#some sort of security device probably

[publicdomainbooksdevotee]

Lupin III fics I haven't written but kinda want to:

The reverse Nine Tailors belltower heist fic I wanted from Part 6 but didn't get. Long scenes of them practicing changes in the hideout with handbells and one short one revealing that Zenigata was in the bell chamber the whole peal (he's fine, he's a cartoon character).

You know how sometimes the anime/manga exists in-universe? Go all-in on that. Halfway between The Last Action Hero and The Last Days of New Paris and folds in the cancelled Oshii movie along the way.

Numismatic Zenigata.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival Part 8

Per usual, the tf mecha au was spawned by @keferon

Prowl and the flyt he said he didn’t want: “It’s not an ESA, it’s a tool for detective work that runs on food and affection.”

Anyways why do pets always look like their owners?

———————————————————————

Prowl had approximately 6 breems before Elita finished cleaning her skull.

The tactician added 4 additional breems to account for time spent in adding the piece to her skull throne. On average, Elita One spent between 8 to 13 breems total on “personal art projects” as a way to unwind after intense battles.

As soon as Prowl was within comms range, he had sent an encoded message to Red Alert suggesting Breakdown intended to plant listening devices on the exterior of the Lost Light.

Nevermind the fact they were working on the same damn side.

That trick would keep the mech busy for at least 5 breem.

Typically, Prowl was the first to defend Red Alert as an invaluable head of security. His paranoia secured their defenses so well, security chief had completely countered every infiltration attempt by the Functionalists to date. That said, the price of privacy for their ship was Red Alert having a total monopoly on it instead.

The distraction was not only so Prowl could have a single minute of peace, but also to ensure the security officer did not interrogate an injured and highly unpredictable mech.

Because Jazz might actually give Red Alert a spark attack. (;7%)

Prowl tried to rub away the ache between his optics. Tacnet thrumming angrily with pent up, unfinished calculations. Most of which were completely defunct now thanks to the violator of numerical probability sitting in the medbay.

Jazz…

Fragging Jazz.

Prowl shut the door to his office. He could feel his helm getting warm again. He’d need to take what time he could to sort his processor before the logic cascades that had been accumulating since he found the mech became too much to manually keep on pause.

Luckily, the tactician had discovered a secret technique to unraveling Tacnet build up without requiring a constant cycling of industrial grade coolant.

Prowl unlocked the wardrobe-like habitat next to his desk.

A faintly cool breeze sighed from within, as the thawing process completed. Uncurling in response to the change of stimuli, a flyt woke from brumation to look at her praxian with bleary eyes.

“Hello Green.” Prowl eased a servo beneath the flyt. “we have much to discuss.”

As Green tucked herself against the ambient warmth of his frame, Prowl activated the large screen built into the adjacent wall.

“I met someone today.”

Tapping away, creating categories, connection points and theories arranged by probability, Prowl slowly filled the screen with a tree of possibilities.

All the while, conferring with Green to ensure his thoughts stayed at a conversational pace, rather than whirl through the labyrinth of his mind at breakneck speeds.

“-and then, he gave me his designation number, except it’s just a completely nonsensical string of seven numbers!”

Green squawked at the audacity of the mech.

“He did space out the numbers while reciting it. Two eight four, pause, four three four, pause, five five zero eight.” The praxian typed in the numbers, adding dashes where appropriate.

He muttered, mostly to himself, “This had better not be some sort of prank.”

As Prowl continued to verbally filter through his mental evidence locker, Tacnet finally straightened out the concrete math of the situation.

“Jazz is either an alien or a lost government experiment. Alien 57%, cybertronian 43%” The screen automatically supplied a pie chart, superseding several lesser graphs beneath it.

Prowl tilted his helm back and sighed, expelling all the hot air he’d holding behind locked vents at once.

Tacnet had finally. Finally, attached a precentiall figure to Jazz’s existence. The sheer relief of that knot untangling was better than any oil bath. Rolling his shoulders and neck, Prowl continued.

“There are two schools of thought regarding The Jazz Situation.” Prowl divided the board in two beneath the chart.

“The first, was that Jazz is a wholly alien mechanical lifeform, and it is through convergent design that he happens to closely resemble a cybertronian. Albeit with various physical abnormalities.”

Green squawked.

“Precisely. Until the language barrier is further overcome, we cannot rule out the second theory either. That Jazz is a creation of the Functionalists. It would account for the physical abnormalities while removing a significant amount of uncertainty the Alien Theory comes with.”

Prowl gathered a small bit of skitter. Green didn’t have much appetite immediately after waking, but the prospect of food still served as positive reinforcement for her “help”.

Ostensibly, caring for the flyt was supposed to take Prowls processor off of work. Jokes on his government assigned therapist, Green was a fantastic assistant and confident.

While he did care for his brothers, Smokescreen was explicitly unhelpful when Prowl latched onto something intellectually stimulating. Constantly cajoling him into going to bars or casinos or wherever else the elder Praxian considered “actually stimulating”.

And Bluestreak, meanwhile, was a mech physically incapable of keeping a secret.

“You don’t try to get me overcharged or tell everybody about the Mesothulas Incident.” The tactician cooed while scritching the underside of Greens beak.

Nevermind it was the same night.

Green trilled happily at the attention and praise, waking up more thoroughly.

“I’ll see about introducing you later. Jazz shows no discomfort concerning organics and I predict a strong likelihood he will appreciate your work.”

Just as Prowl was about to close the theory board, a comm came through, making him pause with a servo still hovering over the screen.

[VELOCITY]: Update about the patient for you sir.]

Speak not of Unicron lest he appears.

[PROWL]: Go ahead. Do you need me to come back to the medbay?]

[VELOCITY]: No, he’s not displaying any adverse behavior you warned me about. His common is very rough though and he’s definitely struggling to understand my questions and clearly articulate his answers. Outside of that, the patient seems fairly relaxed actually.]

Rough? Jazz had been making steady progress with his language acquisition. He should be capable of understanding and answering Velocity’s questions with 76% accuracy.

[PROWL]: He did suffer a helm injury, though I am certain you’ve taken that into account already.]

[VELOCITY]: I already ran a simple cognitive test and he passed without issue. I’d have to open his helm up to make sure, but he otherwise seems completely fine mentally.]

Prowl settled himself at his desk, tapping the surface absent mindedly.

[VELOCITY]: His other vitals are what concerns me however. By cybertronian medical standards, you brought me a talking corpse.]

Prowl stopped tapping.

[PROWL]: Elaborate.]

[VELOCITY]: The patient has no energon, no nanites, and no spark signature. He’s absolutely covered in the tiniest welds I’ve ever seen, which I should not be able to see if he had even 5% of the nanites a healthy mech should have.]

[PROWL]: Does he require more intensive medical treatment?]

[VELOCITY]: That’s a bit complicated to answer. He’s an alien so I’m not sure what his baseline for healthy is supposed to be. And if what you say about prior medical abuse is true, I don’t think he knows either.]

[VELOCITY]: He’s taking repairs like a champ so far. I can see he’s had a ton of previous repairs that all look clean and well executed despite being done without anesthetic.]

There are other kinds of avoidance than just physical aversion. Jazz is being compliant to get through the repairs quickly but faking confusion to avoid deeper medical questioning 88%.

[PROWL]: Unless it is to ask for consent for a procedure, you may desist questioning the patient for medical information. Rely on your own observations and expertise to form any pertinent theories.]

[VELOCITY]: Understood. The patient has turned down any deeper scans around his helm and chassis and I don’t want to push it on a first time check up. I’ve finished fixing his feet and the replacement part for his shoulder is almost done being machined.]

[VELOCITY]: I want to deal with his visor and helm sooner rather than later, but that’ll take a much more thorough scan to deal with. That’s all I have to update so far. His arm won’t heal on its own so I need to concentrate on rewiring the sensory network manually now.]

[PROWL]: Understood. Contact me immediately if anything changes.]

One more horrifying concept to add to the list. He was completely and utterly reliant on potentially manipulative doctors to fix even the most minute scraps and pains. No wonder Jazz had the pain tolerance of a Titan.

Prowl went to pull his data pad from subspace to update his Jazz Theory Board and stopped short with a full body cringe.

He gingerly took out Jazz’s missing shoulder and placed it on the table.

Prowl shuttered his optics.

The fact he forgot he had another mechs shoulder on his person was a testament to how badly he needed to defrag tonight. He briefly considered comming Velocity, but didn’t want to interrupt her operation on delicate wiring. Besides, if Jazz lacked a self repair system, then it wouldn’t matter if the piece was original or machine made.

It was such a fundamentally wrong concept, Prowl was unsure whether he’d prefer that to be Jazz’s natural state (51%) or a condition inflicted on him by whatever sadists created him (49%).

The tapping sound of beak on metal pulled Prowl back into the room.

“Green, do not.” He said sternly, lifting the flyt away from her object of fascination. She looked at him with pitifully wet eyes at the unhappy tone.

The praxians wings drooped. With some difficulty, Prowl attempted to project his EM field in something like “Your actions displeased me but I harbor no ill will towards your being. I am simply under a significant mental load and find the prospect of you attempting to eat a piece of someone’s body fairly distressing and ask that you discontinue that behavior and not act on any future impulses to put foreign objects in your mouth.”

What he got was a wobbly Meehm-blah-sorry-sad.

Flyts were supposedly capable of picking up on EM fields (12%). Prowl suspected Green was simply quite good at interpreting his body language and tone (88%).

In either case, Green responded by attempting to groom his plating, cooing softly. Organic EM fields were small and alien, but with practice and exposure one could begin to map one’s field to cybertronian equivalents. Green radiated a lightly brushing sympathy of sad and want-happy.

Prowl gave up on his field projection practice, and idly returned Greens affection with physical pets. If that damn therapist asked, he’d count it towards his quarterly goals.

That mech bothered him. Not just because he put limits on his workflow or for the one sided glaring contests Prowl would enact during their sessions. But because for the life of him Prowl could never remember his name. And that missing data point drove Tacnet crazy.

Everytime Prowl tried to investigate where the therapist even came from, something always came up distracting him from the task.

In a moment of determination, Prowl reached for his pad to look up his own therapists name on the ship’s registry and paused mid action.

The tactician turned his gaze back to the morbid weight resting on the desk.

His brow furrowed.

Lifting the piece closer (where Green couldn’t get at it), Prowl inspected something odd along the surface of the shoulder.

It looked like a row of staples protruding from the metal.

It looked like ladder rungs.

A frantic banging on Prowls door interrupted his introspection. He quickly subspaced the shoulder joint.

The indignant voice of Red Alert carried through the door, yelling to be let in immediately.

Prowl sent a few consecutive pings to clear the board, reduce interior illumination by 40% and then finally allow the chief of security entry.

Red Alert stumbled in through the sudden opening, plating misting off the residue frost formed by the chill of outer space. His optics darted rapidly around the dimmed interior, landing on the stone faced mech seated behind the desk.

Impassive and unreadable, the only signs the tactician was alive were the cold glow of his optics and the servo lightly stroking his pet. The flyts beady eyes bored into Red Alerts. Silent and unwavering.

Mouth suddenly dry, the mech was unable to form words.

The desired effect was achieved.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Prowl did not offer him a seat, as there was none to offer.

Red Alert got a hold of himself and puffed up his plating.

“Why is there an unauthorized mech on board this ship and why did I only hear about through gossip?!” Red Alert’s voice cracking the last word into a higher register.

“Jazz is authorized to be here. By me.” He offered Green a bit of skitter. “And by our captain. I found him stranded in open space after he fell out of a Quintesson gate tear.”

The smaller mech blanched slightly at the sight of an organic feeding. Prowl estimated the presence of Green would speed their meeting along by a factor of 120%.

“So you’re just bringing home random mechs then.” Red Alert flapped his arms at his sides. “How do you know he isn’t a Functionalist spy? Or a High Command spy? Or a third party spy?!”

Prowl raised a single digit. “One, Velocity has confirmed Jazz is absolutely an alien lifeform and not cybertronian in origin.” He held up a second digit. “And two, he fell out of a quintesson gate tear in the middle of empty space.”

Red Alert began to pace the room. “Okay fine. He’s not a plant for any cybertronian factions. How do you know he isn’t some kind of twisted Quintesson creation? Maybe he was created to infiltrate our ranks, and then a sleeper agent switch flips and he kills us all!”

“He is not a quintesson creation.” Prowl plainly stated to Red Alerts increasing exasperation.

“And how do you know that?!” Throwing his servos in the air.

“He likes music.”

Red Alert reset his optics. “Come again?”

Prowl cleaned off his servo with a rag in his desk, and played a low quality snippet of Jazz’s music that he’d managed to capture.

Red Alert startled at the sudden unfamiliar sound.

When actually was the last time any of them had heard new music? Before the civil war at least.

Prowl continued, “Quintessons do not value nor comprehend alien aesthetics. Their culture revolves around expansion and material acquisition and whatever may qualify as “art” to them does not equate to our understanding of it. They have absolutely no records of partaking in sound based recreation nor of collecting samples from other cultures.”

The snippet cut short. “Simply put, quintessons don’t know good music. Jazz does.”

Red Alert was loosing steam, but still had one more point to contend with.

“Isn’t just too improbable though?” Hands on the desk, leaning as close as he dared. “That out of the entirety of the universe, Jazz just so happened to pop out exactly next to the shuttle you were riding on, conveniently alone, unconscious, unharmed AND he gets picked up by high ranking decepticon?” For once, it looked less like Red Alert was fighting him, rather than pleading with him.

