#swift module

[crossedmythoughtlessheart]

Would've, Could've, Should've by Taylor Swift // Cassandra by Evelyn De Morgan

[yannawayne]

not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce. 

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor. 

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream. 

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air. 

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest. 

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy. 

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles. 

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged.  He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind. 

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said. 

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope. 

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear. 

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you. 

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate. 

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face. 

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

[maybankslover]

teenage dream II- drew starkey

drew starkey x younger!singer!reader

warnings: angst, age gap [reader was 19-drew 29 / reader was 21-drew was 31 / reader is 22- drew is 32], mention of sex, angst.

summary: now that it's over, was she only his teenage dream?

playlist: teenage dream and vampire by olivia rodrigo / suburban legends by taylor swift

a/n: @droppedyourhnd inspired this when she said suburban legends reminded her of them

he stalked her now and then, when she blocked him she also removed him from every social media she had him in from her public instagram to all her private accounts but as her public account remained the same he made use of it. she changed, seemed happy and it made him happy to know she seemed like that after everything that went down. [instagram profile]

and she was, most of times, she hoped touring and singing the songs she wrote about him would help her heal but she still had nightmares about him, woke up in the middle of the night sweating and longing for a body that made her mad and turned her blue. she hated how much she missed him even after a year and a half, hated him for moving on, hated everything.

and she hated that she couldn't avoid seeing him, as two raising starts in the industry, it was invetible to happen but she delayed it as much as she could until they asked her to sing and present her songs to the public as some kind of monologue.

so there she was stunning in a long dress, he was on front row, a girl by his side but she recognized her as his sister.

"good night everyone!" she smiled. "i hope you're having a splendind time."

his sight fixated on her while his sister, filmed her already wispering to him how he needed to do something so she could meet her.

"so i was asked something unusual tonight, something that if you know me i don't really do." she made a movement, already practiced like everything that would go down on that scenario. "oh hi harry!" she signed a phone his was while modulation a silent 'call me', making everyone laugh. "i'm sorry harry styles is right there, so as i was saying they asked to give bit of context about what i'll sing to you tonight." she rambled a little while walking around, avoiding to look his way at all cost.

"so i wrote this about a little love story i heard once of course." she pushed her head a little with her palm, making everyone laugh again. "a little love story that never saw the light of the sun, this girl got hidden by her boyfriend for two years can you believe it? what a dick right." she smiled at the camera that was placed in front of her while she returned to the place she was supposed to stand to sing. "hidden by who she thought was the love of her life, don't let anyone screw you over. this is suburban legends." she was handed her guitar and the musicians started on que.

everything she sang sent him on a spiral of visions, memories flying through his brain.

from the times he turned around his phone, so she couldn't see anything that went through it but he knew she knew. she only ignored it, afraid of what she would find afraid she was only a joke to him. he lied but she lied to herself, after all if a girl loves you she'll just lie to herself.

flashback

"this will be only for a while right?" she asked one night, six months into dating while he held her in his arms making her feel put together.

"yes baby just for a while." he didn't know why he continued to lie to the girl he had grown to love.

end of flashback

he got exposed the second she said '1950's gymnasium' in front of his sister.

"drew." brooke whispered, tearing her sight from the girl in front of them to look at her brother.

but he answered, just like he didn't answered all of her pleads in tears.

flashback

"i need a reason" she cried in front of him.

"baby..." he tried to reach for her right cheek but she pushed him away.

"no! no! no!" as she paced around her apartment collecting everything she could see in sight that belonged to him. "get out i want you out right now." the mascara from an earlier photoshoot smared all over her pretty face.

"baby please let's just talk." he followed after her only to be pushed back in the chest with many of his things.

"no! i want you fucking out now." she shouted for the first time in a year and a half.

he stood stunned in front of her.

"out!" she opened the door for him and waited for him to leave while rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand.

the door closing with a loud bang behind his back, a heartbreaking sob leaving her chest.

two days later he knocked on her door and she let him in. he was too polite to break her heart so she did it for him.

end of flashback

"you don't knock anymore and I always knew it, that my life would be ruined." she directed her sight to him for the first time in the entire night, making him feel how she felt for so long, staring into his eyes while she finished the song.

vanishing from the stage leaving his sister shocked from what she thought she discovered. 1950's gymnasium as the one drew showed her pictures and not long after y/n posted pictures there too, she found it weird but thought it was a weird coincidence.

as they went home, drew knew what she wanted to ask.

