep it cordial and part on good terms.”

Tyranus bows. “If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do to change your mind…” Something isn’t right. Tyranus should be more bothered, with all that’s gone wrong in only a few days, but he’s as cool as a caniphant.

“No,” Jango says anyway. 

“Very well. But, if you do decide otherwise, do so quickly.” Tyranus disappears, leaving Jango alone in the cockpit with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

His thoughts are the last thing he wants to be alone with right now, so he seeks out his children. They’re asleep in the Slave I’s singular cabin, wrapped around each other on the narrow rack. Arla still wears her beskar’gam, though her helmet and lekku sheathes have been set aside. She’s curled around Boba like a strill, purring like a motor, her fingers entangled in his hair, while his arms are locked around her chest.

Jango’s eyes fall to her weapons belt, to where Kenobi’s lightsaber is hooked beside her chuka. He takes it back with him to the cockpit.

---

Jango receives another transmission when they’re an hour away from Concord Dawn—this time, from Cad Bane. 

“Jango. Don’t suppose you’re anywhere near the G’tari System.”

“I’m not.” Jango leans back, puts his feet on the console. “And I’m on sabbatical. If you need a hand, Zam Wesell’s on Nar Shaddaa. That’s only two systems over from G’tari, if I remember right.”

“Zam’s good, but I need someone more skilled.” Bane’s hologram grimaces. “I don’t trust this line isn’t being monitored. Can you meet me?”

“Can’t, old friend. Sorry.” The hair on the back of Jango’s neck goes up. Something about Bane’s eyes…

“Fine. But do me a favor—as an old friend, you know. If you don’t hear from me in twenty hours, then ask around at the Yilly-Yilly fuel depot, orbiting right outside of Gor.”

“Mmm.” Jango doesn’t blink. “This the part when I’m supposed to ask what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Nothing you can’t fix.”

A small smile. “Is that so,” Jango drawls.

“Look, if you want me to keep breathing, then—”

Jango ends the transmission. “Nice try, old friend,” he mutters to himself. He doesn’t hold it against Bane, because he’d have to expect better from him in the first place. Obviously the chakaar is trying to get his location nailed down, get him out in the open, which can only mean one thing.

Jango checks the Guild’s bounty boards, and sees the newest—and most costly—up at the top.

Ahsoka Tano, alias Arla Fett. Mandalorian trained. Force sensitive. Highly dangerous—shoot to kill. Accompanied by Jango Fett. Five million credits, dead or alive.

A still holo of Arla in full beskar’gam, taken in ultra-high definition from Kamino’s security cameras. A second one of her face and its very recognizable markings.

Jango feels a cold, hollow pit open up in his stomach. He checks the balance of the accounts he’s set up for Tyranus’ payments throughout the years.

One hundred and forty two million spread out over two hundred accounts. All empty.

Jango sits silently for one, two, ten minutes, his ears ringing in the silence. And just like that, he has nothing. No credits. He has his children, but any allies he could have called on are, undoubtedly, already preparing to hunt his daughter down. Not him. His daughter. Tyranus didn’t put up a fight because he knows he doesn’t need to bully Jango into submission. Not when he has money.

The life Jango, planned for, spent a decade in exile earning, is gone. Just like the plan he threw away weeks before its ultimate fruition. He thanks the shabla stars that he filled up on Kamino, because now he doesn’t even have gas money.

Resigned, he dials Tyranus’ frequency.

“Jango,” Tyranus says, eyes twinkling. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Plotting the course to Geonosis now,” Jango says dully. “Give me five hours.”

“I look forward to seeing you.” Tyranus smirks. “And do bring those delightful children of yours. I’m especially interested in meeting little Arla.”

Jango smashes the imager. The holo flickers away, but not before he hears Tyranus laugh.

(It was always a prison. He was always a slave. He always will be.)

---

“This… isn’t Concord Dawn.” Boba looks at Jango, clearly confused. 

“No. It’s not. It’s Geonosis.” Jango flips a few switches, dials up the shields, preparing to make his way through the rings around the ugly planet. 

“What’s on Geonosis?” Arla asks, leaning between them.

Jango pushes away the lek tip tickling his cheek. “My employer needs my assistance with something first.”

“Your employer?” Boba’s face falls. “But you promised we’d go to Concord Dawn and get my—”

“I know,” Jango snaps. “I know, and I’m not happy about it either. Sometimes in life you have to get the unpleasant work out of the way before you do what you want.”

(Jango doesn’t foresee them doing what they want in the near future. Not until he gets that bounty off Arla.)

Arla and Boba both look at him with accusing eyes. “You’re not telling us something,” Arla says.

“You know everything you need to know,” Jango evades. “When we arrive, you’re to stay on the ship unless I say otherwise.”

Arla throws him a sour look and turns to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jango holds up Kenobi’s lightsaber, waves it at her.

Arla’s eyes dart between him and the jetii’kad, wide and guilty.

“Why’d you take it?” Jango asks.