Prowl tilted his helm slightly, “You are correct. The odds are unfathomably low. So low in fact, it is nearly statistically impossible to achieve such a scenario on purpose.”

Quintesson gates were finicky. They had a margin of error the breadth of planets. That was also usually their targets however, and quints weren’t picky where they touched down.

“But-“

“But what? I have addressed every concern you have presented.” Prowl flared his doorwings. “I found a lost mech of a new alien species that may very well be an invaluable ally in the war against the quintessons. It’s a valuable opportunity.”

Red Alert balled his fists, fear manifesting as a last burst of rage. “It’s a trap! It’s an Oil-Pot! It is so obviously a purposeful manipulation when you look at it from the outside!”

The security officer began counting on his digits, “Step one! Put a handsome mech somewhere in need of saving so the target feels like they’re in control and the hero. Step two! Ramp up the flirting and the codependency, they need you so you stay in touch and start giving in to more of their requests. Step three! The Oil-Pot gets you alone somewhere under false pretenses where they SPLIT OPEN YOUR PROCESSOR AND SCRAPE IT FOR SECRETS!”

Red Alerts fans blasted hot air around the room. The mech challenging the Praxian for whatever excuse he had this time.

Prowl stood. Taking his time to return Green to her habitat.

“What am I most known for?”

For not the first time since entering his office, Red Alert was knocked off balance.

“I..uh. Math?” He stammered. Knowing the answer but not wanting to say it.

Prowl lacked that reservation.

“Any spy worth their shanix would have done their research thoroughly before even attempting such a scam. If one were to sift through information on me organized by Decepticons, the most prominent word would be Efficient.”

Prowl leisurely shook out Greens cloth-mop nest of any remaining ice crystals.

“If they sourced their information from the Functionalists, that description would include the word Ruthless.”

Prowl gave the flyt one last scritch before closing the door.

“Other popular words I’ve cataloged in relation to my name include Cold, Severe, Sparkless, Unfeeling and Merciless.” The smaller mech shrunk a little with every addition.

Prowl stepped around the desk in the dimly lit room to stand directly before Red Alert, servos clasped behind his back. “With this information available, any spy would be an idiot to attempt an Oil-Pot against me specifically. Ask nearly any mech aboard this ship if they think I’d go out of my way to save a stranger for no apparent benefit and they’d tell you No.”

Red Alert fiddled with his servos, torn between a nervous tick and the pressure to be professional. “If that’s all true, then.”

He chanced a glance at Prowl face, which gave away nothing. “Then why did you save him?”

“Because they are wrong.”

The room brightened back to normal levels, as Prowl sent a ping first to the lights and then to open his office door. He held out a servo, gesturing to the exit.

“Until further notice, Jazz is to be treated the same as a rescued non combatant. He will be kept under observation but not interrogation. We can work out the details at a later-“

[VELOCITY]: Jazz is gone.]

Prowl closed his servo. His doorwings twitched once. Red Alert tensed.

[VELOCITY]: I just finished the last repair and when I turned around he disappeared from the medbay. The guards outside didn’t see him.]

Prowl marched out the door, pulling Red Alert along in the direction of the security office. “I require your assistance immediately, as Jazz is currently loose somewhere on the ship, unmonitored.”

The tactician endured the security chiefs well earned tirade the entire way. Prowl kept a steely grip on the situation, only barely convincing Red Alert not to raise every alarm on the premise that Jazz would be easier to find if he didn’t think they were looking for him.

Tacnet stubbornly held onto the 56% saying Jazz was experiencing a delayed negative reaction to his medical care and was acting out of fear.

A steadily growing percentage screamed sabotage in a voice annoyingly similar to Red Alerts.

Said mech was almost cheery with vindication, in between vehemently describing every way the Lost Light could explode with the next few breems.

Red Alert worked fast. Sifting through the camera feed at a dizzying speed. A camera caught Jazz quickly slipping out of the medbay. Barely escaping the notice of the two mechs tasked with keeping watch. Prowl noted their designations for later scathing admonishment.

“The port side door lock is time stamped as malfunctioning just before Velocity discovered Jazz’s disappearance. It looks like the lock experienced an extremely localized electromagnetic pulse, putting it in Safe Mode.”

Red Alert switched the camera feeds on the main screen. “After he rounds this corner he just vanishes. I can’t find him anywhere on my system.”

Prowl nodded. “Good. Then I know exactly where he has to be.”

There were very few places to hide upon the Lost Light. Red Alert made certain of that. Which by extension meant that someone desperate to stay out of any camera views would have an extremely limited amount of space to operate in.

That space would normally be un-traversable, unless the mech in question was in possession of incredibly powerful magnetic augments, allowing them to crawl along the ceilings.

Prowl sent out a flurry of comms, updating Elita and calling in trusted reinforcements. He set out down the hall.

[PROWL]: What rooms aboard this ship do you not have any cameras inside of?]

[Red Alert]: The war room. The Captains quarters, your office, the therapists office and the operating theater.]

[PROWL]: There’s a camera in my berthroom?]

[Red Alert]: I mean. It’s not like you use it?]

Prowl consistently removed any bugging attempts in his office. Half the reason he kept Green in there was to deter Red Alert from trying. The other half was because he legitimately spent more time there than in his quarters.

He mentally crossed off his office, Elita’s quarters, the operating theater and the therapists office from the list as each one had someone inside at the time of Jazz’s disappearance.

All that left was the war room. Windowless, minimalist and with only once entrance, Jazz would be cornered like an animal in a trap.

Prowl gathered several of the least impulsive guards he could summon on short notice. Lining them along the hallway, he ordered them to shoot to disable. Prowl added that he would make an attempt to talk the mech down before escalating further.

If Jazz was spec ops (44%), the only benefit of infiltrating the war room would be to plant listening devices in its purposefully sparse interior. If Jazz wasn’t acting out of malice, and simply having a panic attack (56%), he may still react violently to suddenly being cornered.

Matchup: Close quarters fight Jazz versus Prowl. Jazz victory 97%.

The 3% in Prowls favor mostly depended on Jazz having some kind of sudden health emergency.

Prowl carefully assumed a neutral pose, knocking on the door to the war room.

“This is officer Prowl speaking. Please exit the room peacefully, we do not want to hurt you.”

Silence, save for the shifting of many nervous peds behind him. Prowl risked opening the door a crack, keeping his body well out of the line of fire. “Jazz, it is Prowl speaking. I need you to say something. Otherwise we’re going to have to come in.”

When there was still no response, Prowl signaled for the gathered soldiers to come closer in preparation for a raid.

On the silent count of three, they entered the war room, blasters drawn and optics searching.

Prowl kept special focus on the ceiling. Fanning his doorwings, He created a real time 3D map of the room, tracking every mechs movements within.

Jazz wasn’t here.

Instantly, Prowl prepared to order a ship wide mech hunt. They’d already wasted so much time with their one sided negotiations. The tactician began rerunning his mental map of where Jazz could have disappeared.

Elita had already sent him several unhappy comms messages about what she was going to do to the alien and him if Prowl didn’t find them. Confirming between threats that Jazz hadn’t gotten into her room.

Velocity had Nautica and Nightbeat in the med bay with her, turning the place upside down in case Jazz doubled back.

He found the comm line for the therapists office.

[PROWL] We have a rogue, possibly unstable mech loose within the Lost Light. Are you inside your office?]

[RUNG] Ah Prowl! Good to see you reaching out to me first for a change. Just finished up a lovely talk with Jazz.]

[RUNG] I think he has something important to tell you.]

———————————————————————

I am generally intrigued by the concept of how being apart of the Decepticon’s pecking order messes a person up.

There’s references all over to how Prowls physical and mental well being got absolutely wrecked and is now in recovery from being apart of High Command. (Inspired partially by @glitchgh0sty’s Deception AU go check ‘em out they’re cool.)

I also wanted to explore the social side of things.

Prowl makes himself unapproachable on purpose, Elita makes acts of excessive violence on her enemies a prominent display and Red Alert is even more invasive than normal.

It’s all to ward off other Decepticons from sensing weakness and stabbing them in the backs. Younger mechs like Bluestreak and Velocity can get away with being much more relaxed and friendly because they’ve got scary ass mechs like Prowl and Elita behind them radiating the “I will fucking destroy you.” energy on their behalf.

We get to see the masks slip a bit here and there. Red Alert genuinely concerned for Prowls safety underneath the paranoia. Elita gives Jazz and Prowl a lot more freedom than an actual tyrant would, even if it’s granted with over the tops threats of physical violence. And of course we see a lot of what Prowl is actually like removed from the pressure of behaving like a “proper” Decepticon.

Wonder what will happen when a certain mecha pilot gets a crowbar under those masks.

-SSTP

<- First Next ->

[ajastu]

People complain about not being able to 'be mean' in datv, but like. You can be. Not in a 'sell people into slavery' way like you could in the other games, because narratively it just would not Work, but you can very well be mean. It just won't end well for you.

Like, okay. By virtue of being recruited by Varric and working with him for a year prior to the events of Veilguard, Rook cannot be, like....morally bankrupt? Because Varric wouldn't recruit them if they were, or would kick them to the curb if he realized they were soooo so chill with wanton murder and other such things (him and Harding kept getting distracted on their search for Solas because they kept stopping to Help People, after all) So. there are certain limitations to the choices you can make, but they Make Sense. And you can still be an asshole, in a way. Like...I think people maybe....forget? that you can get your Entire Team killed by just...not caring? A thing that you couldn't really do on a similar scale in the previous games? 'Oh you have to play the team therapist-' You don't, actually! You can ignore everyone's problems! The game doesn't stop you from just pushing on with the main plot! You can leave your companions to their own devices. It will not end well, but you can do it. Pretty much everyone will die and Rook may just end up being locked in the Fade with Solas forever, but it's an option that was Very Much Put Into The Game. But I don't think ive ever seen that ending mentioned in posts that complain about Veilguard being 'too nice'. And i'm not gonna make assumptions as to why that might be, but. Bear with me here.

It kind of, in a way, reminds me of when people were like 'ummm why does it suck so much to play a fascist in Disco Elysium??' Because it sucks to be a fascist, Period. you know? Like. You cannot want to get a good ending in the game and then also choose to be an asshole of unimaginable magnitude.

(obligatory 'piss on the poor' disclaimer: I am not saying that people who have those complaints abt veilguard are fascists or anything of the sort, it was just an example that came to mind that i thought would convey my point more efficiently)

I love origins, but it kind of...I don't know, it trivializes the acts of violence you can commit by still, inevitably, leaving your character in the position of the Hero That Saves The World. There are no real consequences in the overall story arc. It's kind of just flavor, but it never feels like an actual consequence. The story will still end approximately the same way. And I mean...it makes sense, too. There's basically only one other guy who can get the job done, so the HoF is kind of Needed for the job, no matter how much of a monster u can choose to be. You can leave the world worse than you found it, but at least there is still a world left in the end.

With Veilguard, that is not the case. The thing that makes Rook special is not their background, or their skills, or the dagger. Anyone could take their place. They're just Some Guy! And anyone WOULD take their place if they suddenly decided to start selling people into slavery. Because no one on the team is going to just sit back and let them do it. Half of the factions wouldn't even cooperate with them. They'd probably get stabbed by a shadow dragon somewhere in a dark alleyway n dropped into the sea, you know?

What makes Rook special, what secures the good ending, is their inherent kindness and care for the world and other people. The connection they build with others, who, in turn, lend their support to them. (like. something, something, almost every companion having some sort of healing/revive ability? u know?) Its the commitment to doing the Right Thing. And that is, by definition, incompatible with the option of making evil choices.

You have to want to leave the world better than you found it if you want to actually do so. The game gives you the option to do that. It also gives you the option of saving the world without caring for it or the people around you. And it gets the job done! It doesn't leave the world worse off, but it doesn't leave it better, either.

At the end of the day, all art is political in some way. And I think it's good that Veilguard is a story about hope and the value of kindness, among other things. Considering the current....Everything, I think it's kind of tone-deaf to demand that the story let you be evil for evil's sake. Look around for a moment. We really need more hope and kindness in the world right now.

The previous games were not necessarily wrong or bad for providing those options. But they were also each a product of it's time. They also each told a different story.

Veilguard is not 'sanitized', or 'dumbed down', or whatever people like to say. The mundane horrors and violence of the world don't need to be spelled out or thrown in your face via slurs against your PC. Frankly, if certain bits of the game did not horrify you on some level just from the environmental storytelling alone, then maybe you need to think about why that might be. Maybe you just need to stop and actually process what the game is showing you.

Like, i might be getting a bit off topic here, but i will be the first guy (gender-neutral) to tell you about how much of a lasting impression the broodmother bit from dao left on me. But it wasn't just the sheer violence of the experience described by Hespith. It was, well...

It's not that it occurred, it's that it was allowed.

When you go through D'meta's Crossing, through blighted Minrathous with bodies piled in the streets and hanging from the improvised gallows? Hell, the very beginning of the game, with demons snatching people left and right? The horror here is not just that it occurred, it's that it was allowed. Do you get what i mean? The fact that these things aren't spelled out to you in the form of a poem or a dialogue tree doesn't mean that they're somehow 'sanitized'.

People complain the dialogue is over-explanatory sometimes (and okay, it is, but i can think of several good reasons as to why it would be, like keeping in mind players completely new to the franchise), and then completely miss out on things that are not spelled out to them directly, and then present the 'lack' of those things as a failure of the game. I'm just saying.