"before you ask, yes brooke, yeah and i fucked up. don't ask about it."

"won't do it, you're the biggest asshole on earth." she said sharply to her brother.

"i know."

text

unknown number 'i'm sorry baby.'

unknown number 'i still love you'

y/n 'leave me the fuck alone'

y/n 'what else do you want to break?'

y/n 'there's nothing else you took everything from me. leave me alone.'

you've blocked this contact

while he stared at his next message going not delivered, he wished he could go back to the start. he would do everything again, holding her hand in public, kissing her infront of his family but he couldn't knock on her door.

they would never become suburban legends.

taglist: @chenslucy @gillybear17 @imliterallyamirrorball @nichmeddar @gillybooboo @julczimozart @bellbottombabe @silkylovey @droppedyourhnd @jaydaaasworld @congratsloserr @carrerascameron @m1santhropicc @wearemadeofstardust0 @chiaraanatra @rlalliehayes @ijustwanttoreadlols @sunny1616 @theoraekenslover @isaidoop @ethanthequeefqueen @rafesdrew @loverdrew

[lilyblackdrawside]

Sand Reckoner the bizarrely underpowered operator

I will lead with this image:

I raised him. I’m not just speaking from a theoretical point. I didn’t just look at his numbers on the wiki and immediately realize just how bad he is, I played with him. There’s no „Well maybe he only looks bad on paper but in practice it somehow works out.“ He’s bad. And the way he’s bad is so strange.

Let’s just go over his kit first:

He’s a Summoner, his summons deploy on ranged tiles, attack at range and deal Arts damage. His talent, standard Summoner baggage aside, lets him and his Clockwork Fowlbeasts (which are very cute) deal 20% more damage to Machine(sic) enemies.

His first skill „Winding Up“ gives him and all of his summons +60 ASPD for 10 seconds. It has 20 initial SP, costs 30 SP on Auto Recovery and has automatic activation.

His second skill „Weighing the Scales“ immediately replenishes his stock of summons by 1, gives him him and his summons +40% ATK and high weight targeting priority, makes his summons inflict Slow on targets for 1 second and lasts for 20 seconds. It has 20 initial SP, costs 40 SP on Auto Recovery and has manual activation.

His module is the X type, upgrading his Trait to make his first deployed summon not take up deployment limit, gives him +120 HP and +40 ATK and upgrades his talent to give him and his summons +8 ASPD in addition to its other effect.

So let’s state the obvious right away: This sucks ass.

What’s up with his talent? Sure, having an anti-Machina operator would be great! He even deals fully arts damage and Machina enemies pretty much always have low Res and high Def. But why 20%? TWENTY PERCENT???? Fellow 5 Star operator Toddifons deals 1 7 0 % damage to Sarkaz enemies. 150% without module. And no, Sand Reckoner does not get a talent upgrade via Potentials. He gets +8 Res, like all the other 5 star Summoners.

Glaucus deals 180% to Drones. Arene deals +58% damage against Drones. Grain Buds’ Slow goes from 0.8 seconds to like 1.8 seconds against Wild Beast enemies (which don’t exist), that’s +125% duration. Irene gets 18 ASPD (and optionally +5% ATK) not even when fighting Sea Monsters, but just when one is on the field and that's just a bonus condition on her talent, causing its effects to double. Underflow’s anti-Sea Monster bonus is kinda limp, but it's the same deal as Irene's so it's fine

TWENTY PERCENT????????

And what’s the deal with his skill numbers?

+60 ASPD? For 10 seconds?? 30 SP??? AUTO ACTIVATION????? I’d rather have Swift Strike Beta!

+40% ATK and some utility is also just awful.