“So he wouldn’t use it on you if he made it out of the water.” She swings for it. Jango dodges her. “Come on, Buir, I took it fair and square! He lost his weapon, I claimed it!”

“And what were you going to do with it?” Jango asks dryly, “show Rex? You don’t know how to use it.”

Boba’s mouth falls open. “You told Buir about Rex?” he hisses at his sister.

“You knew about that?” Jango shoots his son a glare.

Boba turns bright red.

(Boba was the one who suggested using Mird, Jango remembers.)

Arla is frowning at Boba now. “Did you tell him where to find me?”

“No!”

“Did you know where she was and lie to me?” Jango demanded.

“No!” Boba’s sweating. “No, I-I didn’t know where she was. Technically. I knew the… vicinity. But not the exact spot.”

Jango just looks at him and waits for him to wilt. It doesn’t take long. Once his son looks like a Tatooinian frog-lizard, Jango asks, “Why didn’t you tell me she was ‘friends’ with a CT?” 

“She made me swear,” he says miserably. “A blood oath.” He holds up his thumb. 

“Arla.” Jango glares at his daughter. “If you ever make your brother swear a blood oath to keep a secret from me, I’ll tan your hide until you turn purple.” (Jango has never in his life laid a hand on his daughter. He’s never had to. How does a man smack a ray of sunshine?) “Am I understood?”

“Buir!” Boba says suddenly, alarmed. “I think we’re being tracked.”

The three crowd around the viewscreen.

“Is it the jetii?” Arla asks.

“He must have put a homing device on our hull.” Jango switches off the autopilot. “Hang on, kids. We’ll move into the asteroid field.” He primes the seismic charges. “And we’ll have a couple of surprises waiting for him.”

With a push of a button, the charges are deployed. The first goes off, liquidating the rocks around the jetii’s little Delta-7. When that one doesn’t get him, Jango detonates the second, and watches the chakaar dodge that one too.

“He doesn’t seem to take a hint, this guy,” Jango says, frustration leaking into his voice. 

Jango dives into the shadowed maw of a massive asteroid, its tunnel-like entrance just wide enough to admit the Slave I. The rock walls close in around them, rough and jagged, lit only by the ship’s running lights.

As he hoped, the jetii follows him in. He throttles down, skimming the interior of the tunnel. The ship’s belly kisses stone.

“You’re gonna scrape the paint off,” Arla says dryly. She’s strapped herself into the navigator’s console. 

“Then you’ll just have to touch it up,” Jango mutters. 

The sensors blur—too much interference from the dense mineral veins—but he knows Kenobi’s still back there. 

Jango jerks the controls, dipping them into a crevice, then threads through a gap no sane pilot would try. The thrusters roar as he punches the throttle and blasts out of the asteroid’s far side.

He pulls up hard, flips the ship, and spins it into position.

“Hang on.”

The laser cannons open up, spitting fire into the field. Bright bolts scorch through the vacuum, chasing the little Delta-7 that dances between debris. 

“Get him, Buir, get him!” Boba cheers.

Jango growls. He tracks the delta through a break in the rocks, fires again, but the jetii is slippery, his ship rolling through the assault like it’s got a mind of its own. After almost a full minute, when his cannons are on the brink of overheating, he finally scores a hit on the delta’s port side.

“You got him!” Boba exclaims excitedly.

“Now, we’ve just got to finish him.” Jango hits a different switch. “Missile away.”

The homing missile launches with a satisfying thump, a silver-blue streak in the dark. It curves after the Jedi’s ship, hungry and relentless. Around one asteroid, under another. Dodges, loops, spirals.

Jango leans forward, watching it chase its target like a strill on a scent trail.

A brilliant burst lights up the field. The scanners go quiet.

Boba whoops. Arla straightens, but doesn’t speak.

“Well, we won’t be seeing him again.” Jango smiles to himself.

(He ignores Arla’s eyes on the back of his head.)

---

Geonosis smells like rotten meat and sulfur. Jango’s already sick of it, and he hasn’t even left the dock. He looks at his children one more time—a silent stay put—and walks up to Tyranus, already waiting for him.

“I appreciate you changing your plans on such short notice.” The chakaar has the nerve to grin at him. “Where are the children?” 

Jango’s hand itches for his blaster. “They’re staying on my ship.”

“Nonsense. There’s no reason for them to miss all the fun.” Tyranus peers around him. “Call them, Jango.”

Jango’s hand curls into a fist. “No.”

Tyranus’ eyes slide onto him. “I thought we established that when I give an order, you are to obey.”

Jango has killed six Jedi with his bare hands, but his instincts tell him that if he attacks Tyranus, he won’t win. There’s a strange hum when he steps too close, like a power reactor. Something ancient, something… dark, hovers around the old man. 

Jango reluctantly signals the children to disembark.

“Ah, there we are.” Tyranus steps forward, smiling eerily at Arla. “Let me see your face, child.”

Arla removes her helmet warily. Her eyes flick to Jango, then back to Tyranus.