So, in conclusion. I don't think Veilguard is too nice. I don't think the game has to let you commit atrocities to be complex or to show the darker bits of the world. I think datv uses it's gameplay mechanics in a way that helps it drive the point of the story home. I think the choices the developers made were made with intent, especially given the limitations they were under. And i also think that many of the 'faults' that people like to complain about are not actually faults at all.

Veilguard is not a perfect game. It IS a solid one, though. It has bits that I wish the developers were allowed to work on more and under less stress. There IS room for constructive criticism (while keeping in mind, you know, the dev hell etc). Being 'too nice'? That is not one of the game's faults. I think people who complain about that just maybe missed the entire point.

[ravenlly]

The Daycare Attendant might be in Secret Of The Mimic!! (Theory)

I remember Matpat saying that he thinks Edwin, the man who created the Mimic, is also responsible for the creation of the Daycare Attendant. I think he's right. He even mentioned the jester costumes that were shown in the books and spoke about how they matched up with the theme of the Daycare Attendant being a jester. Well, we've already seen a freaky jester cutout in the trailer of Secret Of The Mimic. He also mentioned the teeth of the Mimic being the same as the Daycare Attendant's endo teeth.

But I have even more evidence now that points toward Edwin making the Daycare Attendant. This might possibly mean he has a chance of showing up in SOTM!

First, I want to point out what I believe to be the BIGGEST indicator of the Daycare Attendant being made in Edwin's factory: The Faz-Wrench.

In the trailer of SOTM, we see an item called a "data diver" getting plugged into some sort of computer. This causes the screen to pull up HELPER, which seems to be the earliest version of Helpy. This "data diver" device has two prongs on it just like the Faz-Wrench.

In Ruin, this device mostly works on the MXES security nodes that keep the Mimic from escaping. I'm assuming it does something similar here. However, it also works on the Daycare Attendant. He is the ONLY animatronic that it would naturally work on (Roxanne is a Security node due to her mask, which was put on only between the events of Security Breach and Ruin).

Sun himself was aware that the Faz-Wrench worked on him and that it would reboot him. He has seen this wrench before. He remembers it. It's clearly important to him and was used to reboot him in the past, only to have probably been forgotten about and not used by Fazbear Employees for years till one brings one to the Pizzaplex to set up the nodes. If the Daycare Attendant was made in Edwin's factory, this early version was probably used on him and was something he recognized immediately.

Another thing I want to discuss is the fact that the Daycare Attendant himself has some neat unique mechanics that Fazbear probably thought were cool. Since the player is going to retrieve the Mimic due to his unique technology in SOTM, it wouldn't surprise me if they also wanted the technology the Daycare Attendant has. We can also note that they were never able to use the Mimic's technology and, while they did use Sun/Moon, they clearly didn't know how to properly use them and were unable to fix Moon when he started acting up. But I think they were probably fascinated by an animatronic that could switch personas based on the lighting it was in.

One last thing is we can see evidence of past versions of characters that we know Fazbear owns by this point such as HELPY and Music Man, along with cutouts of what appears to be an older version of the Mediocre Melodies and possibly Montgomery Gator. It looks like Fazbear may have claimed more than just the Mimic when they sent employees to the factory...and that included the beloved Daycare Attendant!

Now, will we see him in the game? I'm unsure. I think it's possible. If we do see him in the game, I really, really would like to see Eclipse again. This would be the perfect place to see him again!!

Since it looks like the Mimic isn't the only threat (judging by the Music Man thing), I'm guessing we might have to use the data diver to reboot some rowdy animatronics. This could possibly include our boy Moon having to be rebooted into Eclipse! We know that Steel Wool is very much aware of how much fans love him. I think they'd put him in the game again if they could!!

At the very least, I think it's safe to think they were both made by Edwin.

(Also, when I was writing this, I noticed the Mimic's/Jackie's laugh in the trailer sounds so much like Moon!!)

[ew-selfish-art]

DPx DC Au: Might as well be brothers. Young Justice hears about a regional hero disappearing, and while they've never met the guy, Red Robin's contacts say that Ra's is hunting him for afterlife/immortality related reasons.

Tim drake hates the annoying white uniform he's wearing but breaking into this place is crucial to his 24 hour plan to rescue Phantom. He'd never even heard of the guy until a week ago when Pru came to him with info that Ra's was looking into Midwest Real Estate, and then Tim stumbled down the rabbit hole of Ghost conspiracy theories until he saw an article demanding that local officials speak on the hero's absence of 10 days. 10 days was short enough that Tim might find a sign of life and well, another federal agency being hacked by Red Robin is nothing new.

So now, he's walking down the halls with these stupid fucking glasses and this stupid fucking suit while Kon listens from the comfort of the surveillance van. He takes a turn and sees the track suits that the illegally detained inmates are wearing, and pivoting the plan, makes his way to a locker room to get one and get changed. It does take him an extra second and he considers that this might bite him- but Tim knows the place inside and out. He's scoured all their data, and sue him for being cocky, but he has a literal alien ready to tear the place apart waiting for his heart rate to jump above 80 bpm. which is a pretty low heart rate all things considered.

Tim gets exactly where he's meant to go, and waits only a few minutes before he see's the science team extract Phantom from the high security room.

Phantom doesn't make it clear if he notices Tim, but he's basically being dragged by the couple, so Tim decides to beat them to their destination. The experimental wing had shown up in their reported data not long after they made it extremely obvious that they had Phantom in their data output.

Tim's already in the room when he starts to notice that it's not exactly a room... more like a mechanical space. The way the corners curl in the room make it almost tube like... Portal like.

Phantom is thrown in and Tim grabs him the second the scientists leave, but the kill switch key Tim made to get them out isn't working for this door like it did all the others.

"Not... Not a door."

"We're in some sort of device aren't we? Something of their own design that the government isn't aware they're funding?"

"Portal. You've gotta get out, even if you get caught, you gotta get out now."

Tim's comm comes alive in his ear, its Kon responding to Tim's heart rate rising- and Tim is hesitant to call him in but ultimately tells him to start flying over for extraction.

Then the portal goes off, and while he feels pain, he doesn't feel different. Bright light subsiding, Kon's arms around him with a confused voice, and lots of lasers being fired his way... Tim wakes up to see a much younger Phantom looking at him from the other side of the young justice couch.

Kon, Bart and Cassie are all fighting at a white board that's been wheeled in but Tim can only yawn and blink his way into consciousness enough to give a shit.

Black haired and blue eyed, button nosed with large ears, a wry thin lipped smile... Tim realizes that Phantom looks incredibly similar to his younger self. And then Tim looks at his much smaller hands and realizes that he probably looks a lot more similar to his younger self than normal.

Taking in the scenery once more, the white board is divided on the traits Tim has to the children sitting left and right on the couch. Kon didn't know who was who. That meant that maybe... the government didn't either.

Phantom turns out to be a pretty chill dude despite all the trauma, and he's incredibly prepared to both fuck with Ra's and the government in their newly found childhood twin-ship.

One of the twins is scarier than the other, and despite Danny literally haunting them, its always Tim.

(Okay now its some one else's turn :D )

[howlsofbloodhounds]

If the Chromatic Crew had jobs in the Omega Timeline, what would they be?

I feel like Delta would work as some sort of mechanic, given his passion for technology and engineering. Perhaps he specializes in robotics, cybernetics, and biomechanical enhancements—particularly for monsters, hybrids, or even humans with prosthetics.

He could design and maintain cybernetic limbs or assistive technology for those who need mechanical augmentations.

Given that Omega Chara kinda cut him half, if his body still struggles to function in some way due to that despite its healing, and potential magical instability, he might experiment with integrating technology into his own recovery and mobility—like reinforced plating, internal stabilizers, or even minor cybernetic enhancements.

He might build AI-driven mechanical assistants to help him in the workshop, reducing the strain of overworking himself.

If the Omega Timeline likely has threats or conflicts, Delta could also potentially work as a weapon specialist, designing high-tech weapons, armor, and battle gear.

I think he’d likely refuse to create purely offensive weapons, instead focusing on defensive gear, shields, and non-lethal weaponry to prevent unnecessary deaths.

(And this is likely something Core agrees with if they allow him to build weapons in the first place. If Delta does make any offensive weapons, they’re likely hidden somewhere he deems safe.)

If the Omega Timeline has any advanced vehicles or transport systems, Delta would absolutely be involved in repairing, modifying, and upgrading them.

He might build experimental hovercrafts, motorcycles, or personal flight devices. I also think Delta is likely to take on side projects, where he builds things just because he can—whether it’s helpful inventions, weird gadgets, or impractical but cool devices.

He might experiment with combining magic and machinery, creating hybrid tech that blends the best of both worlds.

Given that Beta (his human half) grew up on the Surface and Sans grew up in the Underground, he might take inspiration from both human and monster engineering, leading to designs that take from both worlds.

Rather than working under a formal organization, i think Delta is more likely to be a self-taught, independent mechanic who runs his own private workshop or garage.

He might barter services instead of working for money, fixing things in exchange for food, materials, or favors.

Especially if he barters with Core and any members of the potential Council—ensuring their technology, infrastructure, and security remain secure and functional in exchange for housing where he either doesn’t have to pay rent/bills, or the Council covers that for him.

His workspace could be cluttered but functional, filled with half-finished projects, custom tools, and notes scribbled everywhere. He would probably refuse to take jobs from people he doesn’t trust, especially if he suspects they would use his work for harmful purposes.

Especially if we take into account the headcanon of how Killer used any weapons of Delta’s to fuel negativity for Nightmare and help the corruption expand his “organization.”

Color, however, I feel would be unable to work a traditional full time job, at least not for a long time.

And although Delta likely to insist on being the one to take care of everything and everyone in their household, willing to take on extra work if he has to, Color probably worries a lot about what would happen if he doesn’t “get better” and start “pulling his weight.”

Start behaving..like an “adult.” Again.

Will Delta leave him? Will he hate him and get mad at him, throw them out on the streets one day, because he realized how much of a drain Color has been on his life? The burden on his shoulders? Will Beta realize how pathetic he is, nothing worth looking up to? Will Sans look at Color, and be glad he didn’t make the wrong choices and end up like Color?

So at first—I think his best options would be remote work and self employment/commissions.

He could do writing like blogs, short stories, and transcription work. Data entry if he can manage long screen time, and even email-based customer service, not phone-based.

He could even sell any arts, crafts, or music online he makes—and before going on to paid work, he could even try out volunteering in an attempt to refamiliarize with being around people again. (Such as volunteering at the hospital with the children.)

And then eventually a part-time job with flexible hours, and it has to be low-stress, accommodating, and allow for breaks to prevent burnout, breakdowns, and physical collapses from Color.

Like working as a library assistant or a museum guide or doing archival work.

When he starts getting antsy about being trapped in the Omega Timeline, however, I do think he’d definitely be willing to push himself past his limits in regards to work if he views it as a means out of the Omega Timeline.

Perseverance definitely would make it near impossible to stop if it agrees with or shares Color’s desires to get out, or simply is particularly very ambitious on their job or helping Color, regardless of the strain or injury it could cause their shared body.

For Killer, at first I was considering something to do with the death care industry—like an embalmer or a mortician—but then I remembered how he tends to be towards the dead.

He doesn’t really show much respect or care for the dead, such as taking the souls of his victims or studying their dead bodies for his own purposes and ends without consent—and he’s trying to get better in this ending.

Keeping him around and trusting him to handle the Omega Timeline’s dead, tempting him, reminding him of what he’s been surrounded by for a long time now.

What he’s yearned for, what he’s done. Especially if he ever comes across any familiar faces or magical “signatures”…i doubt it’d be good.

So i definitely think he’d do something to do with animals. He loves animals, relates most to them, definitely has a lot more respect and care for them then he does for most other living beings.

He could potentially get a full or part time job in Ccino’s Cafe, working primarily with the animals—cats and dogs.

Especially since Ccino not only knows Killer through their shared connections with Nightmare, but Ccino also very likely has rapport with both Color and Epic.

And speaking of Ccino’s cafe and Epic, there’s Epic’s good pal, Cross.

Now I was a little stuck on potential jobs for both Cross and Epic, outside of the obvious ones—something science related for Epic, something Royal Guard or militaristic-like for Cross.

But I had a feeling that military work may not actually be as good mental health wise for Cross as it seemed, despite its familiarity, and I also felt that Epic had more potential options I just couldn’t see yet.

So I asked a friend of mine her opinions and thoughts on the matter, since she’s more familiar with the characters’ canon than I am at this moment, so I’ll paraphrase what they (@/zuzuelectricbugaloo) and down below:

Epic might take on a part-time role as a doctor since his ability to see Codes would be useful for treating cases where regular magic isn’t effective.

Additionally, he could run a daycare in the Omega Timeline, given his experience babysitting many kids like Palette, Goth/Vidal, Paperjam, and Gradient, and his genuine enjoyment of it.

As for Cross, he might initially consider a military-related job since he’s skilled in that area and likes feeling helpful. However, given the war-like trauma and PTSD he experienced in XTale/Underverse, it wouldn’t be the best choice for him.

He enjoys art and baking, so working part-time at a café could be a good fit. However, considering his past actions in Underverse—such as destroying AUs or causing harm, even indirectly—many Omega Timeline residents might not welcome him.