„Oh but he’s a Summoner! That 20% applies to him and all his little birdies so if you have 3 on field that’s basically +80% damage from his talent! +240 ASPD on S1! +160% ATK from S2!“

That’s not how that works, but I won’t even explain it because here are some other Summoner skills:

Scene S1: +60% ATK and Camouflage for all of her buggies. Not herself though. 60 SP, Infinite duration. Scene S2: Restock a summon, +130% ATK, +130% DEF, +20 RES. 30 SP, 20s duration. (stuns all summons for 5s when it expires but that’s genuinely whatever) Deepcolor S1: +60% ATK and DEF, 70 hps regeneration. 30 SP, 30s duration. (She’s a 4 star.) Ling S1: Restock a summon, +50% ATK and ASPD for her and her summons, summons deal Arts damage. 25 SP, 25s duration. Ling S3: Restock a summon on expire, +100% ATK and DEF, each summon gets a 20% Ling ATK damage aura. 40 SP, 30 seconds. Magallan S2: +150 ASPD for everyone, summons get AOE. 38 SP, 15s duration. (summons retreat on expire) Magallan S3: +150% ATK for everyone, summons have larger splash. 38 SP, 15s duration. (summons retreat on expire)

If Sand Reckoner could activate both of his skills at the same time, he would still get less of a damage increase than Ling with just S1 active. It’s that bad. He also deals less damage in that scenario than Scene S2 and both of Magallan’s skills.

He can’t do with BOTH OF HIS SKILLS what other Summoners do with ONE. And they don’t have to deal with Auto Activation nonsense.

Scene’s S2 self stun is only 5 seconds. You can just retreat a buggie and put a new one on top of it if you really need it blocking at that point.

Magallan’s full retreat after her skills is an UPSIDE. It’s what makes her more difficult to use, but lets her so easily reposition her drone fleet to let you use your foresight to be in the right spot at the right time with it.

His S2 has worse cost and same duration as Scene’s and she gets more than three times the ATK from hers, huge defensive stats and also greatly increased invisibility reveal radius. It’s not a difference of utility on his skills dampening the raw stats they give. His S1 has NEGATIVE UTILITY and gives S I X T Y ASPD for TEN SECONDS.

So at this point it looks pretty rough for him. You could say that his summons being ranged attackers is an upside, which yeah, sure. But it also comes with its own issues, like having to sit on ranged tiles and not being able to serve as blockers. Less of an upside, more of a sideside.

What if I told you that it gets worse?

Let’s check those summon stats.

These are every Summoner’s summons’ stats, including the varied types for Magallan’s and Ling’s different skills. Guess which line is for Sand Reckoner’s yeah that’s right it’s the line with THE WORST STATS ACROSS THE BOARD

Alright, so let’s clean this up a little.

I’m removing Deepcolor, Scene, Mayer and Ling S1 and S3 from this because they’re all melee summons, so of course they have better defensive stats. They do also have better ATK and Attack Interval though, keep that in mind. Then I’m cutting MagallanF, which is her S1 summon that only slows.

Alright, now it’s looking kinda palateable.

To explain the „Range“ section: SPC means Splash Caster range, CCR means Core Caster range, 0 can only target its own tile.

Magallan’s summons not only always have 2000 HP, they’re also Invisible for a while after summonings. That’s Invisibility, not Camouflage. They ignore everything. Having 200 def is also meaningfully more than 100 as a ranged unit cause it lets you take less damage from basic enemy snipers.

Magallan’s S3 drone has the same range as Sand Reckoner’s summons, but also deals splash damage. Think of them as a small Artilleryman Sniper. Ling’s S2 dragons (funny that I call them that when Magallan’s drones are named „Soaring Dragon“) have the same basic framework as Sand Reckoner’s summons, but get to have Core Caster range, which is a big deal. That little nipple of range makes a huge difference.

Magallan’s S2 drones are pretty special, cause they just drill the tile they’re on for arts damage and with her skill active kinda decimate whatever is on there. They’re very clunky, but quite potent.

Ultimately it comes down to the closest comparison being Ling's S2 dragons and yeah, just worse stats. We already realized this like a page ago. I even added an extra line for Ling at Elite 2 Level 1, at which point her summons STILL have better stats so the argument that she’s a 6 star and gets more levels doesn’t hold water either.

„Oh but they cost 1 more DP.“ Yeah. Yeah they sure do. Here are her S2 dragons’ stats with her module (she only has the one):

I calculated the +8 ASPD his module gives into his summons’ Attack Interval for convenience.

So not only are his numbers terrible on the surface, they’re also bad in the details. It’s incredible how much they fucked him. There’s really no possible reason for his skills to be like this. Unless...