“Let me get a good look at you… yes.” Tyranus’ eyes run up and down Jango’s daughter, something hungry within them. “You’re healthy. Strong. Your father has raised you as a warrior.” Tyranus snatches Kenobi’s lightsaber from her belt. “I don’t think this belongs to you. Not the normal armament of a Mandalorian, is it?”

“I claimed it,” Arla says frostily. “It belongs to me now.” She snatches it back, bold as brass.

Tyranus’ grin widens. “You have your father’s defiant spirit, I see.” Jango glares at the back of his head. “Lend me your hand for just a moment, my dear.” He sticks Arla’s finger with a device that makes her wince. A number flashes across the small viewscreen—Jango sees M-14,600. “Interesting.” Tyranus’ eyebrows go up. “Very, very interesting.”

Jango doesn’t know what it means, and he doesn’t care. He pulls Arla behind him. “What is it that you want from me?” he demands. 

“Your services as a bodyguard.”

Jango’s eyes flick to the lightsaber hanging from the dar’jetii’s belt. “A bodyguard?”

“Indeed. One can never be too careful, especially with company coming.” Tyranus strolls away like he’s on a leisure stroll. “With me, if you please.”

Jango has no choice but to follow. He keeps his children’s hands clasped tightly in his own.

---

Jango spends a day and a half following Tyranus around like a dog. He meets with the native Geonosians—ugly insects that smell like dirty, rotten, blood-full ticks and speak in a language of clicks, hisses and groans that make Jango’s hair stand up—Trade Federation representatives—Neimodians, enough said—and finally, to Jango’s shock, Senator Padmé Amidala, who is led into the grand chamber with a full detachment of guards on her and Anakin, the young jetii that tackled Arla back on Coruscant.

The senator starts trying to negotiate with Tyranus—cheeky young thing starts making demands, negotiating for their freedom right off the bat. Jango keeps one eye on the young jetii, and the other on his daughter. She stares at Anakin from the shadows. Jango watches her vital signs and sees her heart rate is up. 

What is it that she sees that he doesn’t? He’s barely more than a kid. But the same sort of power that Jango feels around Tyranus when he steps too close lingers around the Padawan, too; something vast, something unknowable.

(Jango also suspects that she might just think he’s cute. She doesn’t see a lot of boys who don’t wear her father’s face. She’s easily impressed.)

“The Republic cannot be fixed, my lady,” Tyranus says in a grave voice. “It is time to start over. Without your cooperation, I’ve done all I can for you.”

The Geonosian leader, Poggle, ekes out something in his repulsive language. The senator and the jetii are led away. 

Arla tracks them. Her left hand rests above the lightsaber hanging from her belt. 

Jango finally catches Arla’s eye, shakes his head minutely; he doesn’t know what she’s thinking, but whatever it is, she’s to stop it. Now. 

---

The Petranaki arena’s nothing more than a blood pit, no matter how grand the towering red walls, how ceremonious the execution. The floor is soft with silt and old blood. Down below, the heat curls off the sand in wavering waves. Three stone columns dot the center, chains swinging in the wind. Sunlight cuts the arena into harsh halves—light and shadow—the stands packed with the Geonosian swarm.

Boba leans over the railing, craning for a better view. “It smells like osik down there.”

Arla joins Boba at the edge. She laces her fingers with his. “You think they ever clean it?” she mutters.

“I think that’s just how Geonosis smells.” Jango shrugs. 

They named the place after Petranaki, some old ritual duel with ceremonial weapons—picador spears, war clubs, whips. That’s history. These days, the crowds want blood and teeth.

(Jango understands better than most.)

Acklays, nexu, reeks. Off-worlders trade them for access, for favors, for shipments of fuel or weapons. Jango tunes out the clicking of the crowd, just enough to stay sharp. He’s watching the floor. Watching the guards. Watching the gates. He assumes that Tyranus is at some sort of risk, or he wouldn’t be here. The crowd hums like a hive of wasps, all wings and clicking mandibles. The arena floor’s still empty, but the Geonosian guards are falling into formation. The Trade Federation’s made their way up here. That means it’s close.

Across the sand, they bring out the prisoners in a repulsor cart. Three of them. Two jetiise, plus Padmé Amidala, easy to spot in all white. Her spine is straight, her chin high despite the binders. She doesn’t flinch when they shove her towards the furthest column.

Arla leans on the rail beside him, her mouth a thin, unsettled line. “Why is this happening?” she asks. “She’s a senator. A public execution like this… isn’t that basically a declaration of war against the Republic?”

Jango keeps his eyes on the crowd. “One in one, ner Arl’ika.”

Tyranus steps out the shadows, face unreadable. He spares Jango a glance—brief, dismissive—and continues speaking to Poggle in clipped, low tones. Jango doesn’t need to hear the words. The posture says it all.

Arla shivers.

Three doors on the far end of the arena open. The first one holds a reek, which bellows once it hits the sunlight. The second has an aklay taller than the Slave I; it scrambles out sideways, eerily bent in half to squeeze through. The third has a nexu, and the moment it’s free, it lunges for the closest Geonosian wrangler atop its mount and rips it to pieces.