Because of this, he might prefer working elsewhere, like at Ccino’s café, where he has a good relationship with both Ccino and Epic. There, he could use his artistic side in baking and making drinks or even help with the animals. This setup would allow him to feel productive without overwhelming anxiety or the pressure of feeling like he’s doing everything wrong.

[canmom]

i feel a little careless about talking about the more esoteric end of computer security because in practice, keeping your devices up to date, using a password manager, not clicking sussy links and taking care what executables you run will protect you pretty well! 'throw up your hands and give up' is very much not the message here.

like here's an analogy. you could at any moment be killed by a meteorite. but it's happened so rarely that there are no modern recorded examples of someone being killed by a meteorite and historical reports are kind of dubious. you could invest in lining the roof of your house with steel and always go out in a suit of medieval armour. it would lower your chance of getting meteorite'd... but it would also cause all sorts of other problems, which probably aren't worth the tradeoff.

silly example, but all security is the same sort of tradeoff between risk and inconvenience. for example, I don't like being tracked by advertisers (it just makes my skin crawl), so I run a bunch of anti-tracking browser extensions like NoScript, PrivacyPossum and Decentraleyes and always opt out in the gdpr popups. I wouldn't generally recommend this because often this breaks the functionality of websites and I have to spend some time figuring out which scripts to enable to get them to work, and it's hard to say the annoyance is worth the benefits. on the other hand, I would pretty generally recommend blocking ads with uBlock Origin.

another example: I don't make much of a secret of my IRL name, or separate my online presence from my IRL stuff. this is a risk - e.g. if I ran afoul of some social media hate mob it could lead to trouble. but I decided the effort it would take to keep that secret is not worth it. on the other hand, if I was, say, a famous vtuber who had to worry about being stalked by fans or haters, or even aspired to be one, this would be a big secret that I'd go to great pains to maintain.

certain rituals like the activist phone bowl are arguably 'security theatre': they're not really aligned with what is a realistic threat. sure, some really weird attacks exist out there, but you really need to be realistic about who's attacking you and how they're likely to go about it, or you'll just become so paranoid that you never do anything.

[peachhcs]

mundane moments

hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will)

some mundane moments between samy & will on facetime as she gets ready for a night out

1.5k words

au masterlist

the vibration from samy's phone made the small area of her desk shake underneath her elbows that were propped up in front of her tiny silver mirror, delicate hands applying the last of her mascara. she flipped the device over, a grin spreading across her pink lips seeing her boyfriend's contact flash across the screen. the girl immediately answered, propping her phone up against whatever was in front of her as will's face appeared. 

"hi will, what's up?" samy continued grinning, checking the last of her eyelashes to make sure she didn't miss a spot. her lack of attention caused her to miss the smile spreading across will's own lips and the flush coating his cheeks. 

he was glad gabe wasn't in the room or else he'd start chirping at him for being so grossly in love. 

"hi pretty girl," the blonde said making samy's own cheeks shed a light pink. he never failed to make her blush whenever that nickname left his lips.

"hi will!" hannah exclaimed, popping into frame for a second.

"hey will!!" bailey also yelled from across the room. samy's friends loved saying hi to will whenever he was on facetime. the boy chuckled, "hey guys."

"we're going out. hannah convinced me to head to this frat with her and bails," the brunette rolled her eyes slightly as she eyed hannah a few feet away. the other girl shrugged, "what? you said you wanted to go out more."

"i know, i know. okay, i need your opinion on what bag i should bring," samy pushed herself out of her desk chair and backed up so will could see her entire outfit while grabbing the two different purses from her bed.

she posed a few times with each bag, but the only thing will could focus on was how good she looked. her slightly too short black skirt and plunging v-neck top had the blonde a bit breathless and red. he wasn't even paying attention to her purses anymore.

"he's not even paying attention, hughes. i told you your outfit would distract him," hannah snickered when no response came from will.

that snapped the boy back into reality as he embarrassingly cleared his throat. samy flushed—loving how she had an effect on him even through a screen. "i bet he wasn't even paying attention to the purses. go with the black one, it goes with everything," bailey commented.

"hey, i was...sort of. black is cute," will attempted to defend himself. his weak effort made the girls laugh instead.

"you're so cute. i miss you," samy crawled back into her desk chair, bringing the camera closer to her face. her lips sparked in the light, showing off her sparkly lip-gloss that will's kissed off those lips so many times in the summer.

"i miss you too. wish you were here or i was there," the blonde said, sadness creeping into his voice.

long distance was hard. with their busy schedules, the two hardly saw one another since they started college. practices and games always got in the way and it wasn't like they could just up and leave without some harsh remarks from their coaches. will desperately missed his girl. there wasn't a time when he wasn't thinking about her—and that was saying a lot considering all he's ever thought about was hockey. he missed her especially when she looked as good she did and will wouldn't be there to have his arm securely around her waist so everyone knew she was his.

"i know. feels like it's been ages since i've seen you," samy frowned as well.

it was even worse because they wouldn't even be spending winter break together—or at least not all of it. will just recently got called up to play on the usa world juniors team with gabe, ryan, fowler, drew, and aram. that meant they'd all be spending their holiday in sweden and while will was extremely grateful for the opportunity, he probably wasn't gonna see samy at all unless she flew out with him. that was a big ask that will knew he couldn't make because he knew how much she loved spending the holidays with her family in michigan.

"maybe i'll get some downtime or something. or i'll just sneak off for a weekend," will chuckled, trying to lighten the mood because he hated when samy was sad.

"i know your coach would bench you for the next five games," samy teased a little as she touched up some of her foundation and powder.

"it's worth it if i get to see you," the blonde shrugged. samy rolled her eyes again, but will would seriously drop everything for her if she asked.

"okay, final look. what do you think?" samy held the phone close to her face so her boyfriend could see her entire makeup look. will couldn't help but take a screenshot, admiring her pretty face and pretty lips and wanting to have a picture to stare at for later. 

"you look beautiful," will said making the girl blush again. he prided himself in the fact that he could still make her blush miles away. 

"and the outfit? too much? too little?" she stood back up so will could see her entire outfit again.

he took another screenshot, face reddening into a deep blush. the short skirts were will's kryptonite and he absolutely adored it when samy wore them. he unashamedly checked her out through the screen, getting distracted once more. she looked so hot and while will swore he wasn't the jealous type, there was a pinch in his stomach thinking about all the guys that would look at his girl the way he was looking at her now. especially in a frat.

"you lost him again," hannah laughed seeing will's longing stare through the screen.

"s-sorry. you look incredible," will flushed when he snapped back into reality again.

"you're so adorable. i love you," samy smiled.

"i love you more," will smiled back.

"i'll text you, yeah? talk to you later," the brunette kissed her phone. will did the same back and they said their goodbyes for now. two minutes later, hannah and bailey both got texts from will.

will look out for her tn for me have fun :)

the girls both smiled, already knowing that will was the one.

—

a little habit will picked up was staying up until he knew samy made it back home safely whenever she went out. sometimes they'd call, sometimes they wouldn't, but either way, will had his eyes on her location as the time ticked closer to one in the morning. he told himself it wasn't a controlling thing, but more of a protective thing because he'd never forgive himself if he went to bed and his girl didn't make it home safely. 

will knew he'd definitely feel drowsy when he had to wake up in six hours for practice, but it was all worth it for his girlfriend's safety and well-being. he watched as her little icon finally made it into her dorm building—a wave of relief filling the boy's chest. before he could shut his phone off for the night, it began buzzing in his hand and samy's name came up on the screen. will immediately answered, smiling when he saw her pretty face a second later. 

"hi beautiful. make it home?" will wondered, trying to whisper as best as he could so he didn't wake gabe up. 

"yup. were you stalking my location?" the girl teased some, shutting her door and shuffling towards her desk. 

will never explicitly told her he watched her location when she went out, but samy picked it up fairly quickly when will was always awake when she called late at night. the blonde's face flushed as he shuffled into the bathroom to speak a little more freely without disturbing gabe. 

"maybe. did you have fun?" the boy wondered, leaning against the counter and fighting the sleep creeping into his system. 

"it was fine. frats are frats. would've been more fun if you were with me," the girl giggled as she began taking off her makeup. 

will smiled some. samy always got giggly when she had a few drinks in her. 

"maybe next time i visit you can bring me along," the boy chuckled. 

"obviously. eth and mark already have an itinerary made out when you come and visit," that made both of the teenagers laugh. "how was your night, though? what did you do?" samy shifted the focus to will. he flushed a little. she never failed to ask about him at any given moment. 

"nothing special. hung out with lean and gabe. we didn't feel like going out," will explained briefly. 

"would've been me if hannah didn't drag me out," samy laughed. 

the two sat in comfortable silence as will watched samy get herself ready for bed. it wasn't until another five minutes when the brunette finally crawled into bed, giving a tired smile to will. the boy returned her gentle smile with one of his own as he made his way back into his own bed. 

"i miss you, will. come visit me soon," the girl mumbled, sleep laced in her voice.

"i miss you too, pretty girl. hopefully i'll see you soon," will said a bit sadly. samy only managed another smile before completely falling asleep a moment later. 

the blonde smiled, blowing a soft kiss to the screen and finally shutting his phone off for the night.  

[ghostf1ux]

"What in the Saw Trap Bullshit??"

Day 2: Broken Glass

Word Count: 3.9k

TW/CWs: Graphic blood/injury, violence, general DC-ness, a bitch is a little handsy, Self Inflicted injury under duress(?)

Part 2

-------------------------------------------------------

Generally, serial killers were pretty interesting to Jason. Most of the time.

But right now, he just wanted to go home. Or at least have an easy patrol.

He had just finished dealing with an Arkham breakout yesterday (Bats had called him in for backup, but he was relegated to wrangling Harley since he got along the best with her so he got away with just some bruised ribs, nothing that wouldn't be healed in a day with the Pit's side effects) so they weren't due for any big criminal events for another day at least. He had already been up for two whole days trying to track this killer down before all that threw him off track.

He was close, too.

But, then again, this was Gotham. Crime didn't rest, and apparently neither did her crime fighters. 

And that meant the killer was in the wind. Again.

And no, he was not going to ask for help. He may be on much better terms with his family, but he could handle a serial killer with creative methods.

Patrol was being painfully normal, as far as normal went in Gotham. He was chasing down the lead on that killer he'd been working on for the past two weeks; people had been going missing, then showing up again the next day. Jason found all their bodies in various states of mangled and littered with injuries. There was no pattern to them, no consistency between them as far as injuries went.

Well, there was one: they were all drugged with a simple, fast-acting sedative prior to all their injuries. It showed the kidnapper knew what they were doing, and probably planned all their ‘nappings ahead of time. Technically two if you counted the… creative causes of death.

Which brings him to where he is now. He came across another body tucked into an alley in his territory, as had been consistent with the rest of the bodies. This one was relatively unharmed, apart from her head. A small pool of blood had formed around it, despite the fact that the body was clearly brought here long after she had died.

Jason grimaced as he gently turned the woman's head– or at least, what used to be her head– to the side so he could get a better look at what happened.

Her head was practically turned inside-out at the jaw, her whole head ripped nearly in half across the cheeks. And it was ripped, not surgically cut or even haphazardly sliced. Her head was torn to nearly a 180 degree angle, far past what a human jaw should be able to do. The only time he's ever seen a jaw dislocated this wide was when he watched some snake documentary with Damian. 

Safe to say, this was not nearly as cool as watching a snake swallow an entire fucking deer.

Getting a closer look at the inside of her mouth, he can see little, bloody scratches in the roof and base of her mouth right behind her teeth. Some of the teeth had been ripped out, but the cuts weren't shallow. Most likely they were made from the force of whatever caused her skull to be ripped backwards from her jaw. Like there was some sort of device fastened on her head and secured behind her teeth.

Her hands and clothes were also bloody, but it didn't stop at whatever dripped down from the head-mangling that killed her. There was blood smeared over her shirt and soaked into her ratty jeans, mostly soaked below the knees apart from where it looked like she tried to wipe her hands off on her thighs. Her arms themselves were covered in almost-dried, caked-on blood from fingertips to elbows.

Jason pauses on her hands, lifting one to examine it closer. Shoved underneath her cracked and torn nails was–

He glances around, now convinced he's missing another body. Because there's no way that this woman had potentially torn into someone's internal organs with her bare hands and that person had survived. (Trust him on this one.)

At least, that's what it was looking like to Jason.

You get shit like this stuck under your nails because you were scratching or tearing at something, or in this case, someone. The blood soaked into her jeans below her thighs was consistent with kneeling in an ever-growing pool of blood (once again, trust him, he would know), and the way she seemed to have been trying to wipe the blood off on herself meant she needed her hands to do something afterwards.

Something niggled in the back of Jason's mind. This was familiar, somehow. He can't place it, but he's seen something like this somewhere.

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably, jolting him out of his train of thought. His senses focus back into the world around him.

There's a flash of pain on his neck he's too slow to stop, a chilling sensation following it into his bloodstream. He growls as he swings around, his fist connecting with a dark shape he can't immediately identify–

His vision wavers, body swaying with the effect of the drug. Even with his body's size and the Pit's effects, it effects him way too quickly–

His thoughts slow as he crumples to the ground. Distantly he recognizes that he should probably activate his emergency beacon, if his hands would actually cooperate with him. But they don't.

Instead, he watches as boots walk towards him, and a figure crouches before him. Their face is a dark blob. He hears muffled police sirens in the background before his eyes finally slip shut.