He’s a year one operator who arrived very late. This easily explains why his skills' costs and durations are so terrible. The only thing that’s missing is the module that he would’ve eventually gotten that’d have fixed his issues. Because he debuted with a module, so the power boost was already accounted for and it doesn’t do shit for him.

You could slap a 1 in front of both of his skills’ stat buffs and he’d be a fine operator. I guess that’d be another explanation for why he’s so bad. Whoever typed in his numbers fumbled typing „160“ and „140“ respectively on his skills and hit 2 instead of 5 on the numpad when inputting the damage boost his talent gives.

But no, this can’t be filed as an accident or attributed to cluelessness on the designers’ part. We’re in like year 5. Sure, it’s been a while since the last Summoner, but they’ve had five others to look at for reference to scale his numbers properly and plenty of other anti-enemy-type operators to compare to as well.

If Sand Reckoner was a functional operator, I’d hardly even give a shit about him. He’s kinda cute, he’d functionally fill the niche of being an anti-Machina operator, he’d be another Summoner to play around with and that’d have been it. But now we have this absolute time-shifted year 1 disaster operator who keeps me up at night with how bad he is (lie).

[youremyheaven]

Astrology & Voice : A Quick Study

1. Prominent 3h placements can give you a very distinct voice

2. People who have a deeper/huskier voice often have Mercury aspecting Pluto. Ex: Miley Cyrus & Whitney Houston (both have mercury conjunct pluto)

3. Mercury in a water sign can give the native a very sultry voice. They probably sound a lil intimidating and their voices will always be slightly low pitched (Zoe Saldana, Lana Del Rey, Pamela Anderson, Adriana Lima, Gisele Bundchen)

if Mercury is in Cancer, the voice tends to be soft and calming to hear. Ex: Margot Robbie, Elsa Pataky, Kate Beckinsale etc

Mercury in Scorpio gives the native a certain, almost nasally twang to their voice, it's not exactly nasally but i cant think of a good way to describe it, its deeper and fuller sounding but there's a certain twang to it.

Ex: Kim Kardashian, Katy Perry, Julia Roberts, Madonna, Kris Jenner, Demi Moore, Gabrielle Union & Miley Cyrus

especially Miley & Demi have this very gravelly cigar smoking kinda voice

Mercury in Pisces gives a very intimidating, richer or fuller vocal timbre

Ex: Mariah Carey (her speaking voice), Sharon Stone, Liz Taylor, Alan Rickman, Lucy Lawless, Juliette Binoche, Fergie (her speaking voice)

4. Mercury in Fire signs gives a rather shrill voice, unless there are other aspects involved

Others may find their voice/talking irritating; they often have "vocal fry" esque tendencies

Mercury in Leo: Jennifer Lopez, Cameron Diaz, Demi Lovato, Lindsay Lohan

Mercury in Sagittarius can give you either a very husky, sensuous voice or a very "loud" one, there's no in between

Ex: Scarlett Johansson, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Vanessa Paradis, Carla Bruni, Bjork etc

Mercury in Aries natives have a very tonal pitch, their voices have a very "radio announcer" quality, idk how to describe it 😭😭

Ex: Diana Ross, Jessica Chastain, Madison Beer, Carmen Electra, Jennifer Garner etc

5. Mercury in Earth signs

Mercury in Taurus also gives natives a very soulful, deep-ish husky voice. They're very sexy sounding

Ex: Gigi Hadid, Uma Thurman, Brooke Shields, Selena Quintanilla, Renee Zellwegger etc

Mercury in Virgo: these natives have a very "sing song-y" voice, they speak in a very rhythmic way and modulate their voice very well. if you listen to any of their interviews, they always speak like they're telling a story, if you know what I mean.