The crowd screams with bloodlust. Boba reaches for Arla’s hand and squeezes it. “Udesii, vod,” he whispers. “I got your back.”

“They can’t get up here,” Jango says shortly, keeping his eyes on the beasts. Despite his reassurances, he doesn’t trust them, especially that nexu. They’re climbers. He keeps one hand on his blaster anyway.

“It’s not them,” Arla whispers.

The beasts are herded towards their prey with spears. The acklay goes for Kenobi, first; Jango isn’t surprised that he manages to not only duck its blow, but get it to break his chains. The osi’kovid can’t seem to die, no matter what anyone throws at him. 

(Jango begrudgingly admires Kenobi’s ability to survive, if nothing else.)

The reek goes for the Padawan, Anakin. The boy flips, lands on its back, and starts running it around the arena like a nerfherder at a rodeo, causing all sorts of chaos. 

The nexu goes for Amidala—who somehow managed to climb her way to the top of the column while Jango was watching the acklay—clawing its way up the column. She slaps the osik out of it with her chains, drives it back, but when it gets a good swipe at her and rips her back open, and half her shirt along with it.

Arla looks away. She has her helmet on, but Jango knows that body language; he knows when his daughter is about to cry. Boba squeezes her hand once, twice, says something Jango doesn’t catch—

The crowd screams. Amidala jumps down from the column, uses the chain to swing around and kick the nexu to the ground. It falls to the sand with a cry of pain, shudders, and goes still.

“She can’t do that!” Nute Gunray gestures wildly. “Shoot her, or something!”

“Buir.” Arla tugs on his belt. “Buir, something’s wrong.” 

Jango turns his back on the arena. “What do you mean?”

“I…” Arla leads him and Boba away from the railing—away from Tyranus. She pulls her helmet off. “I have a bad feeling,” she whispers. “We need to get out of here.”

Jamgo’s helplessness burns like acid in his veins. “I’d like nothing more, daughter, trust me.”

“No, we…” Arla swallows hard. “Buir, we have to get out of here. Now. Or we won’t get out at all.”

The crowd screams again. Jango glances over his shoulder, checks that Tyranus is still alive. “We’re working,” he says shortly, painfully aware of Tyranus’ eyes on them—on Arla. He drags them back.

In the thirty seconds he wasn’t looking, everything in the arena seems to have gone to osik: one of the columns lays on its side, the nexu is dead, Kenobi and Amidala have joined the Padawan atop the reek, and the Geonosian handlers are creeping towards them, spears out.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” Nute Gunray whines, turning. “Jango! Finish her!”

“Patience, Viceroy, patience,” Tyranus intones. “She will die.” At his signal, a half-dozen droidekas roll from the eastern end of the arena and convene around the trio atop the reek. 

Arla’s hand spasms. “It’s too late,” she whispers.

Pshew.

Arla jumps backwards with her arm across her brother’s chest. Jango flinches—not much, but a bit—at the violet plasma humming centimeters from his neck. The jetii that holds the saber is bald, with rich brown skin and black eyes that burn as hot as his blade.

“Master Windu.” Tyranus turns, smiling wide. “How pleasant of you to join us.”

(Jango’s hand twitches for his blaster. He forces his pulse to slow, his breathing to even. He can tell Arla is shaking by the way her lekku sheathes tinkle against her cuirass.)

“This party’s over,” Windu says stonily.

All around them, within the stands, hundreds of lightsabers ignite, a sea of blue and green lights amidst the arthopod brown. The Geonosians take off en masse, swarming above the arena, shrieking and clicking furiously.

“Brave, but foolish, my old Jedi friend.” Tyranus smiles, falsely sympathetic. “You’re impossibly outnumbered.”

(Jango remembers what it felt like on Galidraan to put his thumbs through the eyes of the jetii that killed Myles. He remembers the way the globes popped, the fluid gushing from the sockets, the scent of his blood, the way he screamed.)

Windu smirks. “We’ll see.”

(He wants to hear Windu scream.)

Superbattledroids march up the tunnel and rain a hurricane of bolts upon the the jetii. Jango looses a jet of flame in his face, driving him away from his children.

“Buir!” Arla’s got her helmet on, now, and her blaster out. She shakes like a leaf. “What do we do?” 

“We do our job.” Jango nods at Tyranus—at who, as far as he can tell, is his one and only shot at getting his children off this godsforsaken planet alive.

The battle below them begins in earnest. A wall of Jedi meets a swarm of battledroids in the center of the arena. The dikut’la reek is still running around, causing havoc. Senator Amidala jumps upon the back of one of the Geonosian mounts and starts racing around the arena, firing wildly.

(She’s the reason Jango’s in this mess. But still, he can’t help but admire the dalgaan’s mandokar.)

Jango keeps his eyes on the shabuir with the violet blade, bloodlust rising every second the chakaar stays alive. He held a lightsaber to a father’s throat in front of his children. He may as well have pissed in his buc’ye with how disrespectful the action was. 