------------------------

When he comes to, it's… slow. Not quite painful, yet, but uncomfortable. Vaguely, he can feel a cold weight around his forearms and ankles. It makes him shiver.

Then he registers everything else. The ground is cold. Way too cold for what he should be feeling with his armor and helmet on. It's prickly, too. Shifting causes small sparks of pain (oh, there it is) across his shoulder, arm, chest, and cheek. 

(The parts of him that are on the ground, his brain so helpfully provides.)

He opens his eyes to a dingy, but somehow glimmering room and the sound of something crunching behind him. The electronic tint tells him his domino is still on, but beyond that, not much. The floor is covered in something that's sparkling in the buzzing light above him.

Glass.

Jason's laying on a floor covered in broken glass.

“Oh good, you're awake!” A cheerful voice sings. Vaguely feminine, Jason thinks. “You weren't out as long as I thought you'd be. But don't worry, we won't get started until you're fully awake. We wouldn't want you to be at a disadvantage, now would we?”

The person giggles, glass shifting right next to his head. Melodic humming fills the space, followed by fingers carding through his hair. Jason growls, willing his body to move but not getting anything more than a twitch of his fingers. His head is shifted off the glass and onto something soft– their lap. He (mentally) cringes at the contact.

They turn him so he's on his back, making him squint when faced with the bright lights. The ceiling isn't very high, but the worn concrete makes him think of some abandoned building. Maybe an office of some kind. There are bundles of wires running across the ceiling, but he can't see where they lead to at this angle.

“Hey, pretty birdie,” the woman teases, voice lilting flirtatiously. Her hands continue to twirl through his hair, brushing it out of his face. He snarls, trying to roll away. The relaxant is starting to wear off.

“Careful, you'll hurt yourself,” she chuckles. “Then again, you're no stranger to pain, are you, Robin?”

That makes Jason freeze. The woman laughs again, yanking Jason up by his hair until he's kneeling on the broken glass-covered ground. He still has his cargo pants from his Red Hood uniform on, which is nice, because those have knee and shin pads. He realizes when his knees hit something solid that there's something in front of him. It shifts away from him in the bed of glass. She leans over his shoulder to pull it back, making him shift his knees further apart so it can nestle between them.

“Do you know who I am, pretty bird?” She asks, trailing a finger over his collarbone. Jason finds he (somewhat surprisingly) has full control over his mouth, and manages to refrain from trying to bite her finger off despite how much he would love to feel the warmth of her vile blood filling his mouth and dripping down his lips, down his chin, down his neck, down down down–

“You're the one leaving bodies for me all over Crime Alley and the Bowery,” he mutters, pointedly ignoring her hand drifting over the scars on his chest in favor of lifting his head to  examine his surroundings with what little mobility he has. “Some of the more creative bodies I've seen, I'll give you that.”

“Well, I'm glad to see my handiwork hasn't been overlooked.” He can feel the smile on her face as she's practically hugging him from behind at this point, draped over him way too close for comfort. Doesn't help that he's not wearing a fucking shirt.

Speaking of shirts: a flash of red catching his eye makes him see that against the far edge of the room is a neat little pile of all his gear. Jacket on bottom (how dare she put his jacket in the glass), then his shirt, armor, gloves, weapons, and helmet. His boots are sitting next to the pile.

“Couldn't have hung the jacket up at least?” Jason quips sarcastically, looking over his shoulder at her. Her feather-light minstrations stop, and she sighs, tapping the center point of his autopsy scar with a gloved finger.

“That'll be the least of your worries soon enough.” She caresses the back of his head before pushing down, down, down into a basin of broken glass before him. He closes his eyes on instinct, feeling the jagged, razor-sharp edges digging into his skin and drawing blood. “You see, Robin, you died. For quite some time, in fact. I've done my research.”

Jason nearly scoffs, before thinking better of it given that his face is shoved in a fucking basin of glass.

“But then you came back. And that isn't supposed to happen. You aren't supposed to be here. None of them were.” Her voice turns dark, pushing his head further in. He's forced to inhale– and fuck does that hurt– but he keeps it controlled, for his own sake.

“Now, it's your turn to prove that Lady Death let you go willingly.” She rips him back up, shards of glass flying out of the basin. He takes a few solid breaths, cringing internally at the copper tang. “Somewhere in this basin is a key to your restraints. Somewhere in this room is a bomb. You'll hear it, but you won't see it. I'll set it for…”

She draws out the last word, tapping his chest in thought. He's starting to get really annoyed with her constant contact, but he can't exactly shake her off or savor her screams as he tears her apart with his bare hands. 

Anyways. He should probably keep listening to whatever bullshit she's spewing.

“Yeah, that'll do. A nice little mystery, something to keep you on your toes.” She grins, using his head as a leverage point to stand up. He watches as she brushes her hands off and skips– she was really way too happy about this whole situation for Jason's liking– over to the door, kicking glass all over his stuff. The bitch.

“Have fun, prettiest bird! I wouldn't recommend waiting on the rest of your flock, they have no idea you're here and you don't have any time to waste. Good luck!”

With that, the door slams behind her, locks, and the room is filled with beeping.

Jason blinks before immediately getting to work trying to twist around to see what's behind him, but it's no use. The chains linking him to the ground are maybe a foot and a half long, and he doesn't want to risk losing the literal key to his survival by kicking it too far away. 

He ignores the way glass digs into his feet– that's a problem for future Jason.

Other than what he's already seen and the ever-present beeping now filling the room and grating on his nerves, there's nothing else. Nothing he can use. Nothing that can help.

He groans, looking down at the basin. It's about two and a half feet in diameter, and about a foot deep.

A few shards of glass are already lodged in and around his mouth, just from the brief bit of time he spent with his face shoved in it. There's also glass in his shoulder, chest, ribs, and cheek from when he first woke up. Some of the glass around him is spattered with red drops.

He figures it's going to be soaked with blood by the end of this.

He takes a deep breath before slowly lowering into the basin. He carefully turns his head back and forth, trying to burrow deeper into the glass. Despite this, he can feel the way it cuts through his cheeks and forehead– thankfully his eyes and the skin surrounding them are spared, thanks to his domino.

Never has he ever been more thankful for his dramatic tendencies than right now. 

His nose touches the bottom, smooth concrete a stark difference to the miniature knives stabbing and scratching him from all angles.

He pauses, glancing around in the sea of shimmering translucent white for any hint of metal.

Seeing nothing, he pushes into the side. He ignores the pinches and scratches, slowly shoveling the glass out.

When he comes up for air, the glass caves back into the space where his head was. Red-speckled glass that wasn't there before is piled on one side of the basin where he managed to shovel some out. 

He sighs sharply, the beep beep beeping and lack of progress making green flames crawl up his throat and tint the edges of his vision.

He was under for just under three minutes, according to his internal clock. He had no idea how long the clock on the bomb was, but the woman said he didn't have time to waste. With the type of people that did shit like this in Gotham of all places, it could be from anywhere between fifteen minutes to two hours.

He dives back into the basin, getting to the bottom of it quicker than before. Not due to any marginally smaller amount of glass that was there, no. Just due to the fact that Jason was annoyed and wanted to get this over with.

And also the fact that glass cutting into his skin was better than beeping, beeping, red numbers counting down five four three two one–

Forehand or backhand?

A or B?

Crunching bones, laughing screaming crying hahahaHAHAHAHAHA–

Jason rips his head out of the glass, gasping as blood drips into his open mouth. He spits out the glass, coughing desperately to get the jagged shards out of his throat.

It works, somewhat, but he can also feel the way it rips apart his throat at the same time. He doesn't know how long he spends hunched over to the side, trying to get the glass out.

Well, if he wasn't on a time limit before, he probably is now.

With renewed vigor, he grits his bloody teeth and plunges back in. He has to open his mouth partway down to actually feel around for the key, trying to avoid breathing or really anything else as much as he can.

This process makes him realize that he is really glad he has practically no gag reflex. With the amount of blood that runs down (up?) his throat, it would make his life a whole lot harder if his body was trying to kill him quicker. He's already done that once, he isn't keen to do it again.

Jason swears mentally, vehemently, as glass gouges into his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, tongue, throat, lungs–

Tears prick his eyes as the cuts are scratched over, glass is torn out and replaced with more agonizing, sharper, deeper glass–

Then his teeth clink against something new. His eyes fly open– he had closed them sometime in his minor breakdown– and he sees a slight sheen you only see on metal. It's painted white (that fucking bitch) but it's there. He smiles a bloody smile and manages to get his lips around it, but when he tries to lift it out it slips between his bloody lips and cascades back into the basin of glass.

Jason nearly loses it when he looks down and doesn't see the key, but just takes a calming breath (not a deep one, he is well fucking aware of the glass filling every aspect of his bodily breathing methods) and goes back in. He ignores how most of the basin is painted red now (red is a way better color than white anyways).

He's clenching his hands in an effort to reign himself in because this is taking way too fucking long when he finally finds the key again. This time he grabs it with his teeth, barely holding back a whimper at the mouthful of glass that comes with it but just elated he finally has the fucking key.

Carefully, carefully, he lets the glass leak out of a little opening in the corner of his lips. It's syrupy with his blood, but he doesn't care because he has the fucking key and he's going to get out of here–

As soon as he figures out how to get it into his hands.

Jason squints over his shoulder at the position of his hands and feet, twisting far enough that it pulls at his bruised ribs (but honestly, that's nothing compared to the death by a thousand papercuts that his face is right now). He lets the key slip off his tongue over his shoulder, hearing the clink clank of it bouncing off the bands and chains before it hits the floor.

He shifts his legs to the side, which pulls at his shoulder uncomfortably, somewhere close to the cusp of dislocating.

Of course, that's exactly what he manages to do when blood pools in his throat, and in trying to get it out, he tilts backwards just enough to fall back into the glass.

He lets out a hoarse shout, curling up (or at least really wanting to, the chain connecting his arms and ankles together isn't nearly long enough for that) and coughing out blood and more glass. It splatters everywhere, a small stream of crimson consistently trickling out of his mouth when he finally stops. He doesn't even feel the jagged edges of the cleaner glass dig into his back, arms, hands– he just grasps the key he had spit out and starts fumbling through the piles of mini-knives to get it into the keyhole that's just within his reach.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

After way too long of trying to get the key in, it finally clicks and the bands fall off. Jason breathlessly laughs, blood bubbling up over the corners of his mouth, dripping down his jaw and neck. 

If anyone saw this they'd probably think he was insane.

Well. 

They wouldn't be far off.

Soon, the cuffs around his ankles fall to the ground with a clank and he's finally able to rub his arms after being trapped for what felt like hours but as actually only twenty one minutes and–

Ooh, his hands are not a pretty sight. Reminds him of that one time he–

Focus, Jason.

Right.

He groans as he shuffles to his feet, his mouth hanging just a little bit open to let the blood keep draining out. 

Except, as soon as he straightens, the edges of his vision fill with black spots and ooh, face and mouth wounds bleed way too fucking much.

Too many realizations. Need to get back to somewhere safe.

Focus, Jason.

Each step is agony on his feet, the squish crunch skrit of each step echoing behind every beep that fills the space, but luckily, it's not a far walk.

He gathers his gear with one arm before opening the unlocked (thank the fucking gods, he would've lost it if it was locked) door before running through the dingy building trying to find an exit. The beeping rings in his mind despite the fact that he can't actually hear it.

27 minutes.

Bloody footsteps and broken glass leave a trail of his path through winding hallways and rooms. His breathing is ragged with the effort of not choking, having to stop every twenty steps to let blood leak from his mouth.

Past Jason makes some really bad decisions that are now a problem for current Jason.

29 minutes.

Finally, a door leads to the outside. It's deserted, probably due to the chilled rain, but then again, it's Gotham. It's always fucking raining. The air is heavy with tension and moisture. It's also… oddly quiet. By Gotham standards.

Ignoring that, the building seems to be someplace close to the northern edge of Crime Alley from what Jason can tell, close enough that he can clearly see the Robert Cane Memorial Bridge, aka the bridge that leads directly to Wayne Manor, aka the one place he doesn't want to go right now but has to because he isn't stupid enough to think he can dig glass out of his lungs on his own.

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably.

He jolts out of his train of thought, moving to stumble away from the building just as a heat and a boom shakes the ground and pieces of concrete and rebar and wood shoot dangerously into the air. He only barely avoids them by ducking around a corner.

Clutching his gear and holding his arm at the strange, dislocated angle, he begins to make his way through the alley, hoping for some god damn luck for once in his fucked up life. Just once.

He's stumbling, one shoulder (not the dislocated one) occasionally scraping against alley walls when it finally happens. Good luck comes to him in the form of an unattended motorcycle with an unlocked saddlebag.

Jason thanks the gods he doesn't believe in and also Wonder Woman as he shoves his shit in the box and hotwires the bike. It roars to life, music to his ears (which are starting to ring a little bit. That's probably not good).

Once he gets settled enough to drive he takes off, taking the corners easy but otherwise breaking every traffic law in existence.

In the blink of an eye, he's cruising into the Batcave on shaky wheels and even shakier field of vision.

“Oh, hey Hood. What are you doing here so early? Usually you're patrolling for another couple hours at least,” A voice asks from the computer. Jason squints when he doesn't hear a British accent, making out the vague dark mop of hair and crutch nearby. That means it's Tim, who was injured enough last night that he was apparently benched. Must've been a leg injury.