Ex: Madonna, Kylie Jenner, Hugh Grant, Monica Bellucci, Amy Winehouse, Salma Hayek, Dakota Johnson etc

Mercury in Capricorn gives natives a raspy voice, their voices tend to be very low pitched and some of them kind of sound like they have a perpetual cold

Ex: Taehyung, Zayn Malik, Shakira, Alex Turner, R Kelly, Alexa Demie

Sometimes however it can give the native a very "sugary girly" voice

Ex: Milla Jovovich, Taylor Swift, Zooey Deschanel, Ellen Degeneres

6. Mercury in Air signs

Mercury in Gemini natives are very verbose; they're articulate but they're very wordy; they also speak in a rather expressive manner; usually they're very well spoken

Ex: Angelina Jolie, Elizabeth Hurley, Helena Bonham Carter, Courteney Cox, Stevie Nicks, Cate Blanchett etc

Mercury in Libra natives often speak in a very expressive and animated way, its so cutee🥰

Ex: Catherine Zeta-Jones, Zendaya, Brigitte Bardot, Bella Hadid, Kate Winslet, Emma Stone, Gwen Stefani, Sophia Loren etc

Mercury in Aquarius: ive often noticed that these natives can sound a bit clueless or zoned out when they're speaking 🤭

Ex: Harry Styles, Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Aniston, Paris Hilton (in the 2000s at least)

[wildshadowtamer]

Fuck it, reverse headcanon time

(Taking popular fanon and applying it to a different character out of spite. This time; Batfam)

-Jason is the batkid who knows ASL. He learnt the LOA-regional-variant back at Nanda Parbat after his voice wouldnt work post-pit, and kept using it once his voice returned because theres a lot of Deaf and mute kids in crime alley. And if the modulator in his helmet breaks and he cant take it off for any reason, he can sign. He holds classes for his goons so they learn it too.

-Babs is the coffee fiend. Her family already has addiction problem (smoking from Gordon, drinking from her father, arguably also coffee from Gordon) that runs in it, so of course she got hooked on caffeine. She actually went to college, and she has to deal with these six dumbasses over comms. She needs a heavy coffee for that.

-Signal is the sugar fiend. He finds his powers are more effective if he has a lot of sugar. His dentist is crying.

-Dick knows so many swears it once actually gave a rich guy a heart attack. He was a circus kid travelling all over the world, he knows more swears than the entirety of the batfam combined.

-Bruce listens to taylor swift. Hes a rich white man with a private jet and too many exes. He is a swiftie. He will take this secret to his grave.

-Steph is actually the favourite robin amongst the rogue gallery, except Black Mask. This resulted in Black Mask losing a scary amount of rep amongst the mob/rogue communities, because as far as they know, he killed Their robin, the villain's kid who had her One Bad Day like they did, but survived in a way they didn't. They do not know Spoiler was the girl Robin.

-Out of all the batsibs, its actually Duke (assuming hes 18+ by that point) who wins a public poll of "which Wayne heir is hottest". Dick is relieved he lost for once.

-Tim is the flirt. Dick is a flirt too, but Tim is A FLIRT, and worst of all, he forgets hes doing it half the time. Hes so used to talking in innuendos and flattery for his public image that he uses it on his teammates too. All of his team has had a crush on him before. Kon is down bad.

-Cass can, will, and has smacked someone for talking shit before. She'll do it again. Her siblings will not stop her, they are cheering her on. The minute she has enough grasp on speaking to learn verbal sassing, as opposed to body language sassing, she sasses the fuck out of them while doing so.

-Duke does drag. Jason's criminal empire he stole from Penguin has a bar he renovated into a drag bar. Duke performs there, with Bluebird and Batwoman as security in case any bigots show up.

-Damian is actually the fem one of the batboys, it just takes him a while to realise it bc Expectations and Social Pressure. Flatline, whos mostly masc, bought a bunch of dresses and skirts she keeps in her house for him to wear, before he was ready to tell anyone else. Of course, his siblings were fine with it, and Steph & Cass were thrilled to have another person to take dress shopping with them. Bruce spent the day recalculating his mental pictures of Damian's future prom photos and wedding photos. Damian is like 14 by that point, but that wont stop Bruce from finding the best dress tailor in Gotham.

-Cullen is the favourite Batkid, because he isnt a vigilante and has no intention of becoming one. Bruce is so glad at least one of his kids- even if hes not legally his- is normal.

-Steph needs glasses. She doesnt tell anyone until she gets hot-purple glittery (if that color isnt a thing, she paid Lucius to make it a thing) framed glasses and just. shows up to the manor in them. Turns out she was working virtually blind before.