Arla draws a second before Jango does, aiming at the jetii that lands directly in front of Tyranus. She hesitates; Jango doesn’t. He plugs the Vurk three times in the chest and sends him over the edge.

Tyranus gives him a nod of thanks. 

Jango spins his WESTAR before holstering it. He turns his eyes back to the battlefield and finds the violet in the sea of green-blue; a smile grows. It seems the reek has a fondness for purple.

“Stay here,” Jango says curtly to his children, and jets off before they can argue. He doesn’t look back. He already knows Arla’s reaching for him, and he ignores it, because Windu is running away from the reek like a hut’uun and as satisfying as it is to watch, Jango wants to be the one to drive the light out of his eyes.

Windu slices off one of the reeks horns at the last second before it hits him. The lightsaber goes flying. Jango lands beside it, lunges for it—

Windu pulls it to his hand from ten feet away and ignites it with a self-satisfied smirk.

Jango hears a bellow; the reek’s gargantuan feet smash down inches away from his head. The chakaar rolls him like a drum across the arena floor. Jango hears popping, crackling—and there goes a second jetpack in as many days, the reek smashing up his spare like knockoff Toydarian freighter parts. The overgrown piece of sausage bowls him over, comes to a sliding stop and kicks the sand, snarling. Jango staggers to his feet, dazed—sees the beast is charging for him again—blocks out everything but its left eye, aims, and fires.

One shot, right to the brain, and it goes down like a downed freighter. Jango jumps out of the way, rolls to his feet and scans the battlefield. Blue, green, blue, green, violet—

Jango fires once, twice, three times at Windu, all to the body, all deflected—

(It’s when time slows down that Jango realizes that he’s going to die. Too close, too close, his jetpack fails to ignite, he watches the blade swim across his line of sight, separating his hand from his wrist, turn and comes for his throat—)

“NO!”

Windu flies backwards like he’s just taken a cannonball to the chest, flying at least fifty feet through the air before landing hard on his shebs and sliding ten more.

Arla still has her hands outstretched. She stands frozen, as if what she just did turned her to stone. 

Jango reaches out for his daughter with a hand that’s no longer there. “Arla,” he says calmly. 

She doesn’t move.

“Arla,” Jango says, more urgently. A bolt flies past her head. He sees violet in the corner of his vision, Windu charging back into the fray.

(Distantly, he’s aware that he’s going into shock. He doesn’t remember how to say this out loud.)

Arla’s head snaps up. She stumbles backwards, reaching for her blaster first, then reaching for Kenobi’s lightsaber at her belt, bringing it up just in time to block Windu’s violet blade.

“No!” Jango screams. He fumbles at his helmet with both hands—one hand, the other’s gone, it’s gone—rips it off and tosses it away. “She’s a child!” He stumbles forward, falls to his knees. “She’s just a child!”

Windu’s eyes go wide with surprise. With a flick of his wrist he sends Kenobi’s lightsaber flying out of Arla’s hands.

“Take off…” Jango slurs. The world is turning white around the edges, white like snowy Galidraan. “Take off your helmet, Ahsoka. Let them see you.”

He falls to his knees. He tastes gravedirt. He hears the tinkling of bells on a tiny slave girl’s skirt.

---

Jango wakes up a week later in the Jedi Temple, locked up in their Halls of Healing under round-the-clock guard of at least two Jedi Temple guards in white masks. He soon learns there is also a squad of clone troopers outside his door prepared to subdue him in case of an escape attempt—an unnerving prospect.

(He thinks about the face of the baby boy he left an orphan on Azterri again. His father asked Jango if he could really do it, if he could really shoot himself—he couldn’t. But Jango could.)

They install a prosthetic chassis to replace the hand they so rudely took from him. So far, it’s just a spidery collection of durasteel bones and crylex tendons, but they’re doing an… acceptable job of building him a custom mech. 

His missing hand isn’t actually the worst of his injuries. He was too full of adrenaline at the time to notice, but the reek’s trampling did what would have been a fatal amount of internal damage.

(The fact is, if Windu hadn’t taken his hand off, Jango would have—in the best case scenario, of course—escaped offworld with his children, only to die in hyperspace when the blood pooling in his abdomen outweighed what was left in his veins. It’s a fact not lost on Jango.)

His injuries keep him stuck in bed. Boba and Arla are allowed to visit for three hours every day—also under heavy guard, and never at the same time. They tell him they’re also being held in the Jedi Temple, in a very nice prison known as the Diplomatic Quarters. Normally they house visiting diplomats from Republic worlds. The children have a whole level in one of the smaller towers to themselves, a holoprojector, a hololibrary, whatever food they want on demand at all hours of the day and night, a pool, a gym, and a completely impenetrable force field surrounding the level from every angle. 

Arla receives daily visits from a handful of jetiise; first there’s Kenobi and Anakin, the latter of which seems to have a personal vendetta against her because of the assassination attempt on Senator Amidala. Jango suspects there’s a bit of an angle there—he was sitting quite close to the Senator on that reek, after all. Anakin wants to know everything she knows, everyone who wants Amidala dead, but she doesn’t have anything to tell him. 