He got a lot of texts about it last night. He doesn't remember what any of them said.

In lieu of actually speaking to respond to Tim's question that he clearly didn't turn around to ask, he chucks his helmet in the vague direction of the baby bird, then starts walking on shaky legs towards the med bay.

“What the– oh my god Jay what the fuck happened to you??” Tim screeches when he finally turns around. Jason shoots him an unimpressed look from where he leans against the medbay door, then just waves Tim over and walks away. Distantly he can hear Tim's panicked typing and hurried crutching(?) coming towards him.

“O take over comms I have to go bye–!”

[bonbonshideout]

Who I think the crp would target pt.1

Ticci Toby:

Personally, I feel he would mostly target abusive parents, but if he's out and just bored out of his mind, he'll kill whoever he stumbled across. When ut comes to abusive parents, I feel he would be a bit stalkerish, he'll find a parent or an adult, stalk them for a few days, see how they handle life and treat their families, if he sees any forms of abusive in any manner, he'll go for their ass, at night, in broad daylight, he doesn't give a fuck.

Ben Drowned:

He wouldn't really kill people, but instead, electronics; he would be one of those viruses that you'd find on social media. Once he gets ahold of your device, it'll go haywire to start. Suddenly it'll reset and seem like nothing happened, however Ben would 100% love to mess with the person, opening random apps, turning on/off any alarms they might have, call random people in the contact list, etc. He would end up causing the person to go insane— be it or not his intention— to the point they probably kill themselves.

Jeff The Killer

Like Kuchisake-onna, I feel Jeff would wear a mask of some sort, go up to people, and ask if they think he's pretty, not matter what they say, he'll carve a smile into their face anyways. He just likes to do it. If ya run into him, group or alone, you'll most likely be found dead later on anyways. He likes to kill everyone he runs into

Eyeless Jack

Steming from my headcanons for EJ — linked here — He would kill whoever he finds on the Appalachian trail. He would definitely stalk them throughout their hikes and find a moment where their guard is down and can make one swift motion. He prefers a clean and quick murder. He would probably use his voice to trick people into getting closer - like that of a skinwalker or wendigo - and get them that way. Usually leaving the trails unbothered and a way to keep people coming without much worry.

Clockwork

Doctors, or psychward doctors. Just anyone in the medical field; they're what pretty much why she's kinda what she is now, she holds some sort of grudge, even if it wasn't entirely their fault. She especially hates those that work at psych wards because patients usually end up worse than they were when first arrival. She wants them all to feel what she felt and just understand the suffering they inflict on many people.

Jane The Killer

I feel she wouldn't really kill anyone, she's mostly going after Jeff so she's trying to mostly keep people safe, if that makes sense? But if she were to kill, it would probably be security. As bad as she may feel for doing so, it tends to happen that they get in her way to find and properly locate Jeff.

Nina The Killer

She just does it for fun. She kills whoever she wants to. She does prefer killing other serial killers, though, usually gives her a bit of a challenge, and she's always up for that.

X-Virus

He doesn't have a preference, he'll see a passer by and spike their drink with some crazy concoction he's created and watch as they slowly start dying whilst taking notes of the effects of said poison.

Sally

She goes for pedophiles and rapists. She tries to help kids when it comes to situations that she had gone through while she was alive, having two forms - which I detail more in my hc, linked here - she l9ves to terrorize these people and make them for crazy, though she doesn't like to get her hands dirty, she prefers making them believe they're hallucinating, which she probably can do. Usually driving the individual to commit suicide in probably the worst ways possible, as she likes to cause more damage when there's a higher chance of them committing.

[alpaca-clouds]

Are we too obsessed with robots?

I recently realized an interesting thing about the Solarpunk space and specifically what little Solarpunk media we have - at least the Solarpunk media that goes into Scifi. (I will once more reiterate: No, I do not think that Solarpunk necessarily needs to be science fiction. You can have both historical Solarpunk and Fantasy Solarpunk, no problem.)

There is a surprising amount of Solarpunk stories that do include at least one important robot character. This might not be true as much for those short stories, but very much for longer form stories and comics. Some sort of robot is always there - often a cute one, mind you.

And... I do kind of get it. Because robots make for an amazing plot device to discuss certain issues with. You can use them to discuss both slavery and the general concept of othering. Now, I could go into a whole rant of why it is actually harmful to use non-humans for either of those issues, but I will not do that today.

Instead I do want to talk about something else. Mainly about AI, and about setting realistic expectations. But to start this off, please remember: We absolutely, 100% already have all the technology we need to live in a Solarpunk utopia, if we as a human species just decided to do so. I wrote about this last week.

The AI Issue

Recently I have noticed that I am getting really short-tempered with people who use ChatGPT. Mainly for their reliance on it, but also because they will often talk about it as if it was a thinking thing. They will use phrases like this: "ChatGPT tried to get me to admit..." or "ChatGPT did not like this..." As if ChatGPT had goals or an opinion on anything. It doesn't. It is your mobile phone's text predictions with a lot more abilities, but it does not have feelings, goals, or morals.

And here is the thing: By now I am not sold on AI ever having that.

Look, I love SciFi. I love a variety of stories about sad robots - be it Blade Runner or Cyberpunk - or about people living in computers - be they Pantheon or Digimon. But I do not think this is particularly realistic.

Because... Well, I do not think as long as a computer is digital it will ever be able to actually feel.

And I will tell why: While we humans love to romantacize feelings and stuff, technically speaking they are just our meatbag of a body producing chemicals influencing the transmission of impulses throughout our nervous system in a way that at some point would have enhanced our chances of survival. (Yes, this might have been one of the most autistic sentences I ever wrote.)

Whenever you are in love, it is just your body producing chemicals that make you more likely to feel secure with another person, which might lead to you bonding with this person. And bonding with other humans would have allowed you to survive better for a long time.

Whenever you are sad, it is your body producing chemicals that inhibit some neural transmissions, which probably at some point served for certain information that would be good for your survival to be maintained.

The details do not really matter. What matters: A computer is not a meatbag that produces chemicals that inhibit the transmission of electrical impulses through their chips. And because of this, an AI - as long as it runs on any sort of electrical rather than biological hardware - will not ever feel. It might be able to give a response as if it felt. But it will not actually have this emotion.

And look, I absolutely get that some of you might want to argue with me, because after all, chances are you have consumed media in which sad robots were the racism analogy, and the villain used these exact arguments.

But at this I would ask you to consider: You are not in a story. You are in reality. Nobody is "enslaving" robots, who are trying to rise up. There are no second-class robot citizens. We are just talking about stories about robots, that are not real, and why those stories might have problems.

And I think one of those problems is, that they make us more likely to assume that an AI can feel - which makes us behave kinder to programs, that were created by very rich people to steal our work and manipulate us. And that is not a good thing.

The Realistic Expectation

But I also see another problem with this. The reason why I spoke about the availability of Solarpunk technologies last week. Because in a lot of utopian scifi inspired movements, people are kinda waiting for THE TECHNOLOGY to arrive. See also Star Trek and people waiting for the replicator to arrive. It probably won't. Sadly.

And because of this I am kinda iffy about those feeling robots in Solarpunk stories, because they make people wait for the technology to catch up to thinking robots and other Scifi technology shown in what little Solarpunk media we have. And that waiting makes the people not act.

But the fact is, that we can a perfectly nice Solarpunk future without any robots present. In fact I would argue it actually is better that way, because unless the robots can be 3D printed chances are that whoever develops the robot technology in that hyperthetical Solarpunk future, will hold a lot of power over society. And that is not going to be very good for creating a flat hierarchy in society.

And something that I kinda do see as an issue with Solarpunk really is the people waiting for some magical technological breakthrough, rather than realizing, that the issue we have is capitalism mainly. Without capitalism, we can have Solarpunk NOW. We do not need to wait for anything else to happen.

Which leads back to that one isse. Yeah. You cannot wait for someone else to fight capitalism for you. You kinda have to do it yourself. I am sorry. But there it is. :/

[triscribeaucollection]

(Fiddling around with a new MCU time travel idea)

There are a couple of kids in Tony’s living room.

Well- there’s one bonafide child, early elementary school age, and then one teenager somewhere on the cusp of young adulthood. But Tony would bet if he put their ages together and divided by two, he’d get a number in the realm of ‘should probably still have a babysitter when the parents go out for an evening’, ergo, kids.

They’re still asleep, for the moment. Or, unconscious, rather. Not awake, at any rate, and they haven’t been since falling through a big glowing circle into his living room, teenager curled protectively around the little girl. Which is a little annoying for two reasons; first and foremost, Tony has questions, but also he’d rather not have Pepper or anyone else walk in and demand to know why there are two unconscious children lying on his sofa.

That’s just such an awkward question. Though he does at least have proof in the form of security footage that the pair arrived by means entirely beyond Tony’s control. Speaking of which; Tony flicks a finger, and JARVIS dutifully rewinds said footage to the beginning, and plays at an again-reduced speed. Ultimate slo-mo doesn’t reveal any answers, however. There’s no prior warning before the light flares, startling video-Tony into spilling his coffee as he crosses the room, and no hints to be found beyond swirling white and orange as the kids fall through. The light vanishes as soon as they’re clear, then the boy hits the floor, hard. There are honest to goodness cracks in Tony’s floor, he had JARVIS run a scan on the structure beneath his lovely thick carpeting just to check.

No cracks in the kid’s bones, though. And- okay, in all honesty, questions and unknowns and everything else aside, Tony does prefer it that way, rather than the reverse.

As far as JARVIS could tell with further scanning, neither kid bore any injuries - just some lingering traces of quantum energy, fading further with every minute. With any luck, as soon as that finishes up, there’ll be some waking up and answering of questions.

Though of course Tony couldn’t just sit around and do nothing while he waited.

The little girl is definitely wearing designer brand clothing: durable sneakers, high quality shorts and collared shirt, a lightweight jacket that wouldn’t look out of place in a magazine for children’s spring collections. Also, just to hammer home the fact she comes from money, JARVIS detected extremely sophisticated tracking beacons inside every single garment. Even the socks. Tiny devices, clearly some kind of advanced nanotech... With a mini Stark Industries logo etched onto each one.

Trouble is, Tony’s never made beacons this small and impressive before.

Her watch is a similar conundrum. It’s red and yellow, clearly meant to look like any other cheap Iron Man themed child’s decoration, except for housing what Tony would swear is the same sort of satellite connection he puts into all of his suits for JARVIS to link up with. Top of the line encryption, tiny hologram projection, more tracking software with options to send specific distress calls, and all of it bio-locked, which- which should have been a problem. Even without an AI present in the device to fight him, it should have taken Tony significant time to crack through the locks and get a good look at the watch’s internal circuitry. Instead, it- recognized him. Recognized his bio-signature, and let him in.

He’s still mulling over the implications of that one.

Now, the teenager, there lie some other mysteries. Far shabbier clothing, for one thing. The ragged shoes alone look like they’ve picked up grime walking from one side of NYC to the other and back. Jeans with a faded appearance that’s not artistic enough to be artificially crafted; sweatshirt that has some amateur stitchwork patching up the elbows; t-shirt with holes in the hem and a cartoon character Tony didn’t recognize on the chest.

Thing is, JARVIS didn’t recognize the character either. Not even after running a search through the whole dang internet. And it wasn’t an indie creation, there was very definitely a Disney logo on the shirt’s tag, where it stuck up from the back of the collar.

And then there’s what the kid’s got under his clothes.

No, Tony did not undress him, but peeking out from under the cuffs of that sweatshirt and visible in the gap between pants and shoes is a very different sort of material. Durable, flexible, extremely form-fitting to be hidden so well by regular garments. Physically rifling through the kid’s sweatshirt pockets turned up a pair of gloves and mask, too. Very Halloween-y, Tony would probably jump out of his skin if he turned around to find those big white eyes looming out of the dark. Attached to the gloves, he also found a couple of small gadgets, fairly sophisticated, capable of spitting out an atrocious substance clear across the room. A large, sticky web still occupies the far wall by his bar as proof.

Those, Tony gingerly set down next to the girl’s watch, to be considered later. When their owners are awake, and capable of telling him things like hey don’t touch that button.

In the meantime, he’s finally accepted there isn’t much left to do but wait, idly replaying the security footage over and over, less idly hoping there’s some kind of change before any company arrives.

His luck, perhaps predictably, falls through.

“Sir,” JARVIS announces into the otherwise quiet room. “Miss Potts is on her way up.”

With a long, drawn out, highly exasperated sigh, Tony sets his empty glass aside and stands to face the music.

---

“Time travel,” Pepper says flatly. That’s a very clear, Pepperish tone of you can’t be serious. But before Tony has a chance to voice his defense, she’s already sighing, and bringing up a hand to rub at the bridge of her nose. “Why do you think this is time travel?”

So he starts reviewing the data.

The cartoon character that doesn’t exist yet only earns a raised eyebrow - when Tony gets into the particulars of the girl’s watch and trackers, Pepper looks a little less unamused, a little more disconcerted. Pointing out the boy’s suit and gadgets and drawing her attention to the web still occupying his wall even earns two whole startled blinks. “That’s... Tony.”

“Yeah.”

“Tony.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, fully in agreement. “But it’s either time travel, or R&D has been doing some serious overtime tinkering without letting either of us know!”

Pepper rubs a hand over her face, sighing again. When she pulls it away, her gaze goes to the pair of kids, girl still held in the boy’s arms, both of them laying on their sides where Tony managed to haul them up onto his sofa when the whole bizarre event began. “What do we do, then?”