Kenobi has the gall to thank her for keeping his lightsaber safe, as he is sure that if Count Dooku would have gotten ahold of it—Jango has to tell Arla that’s Tyranus—he never would have gotten it back after he was captured. She complains he refuses to honor her battle claim over it. Because he’s bored, recovering in bed, Jango reminds her that she has ten fingers and knows how to pickpocket.

(She manages to get it back twice before Kenobi starts carrying it in his hand whenever she’s within the vicinity. She insists he’s trying to intimidate her and he has no honor.)

Boba very much does not like Anakin or Kenobi and isn’t afraid to tell them so, but when a Jedi named Plo Koon is brought up, Boba sort of mumbles under his breath that he’s not bad for a jetii. 

Arla tells him he is the one who was en route to her village when she was kidnapped. She says they had contacted the Jedi about her, so when one showed up within the window they were expecting one, they didn’t question it. Plo tells her stories about her parents and village, about her people. He’s kept in contact with them all these years, giving updates whether there was progress or not.

“Do you want me to call you Ahsoka?” Jango asks quietly.

She doesn’t answer at first. She stares at her knees in silence, cheek muscles working like she’s chewing on their insides. Then she gives a little shake of her head, hugs him tight, and purrs so hard he feels it in his very bruised liver.

---

Two days later, Jango’s prosthetic is covered in a durasteel alloy. The synthskin is next, though the Jedi Healers advise him that he may find that it dulls sensation in his fingertips. 

He starts to get suspicious of it all—or rather, he’s been suspicious from the start, but now he’s getting paranoid—and starts asking his Healers what the catch is. No one is questioning him. No one is interrogating him. No one wants anything from him. They’re letting him rest and heal, keeping his children clothed and fed. It’s all too suspicious.

(The jetiise cannot be trusted. Jango learned this lesson well on Galidraan. The fact that they dare try to earn his trust now, to put up a false front of compassion and charity, infuriates him.)

“What is this going to cost me?” Jango finally demands. “All of this custom built osik, is this some sort of racket? Are you going to punch my ticket for half a million dollars in fees?”

“Ah, ask, I never thought you would.” A hairy green frog waddles into Jango’s room, looking cheerful. “Low is the cost, I think, for a man such as yourself. Information, all we seek. No cost to you.”

“No cost?” Jango scowls and holds up his stump.

“Mmm. Your neck, you almost paid with as well. Good thing, it was, that intervene, your daughter did.” The frog climbs into a chair beside his cot. “Yoda, I am. Grandmaster of the Jedi Order.”

“And what sort of information do you seek from me?” Jango asks, eyes narrowed.

“Curious, I am, about the clones. Made, why were they? Commissioned by Sifo-Dyas, the Kaminoans claim, but hired by Dooku, you say you were. Make an army for his adversary, why would Dooku, hmm?”

Jango thinks about the plan. He thinks about Jaster, and Galidraan. He thinks about the stump on his arm.

And he thinks about the hundred and forty two million credits he earned that Tyranus took away in the blink of an eye. The five million credit bounty on his daughter’s head. The way Windu’s eyes went wide with shock and horror when he heard Jango scream for his daughter’s life.

(To hell with Tyranus. To hell with the plan.)

“I want a clean record,” Jango tells the frog. “Full wipe of everything from before, and immunity from everything to come. For my kids as well.”

“And do this, why would we?” Yoda tilts his head.

“Because it’s the only way your precious Order is going to survive this war,” Jango says simply.

He gets Yoda’s word on flimsiplast—with two witnesses watching them sign the contract—and then he tells Yoda everything he knows about Tyranus and the clones. 

Everything.

(Even what the clones themselves don’t know.)

---

Once Jango can piss without seeing blood and walk ten feet down the marble hall on his own, he’s thrown into Diplomatic Prison with his kids and told to wait.

It’s as terrible as his children described. There’s a small, sunny courtyard garden in the back, lined with a force field that stops him with an unpleasant vibration. It gets painful with pressure and bursts a blood vessel in his palm when he pushes its limits. There are always birds chirping outside and a cool breeze that smells like incense. The furniture is far too comfortable, the food far too fresh, the entertainment too accessible—it all sets Jango pacing like a caged akul, day in, day out. 

What are they waiting for? What are they waiting for?

---

On a random morning three weeks later, two guards take Jango from his bed at dawn, dress him in a prisoner’s orange jumpsuit, and take him before a military tribunal. He’s presented with all the evidence of his crimes. Still holos and cam footage. Signed affidavits from witnesses, testimony from more. Mountains of bodies. He’s charged with murder, kidnapping, extortion, theft; it seems like every felony they could possibly slap him with has evidence, some of which he immediately clocks as forged.

(The most painful part is when they bring up Arla. They paint him as a remorseless killer who kidnapped her in lieu of the payment Chomai F’tarr failed to pass on to him. It takes two Temple guards to hold him in his seat and keep him silent.)

He has no litigator. The trial only lasts a day. He’s found guilty and sentenced to death by a clone firing squad, to be carried out that very evening.

Jango sits and waits for death in a dark cell, completely numb. He shouldn’t be surprised the jetiise went back on their word. But he is. And now all he can feel is a cold fear that sinks into his bones, the knowledge that he is leaving his children behind unprotected.

(A nasty little voice tells him he made that choice himself when he chose to chase after Windu in the arena. For once, he doesn’t argue with it.)

Finally, the cell door opens. Windu, Kenobi, and Yoda all crowd in and sit across from him in silence.

“Can I say goodbye to my children?” Jango asks, breaking the silence like they broke their word. He doesn’t bother railing at them for it. He knows it won’t do any good.

Kenobi tilts his head, smiles that familiar, haughty smile at him. “Why, are you going somewhere?”

Jango’s eyes snap up. 

“You’re not being executed,” Windu says, throwing Kenobi a look. “It was a necessary spectacle. Things will go much smoother from here on out if Count Dooku and his allies believe you’re dead.”

“So what?” Jango stares at him, heart drumming in his ears. “You’re going to keep me locked up here? Kamino?”

“Nowhere,” Yoda says, following up with an infuriating little giggle. “Your help, we still need. Trust, we do, that your repentance is genuine. Betrayed by the Separatists, you have been. Endangered, your children’s lives were. The love for your children you bear… stronger, we believe it is, than your hatred for us. Faith in you, we have.”

“We investigated your claims that the clones were implanted with biochips to control their behavior, and found you were telling the truth. We’ve spent the last month quietly removing them from a select set of clone troopers, then observed them to ensure that they didn’t go mad with violence. None of them have—so far, at least, but with the amount of time that’s passed, we don’t foresee a change.” Kenobi leans forward. “We’ll have to remove them from the whole army, and we will. But we still don’t know who is truly pulling the strings behind this so-called grand plan. Tyranus is certainly involved, but there’s someone else giving him orders. He told me as much on Geonosis.”

“Need your expertise, we do, in fighting a war, while investigate this phantom menace, we do. Keepers of the peace, we are, not soldiers, but with no choice but to fight, the Military Creation Act has left us.” Yoda points at him with his little cane. “Help us, we ask you. Lead the troops from within, you will. Blend in you will easily, hmm?” Yoda chortles. 

Jango considers it. Not because he’s forgiven the Jedi for the slaughter at Galidraan. But because after everything that’s been taken from him, the only thing he has left are his children.

(Jango can overlook a lot for a million credits. He can overlook anything for his children. Even the Jedi.)

Finally, he nods. “Oya.”

MANDO’A TRANSLATIONS Osik, shab, shebs, haran, chakaar, dalgaan, di’kut: Shit, fuck, ass, hell, asshole, bitch, dummy Buir, vod, ba’vodu: Parent, sibling, aunt/uncle Oya: Hell yeah, let's go, etc Ner, gar, kaysh: Mine, you/yours, his Ni kar’tayl gai sa’ad: I know your name as my child Su’cuy: Hello Beskar'gam: Suit of armor Kute: Flight suit Kama: Leather leg flaps, sometimes referred to as a skirt (derogatory) Buc’ye: Helmet (Bucket) Cuy’val Dar: Those who no longer exist Jetii/Kaminii: Jedi, Kaminoan Strill: Mandalorian dog with 6 legs, a musky scent and saggy skin ‘ika: affectionate suffix attached to a name (little) Tihaar: Mandalorian hard liquor Taap’echoy: Place of remember(ing) Aliit ori’shya taldin: Family is more than blood Vor’e: Thank you Verd: Soldier Ad: Child/person Val nari mishi’an: They do the shocking (electric) Sal’gotal’ad: Paintmaker Ori’jate: Very good Evaar’la: Youthful Kandosii: Well done Gar taldin ni jaon’yc; gar sa buir, ori’wadaasla: No one cares who your father was, only the father you'll be Tion’gar di’kut’la?: Are you stupid? Tion’gar suvari ibice verde cuyi waadas’la?: You understand these soldiers are valuable? Udesii: Calm, easy Kaysh suvari: He understands Verd’goten: Birth of a warrior (coming of age ceremony for Mandos) Gar cuyi verd jii. Jii bal darasuum: You are a warrior now. Now and forever. Mir’sheb: smartass Vercopa gise epa’a ner sur’haaise meh ni nari jehaat’an: May fish eat my eyes if I'm lying Haat’la Mando'ade: True Mandalorians Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum: I love you (I hold you in my heart forever) Darasuum: Forever Ke’shab: Fuck off Jetii’kad: Lightsaber Osi'kovid: Shithead Dar’jetii: Sith

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hiii, i am writing my first book/novel. its highlighting d***th, romance, mystery, politics, pretty questionable characters w revenge, thriller and lots of women n power play. its my first book and im not that educated about such themes. but this rough plot i have in my mind is so beautiful that underperforming this excellent trope would be a shame....ive never written before so could you please what to do to actually write this kinda theme to my heart's satisfaction. I've never written a freaking chap before and now im really lost

Writing Ideas: Revenge Tropes

some tropes related to revenge, thriller, women, and power play

Afterlife Avenger: This trope involves the circumstance where a character explicitly still chooses to pursue conflicts against whatever's left of their hated target long after they've passed.