“Not much we can do, besides haul them down to the infirmary and try injecting things to induce an early wake-up call.” Even as he says it, Tony swipes up and enlarges the holo-window with the energy reading and its total dissipation countdown. T-minus eight hundred and seventy-three seconds. “Otherwise, wait to see if anything happens in about fifteen minutes.”

Pepper let loose her third sigh, and went to get a glass of wine.

[gravedwe11er]

Prime and Protector

Dusted off my writing skills to try my hand at some of the rarepair event prompts! Big thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for making you read mecha lingo. I will do it again.

Pairing: Rodimus/Deadlock

Cw: none

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: In which Deadlock's plans get drastically disrupted within the span of a single cycle by the prettiest pair of blue optics he's ever seen. And also politics. Can't forget that bit.

If Deadlock had known just how utterly, mind numbingly, spark crushingly boring this job would be, he might not have taken it after all.

Well, no. That's a lie. He’d never be stupid enough to say no to that kind of shanix. When you’re an up-and-coming gun for hire and some noble bastard contacts you, shoving a datapad with the most zeroes you’ve ever seen on it in front of your optics, you’re going to take it, no matter how hard or unpleasant the gig is.

Even if the mech they want dead is the new Prime.

It’s not like Deadlock has some sort of a moral objection to it. As far as he’s concerned, Primus has never done a single good thing for him and neither have any of his chosen, so really, why should he care. This Prime’s a mech like any other, and he’ll die like one too.

That is, if Deadlock could ever get anywhere near the guy. He’s been here for a month already, employed as a guard for the primal residence with the help of the new squeaky-clean records his client got for him, and so far, he has yet to see the Prime anywhere outside a holoscreen. Being the newest mech on payroll, the understandably paranoid chief of security has had him standing outside one of the dozen nearly unused side entrances, out of the way of anyone even slightly important.

Probably until he proves himself to not be an assassin sent here to kill his charge or something like that. Hah.

He’s currently alone, his partner for the day having been called away to deal with an unspecified situation in some other part of the ostentatiously huge residence and leaving him to his own devices. If Deadlock were a betting mech, he’d put his favorite pistol on this being a test, so he stubbornly fights the urge to nod off right where he stands and at least pretends he’s keeping a watchful optic on his surroundings.

Something he turns out to be grateful for when, barely a few klicks later, the elevator separating the Prime’s tower from the rest of the senatorial residential district starts showing signs of activity. Straightening up further, he stands at parade rest with his ridiculous electric spear held up at a perfect angle just as the elevator opens, spitting out two mechs in the middle of a heated argument.

The first is undoubtedly some prissy upper caste bastard, his thin, purely decorative cream-colored armor polished to a mirror shine. But it’s the second one, his arm held by the fancy fragger in a grip so tight it’s visibly denting his plating, that makes Deadlock tense up.

The new Prime looks a bit different than on the holos, his paint nanites changed to blues and purples instead of the usual reds and golds, and he’s visibly scratched up. Reeking of exhaust and burnt rubber, Deadlock would bet he was just dragged away from a street race, which is a shock in and of itself. What really gets him, though, are the sharp, almost bitten off glyphs flying out of his mouth, colored with the strong and unmistakable nyonian slum accent.

Deadlock tries not to stare too hard as the two mechs keep shouting at each other, his presence going unnoticed for the moment. In the few official broadcasts he’s made since his appointment to office, the Prime had sounded like any other noble slagger, the I am better than you attitude oozing out of every polished, perfectly pronounced glyph, but now he’s guessing they must have been heavily edited to hide the mech’s less than stellar origins.Which just begs the question, how in the pit was some nyonian allowed to get anywhere near the matrix in the first place?

Shaking himself out of his inner turmoil and shelving his speculations for the moment, Deadlock turns his attention back on his mark and his enraged minder, having no trouble listening in on their debate with just how fragging loud they’re being.

“-an utter disgrace to the Primal line! Escaping your guard detail, engaging in illegal races and shirking your duties! Again!” scolds the noble with his grating, uppity voice, and Deadlock dislikes him immediately. “How many more times must I tell you to conduct yourself as a mech of your statute!”

The white mech closes his optics, attempting to calm himself while the Prime sulkily stares at the ground. “This cannot be allowed to happen again. If you are unable to behave yourself, then we shall endeavor to find someone who will make it so.” he adds, more quietly now, trying to stare his unrepentant looking ward down despite being a helm shorter.

“Like you don’t already do that?” drawls the Prime, causing the other to take in a slow, calming invent before speaking up again.

“Have you considered General Slipwing’s proposal? I believe he would be the ideal Lord protector for someone of your… temperament.”

That seems to bring some energy to the Prime’s frame, Deadlock watching the mech finally rip his arm out of his minder’s grip to gesticulate wildly. “What? Absolutely not! The guy’s a total bore, not to mention insufferable! I am not gonna deal with him for a moment longer than I have to!”

With a dainty flick of his wrist, the white mech waves off his leader’s protests. “Perhaps the proximity to someone calm and responsible would be beneficial for you, my lord Prime,” he says, tone deceptively mild, not at all masking the insult in his statement.

“No way. Nope. I’m saying no and that’s final, you can’t make me,” shouts the Prime, shaking his helm violently. “We’re done here. I can find a way to my own rooms just fine, and you can go back to all those oh-so-important other duties that you keep reminding me you have.”

With that, the mech turns away from the irate noble and begins stomping his way to the entrance gate, Deadlock quickly returning to parade rest and doing his best to look like he hasn’t just been listening to every single word to come out of these mechs’ mouths. The Prime only makes it a few steps before he suddenly looks up, meeting Deadlock’s gaze with the most striking set of blue optics he’d ever seen.

He finds himself frozen as the leader of the entire cybertronian empire stares at him with an odd, considering look, the two standing close enough for Deadlock to feel the mech’s field when it flares out. It’s unusually strong, and warm too, despite the undercurrent frazzle of irritation, with an echo of something ancient and powerful and other that makes him suppress the urge to shiver.

The moment lasts for a few nanoklicks before the Prime stirs to life, pointing at him with one brightly colored digit.

“You!”

Only vorns of practice stop Deadlock from flinching as he tries to quell a wave of rising panic. Could the Prime have recognized him from somewhere? Frag, has Deadlock killed someone close to him, maybe? He doesn’t remember seeing this mech before, but he could have had a reformat and Deadlock would be none the wiser. Hoping to salvage the situation, he forces out an almost calm sounding “Yes?” before remembering to quickly tack on a “my lord” at the end of the sentence.

Out of all the things Deadlock could have expected, “You could be my Protector!” rolling off the Prime’s glossa was not it.

This time, Deadlock really does twitch, a staticky wheeze coming out of his vocalizer. The Prime’s optics widen, seemingly startled by his own words, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before a shout from behind him takes both of their attention away.

“Have you lost your mind?!” the white noblemech shouts, quickly striding to the Prime’s side. “You would reject dozens of proposals from Cybertron’s elite, yet this is who you would have as your Protector?”

“Well, maybe I don’t want any of them,” says the Prime after a moment of hesitation, crossing his arms defiantly. “Maybe I think, uh-,“ a quick ping against his ID pin, “Deadlock here would be better suited for the job. What about it?”

“What about- Preposterous!” yells the prissy bastard, gesticulating towards Deadlock, contempt obvious on his shiny faceplates. “What sort of jest are you making here? He is a nobody, a common guard, practically a gutter- ah.”

Practically a guttermech, is what that slagger meant, obviously. Deadlock can’t say it bothers him much – some of the things he’s heard aimed at him would peel this little mech’s paint right off, so all he feels about it is the urge to roll his optics, and maybe hit the guy a little bit.

The Prime, to his surprise, seems to take it much more personally.

“What was that?” he grinds out, leaning to loom over the shorter mech like some brawler in a bar. “What were you going to say, huh?”

The noble tries to open his mouth, but is quickly interrupted by the Prime’s finger poking him in the chestplate, the atmosphere quickly growing heated. Quite literally, in this case – Deadlock can see heat shimmering in the air, radiating from the Prime’s armor. A point one percenter ability, maybe?

“’Cause it sure sounds like you wanted to call him a guttermech. Did you forget where your Prime, Primus’ chosen, came from?”

“I apologize, my lord-“

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Just- Don’t let me catch you saying that again, or I swear I’m gonna find some way to make you regret it, understood?”

The mech turns to stare at the ground and nods, looking majorly displeased but sufficiently cowed for the moment, and the Prime steps away from him.

“Besides,” he throws over his shoulder as he makes his way over to Deadlock, “the Matrix approves of him, so there’s that.”

Deadlock’s helm is spinning. He’s having a hard time processing the mental whiplash of all he’s just heard, but he’s given no time to steady himself before the mech is right in front of him, his field stretching out in a friendly manner and mirroring the slightly awkward smile on his faceplate.

“So, what do you say? Would you at least consider it? I know it’s all a bit sudden,” says the Prime, accented words slipping quickly off his glossa. “But hey, you hungry? ‘Cause Primus below I’m starving, and maybe we could talk about all this over a cube?”

Deadlock doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like gravity has been turned upside down and he’s left floundering, spinning in the void of space. But the Prime’s optics are on his again, and they’re bright and wide and waiting for him to answer, so without really thinking about it, he manages to croak out an “Alright”.

As he’s led away by the excitedly chattering Prime, annoying noble left behind, his thoughts go strangely quiet. This could have been exactly the moment he’s been waiting for, the Prime distracted and vulnerable and alone; an easy target, really. Deadlock could have killed him in any of the empty hallways of the Primal residence, tucked his grey frame away into a random corner and escaped into the night, collecting his paycheck before running away to live out the rest of his days on a faraway colony in comfort and financial security.

With the Prime’s warm servo on his arm and those bright optics looking his way, it doesn’t even cross his mind.

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

In the time it had taken the two of them to wander through seemingly endless fancy looking corridors to find themselves in this lavish sitting room, Deadlock had managed to shake off the mental whiplash and really started thinking through what’s been asked of him. Deadlock, a Lord Protector? Setting aside his real job for a moment, he could just not wrap his processor around why in the pit he’d been asked in the first place. As far as this mech knew, Deadlock was just one of the dozens of guards constantly keeping an eye on his residence. And that mention of the Matrix- It’s not like Deadlock knew much about it or how it worked, never believed it to be much more than a shiny trinket, but if that wasn’t the case? Could it really consider him, him, to be a fitting Protector for this odd little Prime?

Which was why, when they sat down and the Prime handed him a cube, the first question to roll off his glossa was, “Why me?”

“Everyone here sure seems to think I am, but I’m really not,” mutters the Prime, or Rodimus, as he’s been invited to call him, lazily swirling around his own cube of the purest energon Deadlock had ever seen, let alone tasted. Forcing himself to sip it at a measured pace instead of knocking it down like the starving empty he’s been until recently, he can’t help but stare at the Prime’s ridiculously expressive faceplates as he speaks.

“They really don’t want me here. I was never supposed to be a Prime, pit, I was never supposed to get anywhere near the Matrix! But, well, I guess Primus had his own opinion on that,” says Rodimus, throwing Deadlock a cheeky grin.

“So, when it became obvious they really couldn’t pry the thing out of me,” he says, tapping the center of his chestplate, “the senate and the nobles started trying to control me instead. Lightfall has been throwing Protector candidates at me for ages, pretty much the whole time I’ve been in charge. Probably hoping one of them could beat me into submission or something.”

Deadlock rubs his free hand over his finial, helm aching. “That still doesn’t explain why me. We met today.”

“What, you’re saying I haven’t immediately won you over with my shining personality and even shinier polish?” the Prime jokes, spoiler wings wiggling in the most ridiculous display Deadlock has ever seen, and he unexpectedly finds himself fighting a smile.

“But really,” Rodimus sobers a bit, meeting Deadlock’s yellow optics with his own stunning, bright blues, making something inside his chest flutter, “I need someone in my corner. Someone without a political agenda, someone who knows how regular bots live down there, outside of all- this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the riches around them with a downward twist to his mouth.

Contempt colors the Prime’s voice, something very much unusual for a mech of his statute. Then again, if he’s right about his assumption, Rodimus’ origins are far from noble. Oh, and speaking of-

“You’re from Nyon, right?”

The Prime jolts at the interruption before nodding, a surprised smile spreading on his faceplate. “Guilty as charged. You ever been?”

“Once.” On a job. He didn’t stick around for long after the deed was done, would have been dumb idea, but-

Seeing the poor people of Nyon sticking together, helping one another, so different to the violence of the Dead End back alleys he’d crawled out of, made something feel tight in his chest. He tried not to dwell on it.

“Ha, nice! Now, I’m not the best with accents, but lemme guess: Rodion?”

“Got it in one,” says Deadlock with the tiniest hint of a smile, and the two share a look of mutual understanding, no further glyphs needed. There is a certain solidarity in hailing from some of the worst slagpits Cybertron has to offer and, Prime or not, it’s something that never really leaves you.

There’s a pause as Rodimus takes a sip of his fuel before turning back to Deadlock, expression grim. “So, you get it then. You know the slag that goes on outside the tower districts, the way the ‘worthless nobodies’ are treated by the same mechs that are supposed to be their benevolent leaders,” he scoffs.