Best Served Cold: Named for the French (or Sicilian, or Klingon, or drow, depending on who you ask) proverb, "Revenge is a dish best served cold." At least in the case of drow, it also means one can have well-planned revenge and drive them mad with fear as a bonus.

Crusading Widow: The death or murder of their significant other motivates the character to seek revenge.

Defeat as Backstory: A protagonist (or some other character's backstory) in a story begins by having been defeated either before the story began, or early on in the story (often in a prologue).

Dying Curse: With his dying breath, a character wishes ill fortune upon his killers, or some other personal enemy.

Pay Evil unto Evil: In real life, the sort of thinking behind this trope is called "retributive justice".

Revenge Through Corruption: Instead of inflicting physical harm, the villain attacks the mind and soul.

Villain-by-Proxy Fallacy: When someone goes after not only a crime's perpetrator, but those who supplied the perpetrator or were otherwise marginally connected to it, whether or not the people involved had anything to do with the actual crime.

Woman Scorned: A woman who's been dumped, cheated on, or otherwise done wrong by her significant other (or, in some cases, merely thinks she's been).

Examples

Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo, probably the greatest revenge story of all time.

In the original version of Beauty and the Beast, the Prince's widowed mother goes off to fight a war and leaves a wicked fairy to help him rule. When the Prince comes of age, she tries to seduce him and turns him into a Beast when he refuses her advances.

In Moby-Dick, Captain Ahab makes it clear throughout the book that he'll pursue Moby Dick to, into, through, and out of Hell, and even then he still won't be satisfied until the whale suffers forever for its slight against him.

Crime and Punishment: One of the antagonists of the novel, Porfiry, works as a police officer and interrogator, which usually would qualify as a good-aligned job. As you further witness this officer's tactics in catching criminals, you see him commit to bribery, thievery, death-threats, and psychological torture to force an admission. Furthermore, he seems to actually enjoy it, toying with amateur criminals like a cat torturing a wounded mouse. The justification, of course, being that the victim of this was a murderer, and therefore deserves it.

George R. R. Martin's Fire & Blood: After the war, Lady Joanna Lannister has a beef to pick with the Greyjoys, who've taken up raiding the coast, including killing a few Lannisters. She decides the best course of action is go to the Iron Islands and kill every man, woman and child she can find. She just settles for burning a lot of things and abducting one Greyjoy, gelding him and turning him into her fool.

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen receives a Dying Curse in Dune. After killing a combat slave in the arena, his opponent's final words are "One day one of us will get you." Given that this fighter is not just a slave, but one of the soldiers from the army of the Harkonnen's blood enemies, the Atreides, this may be prophetic.

In A Song of Ice and Fire, Arya Stark's conflation of justice and personal vengeance leads her to Villain-by-Proxy Fallacy. While many of people on her death list certainly deserve to be brought to justice, such as the Tickler for torture and Weese for abuse, others were merely acting on orders, such as the Hound, doing their jobs or are just guilty by association. Cersei Lannister is on her death list for being involved in the execution of Ned Stark, but Cersei wasn't complicit in that activity, and even spoke out against it. Same with Ilyn Payne, who was just doing his job as the royal executioner. The real mastermind of Ned's death, Littlefinger, is not on the list. Meryn Trant is on the list for killing Syrio Forel, but there isn't any evidence to confirm the crime. Polliver and Dunsen are on the list for flimsy reasons, like stealing. She has Chiswyck murdered for the crime of not being as funny as he thinks he is (granted, Chiswyck was joking about a gang rape, but that isn't the reason Arya cites as his crime). The conflation of justice and vengeance, and how that conflation leads to this trope, is one of the key themes of the entire story.

Queen Dido in The Aeneid, who prophesies that her and Aeneas's people will meet again in war (the Punic Wars — her future, Virgil's past). Particularly tragic in that it's made fairly obvious that he'd have stayed with her if he'd had the choice.

Sidney Sheldon's The Best Laid Plans: Leslie Stewart plots to ruin the career of Oliver Russell when he leaves her at the altar to marry a woman whose father promises to further his political career.

The Hunger Games: The Pay Evil Unto Evil trope is discussed all the way through Mockingjay, and reaches its culmination when President Coin suggests either executing all Capitol citizens or forcing their children into the Games.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, here are some tropes I found related to the themes you described. You can find more in the source linked above. Study how it is portrayed in different types of media, and in your favourite films/books, to gain inspiration for your own story. You can take the rough idea/plot you already have, and try to incorporate techniques and tropes used by other authors, but then deviate from borrowing those ideas when your story starts to flow naturally. All the best with your writing!