“But I’m not gonna let them. I believe I was chosen for a reason, that Primus knew things need to change. That I could be the one to change them,” he says, stubborn determination shining through his field.  “But hey, surprisingly, the council is really not happy about that. They’ve been pushing back against everything I try to do, tying it down in complex bureaucracy stuff I don’t really get yet and nobody will explain to me. Pit, I honestly wouldn’t even be surprised if they tried to get me assassinated!”

At that, Deadlock has to suppress a wince, trying to chase away an unexpected frisson of guilt and failing.

“But you, I got a good feeling about you,” says Rodimus brightly, putting a now gold colored servo on Deadlock’s arm and making him feel even worse. “If you became my Protector, we could make things better! We could build better housing in Rodion and get more fuel to Nyon, or push for stricter safety regulations in the mines! We could really make a difference!”

Setting his cube down, the Prime reaches a servo towards him. “I know this is a lot, I know it’s unexpected, but please? Would you help me with this?”

Deadlock stares at the offered servo, thoughts flying around in his processor at light speed. This bot has to be terribly naïve, unbelievably impulsive and potentially mad to be suggesting the second highest government position to a someone he met a few joors ago and who is, unbeknownst to him, an assassin sent here to extinguish his spark.

But Deadlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. About all the times he felt hopeless, helpless to save himself or anyone else. About how the system chewed him up and spat him out, made him feel less than worthless, until he clawed his way out over the greyed-out frames of his targets.

About how this bright opticed, newly minted Prime looked at Deadlock as if he was the solution to all his problems, lovely and honest and maybe a tiny bit desperate. How it made him feel like he mattered. How, for the first time in his miserable functioning, he could maybe, just maybe, change something for the better.

“Did the Matrix really say I should be Protector?”

“Well,” hummed Rodimus, faceplates twisting up in thought, “not exactly? It doesn’t speak, not in words, and it can’t see into the future or anything. But it knows things, knows bots all the way to their sparks, and it communicates that through feeling. Or maybe song, I guess.”The Prime chuckles, waving his servo around vaguely. “It’s really hard to describe, you’d just have to hear it for yourself. But yeah, it’s got a really good feeling about you. Feels like I should do my best to keep you around.”

Reaching out towards Deadlock once more, Rodimus wiggles his digits with an inviting grin. “And honestly, I couldn’t agree more. So, come on! What do you say, Deadlock? Wanna give this better future thing a try with me?”

He thinks about it. He thinks about his paycheck, his plans for a colony getaway, the guns in a hidden subspace pocket he could pull out in a flash and end this fascinating, perplexing, unbelievable bot’s life. He thinks about Dead End, about Nyon, about Kaon, Helex, Tarn, about all the places full of forsaken mechs, mechs just like the two of them. He thinks about Rodimus’ optics, the brightest of blues and full of tentative hope.

Well then.

With a sigh, already dreading the inevitable helmaches that are definitely going to come from this, he accepts his Prime’s outstretched servo, and feels his spark spin faster at the broad, joyful smile on Rodimus’ faceplates.

Looks like he’s gotta inform his client about a change of plans.

Oh, and that reminds him-

“So. About that whole assassination thing you were worried about…”

Taglist: @showstopper35

[howlingday]

Do you think it's valid criticism that Pyrrha should have not had a crush on Jaune? I seen plenty of people say she had no reason to. Jaune did have that deal with everything himself man pride arc right? (Wait didn't Blake do stuff like too but her team just kept following her?)

Again, this is another case of people poking holes just for the sake of defending their flimsy arguments, either to justify their preference or their prejudices. I guarantee you that those people who say Pyrrha had "no reason to like Jaune" are the same people who think Tauradonna is a valid ship.

Let's run through the facts of WHY Pyrrha liked Jaune. FIRST and probably the strongest argument is that Jaune didn't know who Pyrrha was, except when it was pointed out that she was on a cereal box that he ate. In contrast, look at how she responds to Weiss trying to shmooze her way into becoming Pyrrha's partner. She's distant, professional, and trying to keep the conversation as short as possible. When Jaune shows up, he manages to make her giggle, which is probably something she probably hasn't done in public in a long time.

SECOND, she isolated Jaune so he could be her partner. Think about it; why would a champion fighter throw away her only weapon for a guy she just met? Ze grognards will tell you that it's evidence that she's acting out of character, or is being needlessly incompetent. BUT what is actually happening is Pyrrha's making sure her partner is secure. This might be speculation, but she probably used her weapon as a sort of tracking device to find Jaune stuck in the tree, and when she finds him, we get the cutest Arkos moment yet.

And those who say, "She would never do that! She's a trained fighter!" She's a pit fighter at... Whatever. She's a celebrity, one who probably hasn't had much time to herself since coming to Beacon. And not only that, but she's also a teenager, a young woman acting on hormones, and I will tell you that hormones will make you do some crazy things. And from one crazy moment to the next, Jaune and Pyrrha become an incredible duo of brains and brawn, though both are not without the other.

Arkos was THE perfect ship of Volumes 1-3 and I will agni kai anyone who tries to fight me on this. Pyrrha loved Jaune, and we can see from Volumes 1-9 that he loved her, too.

[specialagentlokitty]

Carol Danvers x reader - say love

A/N: I’ve never wrote for Carol before it’s probably bad but I just wanted to write for her 😂

Standing on the Statue of Liberty, you looked at the light of New York from across the water, a small smile on your face.

“Been a while since you smiled.”

Tilting your head back, you went back to staring at the city.

“Didn’t think you’d be able to get up here Fury.”

“I have my ways you know this (Y/N).”

You hummed a little bit, slowly nodding your head.

“We need you.”

“I told you after everything that’s happened I’m not coming back.”

“Stop being childish.”

You turned around, stuffing your hands into your pockets as you glared at him a little.

“I get it, you two go history. We all got history but that don’t mean you can ignore me when I call for you.”

“You’re not my boss fury, I helped you as a one time thing, that’s it.”

He sighed, leaning back against the stone as he looked at you.

“We’re playing this game? You don’t wanna play this game with me.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“No way, you don’t get a free pass out this shit anymore. I don’t give a crap whether you two get alone, Earth is in danger and you’re going to get your shit together and help Danvers.”

You turned around, crouched down, resting your arms on your legs.

“Either you do this by choice or I make you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know, now let’s go.”

Getting up, you walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, teleporting you from the statue to his office and let go of him.

“Thank you.”

“I would’ve left you up there.”

“No you wouldn’t, now shut up and take the damn file.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the file and you opened it, giving it a quick read over before tossing it back on to his desk.

“Seems like she can handle that.”

“Maybe most of it, except Danvers can’t touch the device, even with her powers it would destroy her.”

“Okay?”

Fury sighed.

“As a demigod you have that ability to touch it, I need you to get in there, grab the device, bring it back here and secure it for us.”

You sighed a bit.

“Fine. Okay.”

“Great, she’s already there, just get in and get out.”

You waved your hand dismissively at him as you teleported away, heading to the location.

You could tell that Carol was here, the guards were unconscious, and you made your way inside.

It wasn’t hard to find which way she was going, so you just made your way there, standing in the entrance of the room.

You watched as Carol reached out.

“If you value your hand and you life I wouldn’t.”

Carol spun around, fist raised but when she saw you she slowly lowered it.

You walked over, reaching out you picked up the circle object.

Tossing it in your hand, you examined it a little bit.

“What is it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who did it belong to? What race?”

“Don’t know.”

Carol sighed a little, looking at you.

“Are we ever going to talk about this?”

“No.”

She slowly nodded her head and you turned your attention back to the device in your hand.

You held it up against the light, and you lowered it again, then you put it in your pocket looking around the room for anything else.

“We need to go.” Carol whispered.

“If the device is here then there has to be some sort of research, a hard drive or something and I need that as well.”

“Right, okay.”

Carol began to search around as well, anything she thought was related she would bring over to you to have a look at.

Most of it you threw aside, a few things you kept, stuffing them somewhere into your jacket.

“Take a look at this.”

You walked over to the superhero, taking a seat in the chair as you watched her type something into the keyboard.

“It’s not a weapon.” She said.

“It can still be just as dangerous, by the looks of this it’s something to bring back life.”

“How?”

You glanced at her before looking at the computer quickly erasing all the data.

“By taking the life of somebody else, it takes that life force, and for the right people it will use that energy to bring someone else to life, or add to their lifespan. These guy’s probably wanted to study it and try replicate it for their use.”

“Would that work?”

“No. Only a god can create something like this.”

You stood up, and turned around, only to be thrown back against the wall which knocked the air out of your lungs.

You fell to the floor, slowly taking a breath.

“Fuck…”

You slowly pushed yourself up and you looked around with hazy eyes, trying to find out where the shot came from.

You found Carol fighting the attackers.

You teleported away, dropping your jacket in Fury’s office.

“Don’t touch!”

With that you teleported back and grabbed Carol by the back of her suit and you threw her behind you, tensing your back as you felt someone hit you with something metal.

Spinning back around, you grabbed it as they tried to hit you once more.

Taking it from his hand, you tossed it aside and punched him through the wall.

Flames licked at your fists as you spun around, punching someone else to the ground.

Backing up, you put your back against Carol, and you both stood there back to back, fists raised.

“We can’t fight our way out of this…” she whispered.

“Give me you hand…”

“What?”

“Give me your damn hand Carol..”

You reached out behind you, and you felt Carol grab your hand.

“Don’t move…” you whispered.

You raised your foot, slamming it back on to the ground to send everybody around the pair of you flying out, then you were gone.

Letting go of Carols hand you vanished again, and you rolled your shoulders a bit, placing your hand on the wall.

“Sorry boys, it’s been real fun.”

Flames burst out of your hand, engulfing the wall in flames, and you swung your hand to the side, catching all the walls in flames.

You teleported out again, back into the office and you picked up your jacket.

“I’ve got their research don’t worry I’ll deal with it all.”

“As always it’s been a pleasure.” Fury said.

You said nothing, and you teleported from the room back to your home.

It wasn’t fancy, but it worked for you.

You had a hidden room for where you stored the device in a case and sealed it along with its researched and you left the room again.

Throwing yourself on your couch, you picked up a baseball and you threw it towards the door.

“Breaking and entering is illegal.”

“We need to talk.”

Carol walked over, setting the hall back on the table and she stood in front of you.

“We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

“Right, so you’re not ignoring me and everybody who talks to me?”

You shrugged a little and she sighed.

Walking over, Carol knelt in front of you, resting one of her arms in the couch and brought the other up to gently touch the side of your face.

“Please don’t angry with me..”

You reached around her, grabbing the tv remote to turn it on and she took it from you, setting it back on the table.

“Come on, please? I’m really sorry.”

You carried on ignoring her and she leant forward, resting her forehead in yours.

“(Y/N) you know I didn’t mean too.”

“You stood me up Carol, our two year anniversary and you stood me up.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I really am sorry.. my ship broke down and I had to fix it, then I had to come back here..”

“You could’ve called…”

“I did, you blocked me.”

You huffed a bit and she smiled.

“Come on.”

You moved your head back and head butted her slightly.

Carol laughed slightly.

“Okay maybe I deserved that.”

She got up, and she laid on you, putting her head on your shoulder, her hand coming down to hold one of yours.

“I’m not leaving though.”

Wrapping your arm around her, you closed your eyes, holding her tightly.

“I love you.” She grinned.

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that.”

Grinning a little, you pressed a kiss to her head and she smiled brightly, closing her eyes as well

[electricalhuzzah]

You're probably never gonna have the balls to react to this ask, but I'll send it anyway because you need to be humbled. I've seen a LOT of really nice and positive comments on your fic and not even one comment on how fucking ass your writing is. I think you gotta stick to whatever the fuck you're doing in college because that shit ain't going anywhere. I don't think your fanfiction adds any value to the Gravity Falls fandom. It's basic, a mix of all sorts of ideas and other fics, and just fucking bad. You're probably wondering: why would you read it then? Well, someone recommended this to me, and I couldn't even finish it. It actually pissed me off quite a bit. Honestly, I think—no, let me rephrase that—I KNOW that you'd be better off deleting that shit from AO3 and switching to Wattpad. Even better, delete it from all your devices. Fucking embarrassing bullshit. And those little sheep following you around and giving you compliments are just as delusional as you are.

um hello anon wow ok buddy you had some feelings you had to get off your chest there huh

i think it’s really funny you’ve taken the duty of “humbling” me as your own personal responsibility. do you have a life outside the internet. did your parents hug you. we all know the answer

but since you feel SO entitled to criticize me! i would LOVE to see some of your written works, just to know what standard i’m being held to! maybe heinz dilemma adds absolutely no value to the gravity falls fandom, but neither does this fucking ask, you castrate lab rat!! i’m also inclined to ask WHO recommended this to you, as you don’t come off as the type of person who’s pleasant enough to talk to, much less be friends with? just my opinion tho!!

and hey. come after me as much as you want, but keep my friends in my phone OUT of this?? “delusional” “sheep” what the fuck are you, a blonde white lady w too much fake tan speaking at a maga rally?? would not surprise me. glad you finally figured out how to use the ask box, gladys!! so sad you didn’t figure it out back in 1963 when anyone wouldve cared what the fuck you had to say <3

and yknow i WILL stick with whatever the fuck it is i’m doing in college!! because i’m a psych/pre med major, and people like you are the grade-A guarantee of my own job security upon graduation!! take your fucking meds, preferably sometime between now and 2031 when i’ll finally be able to prescribe you some!!!

edit: ANON RETURNS