-Bruce was the one who started Dick's whole pun thing, because he used to say silly catchphrases too. Rock and roll while throwing a rock wheel at someone is Dick's favourite example. He still says them in his head. (The first part is basically canon from the golden age)

-following up on that, both Bruce and Dick used to randomly start singing during fights. This is, hilariously, canon to the golden age, and i petition we bring it back. Give me Batman humming songs under his breath while on stake out. Dick training Damian to fight to a song beat.

[ginnsbaker]

prophylaxis

Summary: The most powerful Avenger is afraid of one thing: dental appointments, or the one where you're a dentist and Wanda is a baby about seeing one

Word count: 2.6k | Warnings: None. This is just good ol' fluff

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Author's note: This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, and while this is a one shot, I might follow up with more :)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Next part: the follow up

--

Steve and Natasha are barely done with their own routine dental check-ups when the notification of an emergency mission comes through. The Avengers' annual dental visit is typically swift and uncomplicated, but the arrival of their urgent mission turns the day into something far more chaotic.

“Where is Wanda?” Steve asks, scrolling through the mission details on his phone.

Natasha shrugs, sipping on her post-check-up glass of scotch. “I haven't seen her since breakfast.”

Vision appears in the room at that moment, his face expressing the closest thing to exasperation an android can manage. “She’s only now on the chair,” he says, glancing at Steve, whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Now? But everyone else is done!”

“I had to convince her to come,” Vision sighs. “I found her hiding in the back library. It took me the better part of an hour to persuade her to face the dentist.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the revelation, trying to suppress her chuckle. The most powerful Avenger, avoiding a simple dental prophylaxis. “We don't have all day, Steve. The mission is critical.”

Steve nods, sliding his phone into his pocket. “We'll leave a note for her. She should meet us ASAP once she's done.”

Natasha gets up from her chair, glancing one last time at Vision, as she quips, “Good luck to whoever is the dentist working on her this year.”

As you approach the dental chair, you take note of the apprehensive figure occupying it. You've already seen a dozen Avengers today, each with their unique quirks and idiosyncrasies. 

But Wanda Maximoff, her gaze filled with clear distaste for the situation, seems to take the cake. She's curled in on herself, making her seem smaller than she actually is. The sight of her alone would have been enough to unnerve you, but the intermittent quivers of your dental tools due to an unseen force send a cold shiver down your spine. You can't help but wonder if you've drawn the short straw when they assigned you the patients for today.

You try your best to project an air of calm. Inside, though, your nerves are jangling like alarm bells.

“Wanda, right?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice steady.

She nods, her eyes wide as saucers.

“I promise this won't hurt,” you reassure her, even as your tools continue to rattle on the tray. “It's just a routine check-up.”

A skeptical glance is thrown your way but it's at least some reaction. Her gaze is piercing, and it takes every bit of your collected facade to keep from faltering. An absurd thought flashes across your mind: if you were to meet an untimely demise in your line of duty today, who on earth would inherit the numerous houseplants that have taken over your apartment over the years?

With a nervous smile that Wanda can barely make out behind the surgical mask you wear, you gently ask, "Shall we begin?" Your tone is soothing, carefully modulated to put her at ease.

The poor Avenger takes a deep, long breath before giving you the go-ahead to proceed with the checkup. 

For her part, Wanda begins to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of your gloved fingers in her mouth. Her gaze settles on your oversized prescription glasses that lend an air of professional yet friendly vibe. And there’s something about the clean, familiar scent wafting off your white coat that comforts her more than she's willing to admit.

She can’t help it when her mind starts drawing comparisons with last year's dentist—a gruff, no-nonsense man whose hands always seemed cold and who lacked any bedside manner whatsoever. You, on the other hand, are like a breath of fresh air with your calming demeanor and reassuring approach. Wanda blushes at the thought that, admittedly, you’re kind of a nice upgrade.

You begin the examination with meticulous care, your movements deliberately gentle to assure Wanda of your sensitivity to her obvious anxiety. As you carefully check her teeth and gums, you're acutely aware of how much trust she's placing in you, despite her apparent discomfort.

Glancing into her eyes as you angle your dental mirror to inspect her molars, you're suddenly struck by the piercing green of her irises. Even under the harsh clinic lights, they appear incredibly vibrant. Framed by the dark eyeliner she wears, her eyes are sharp and arresting. They follow your every move, staring up at you with an intensity that causes your skin to perspire under your uniform.

You've dealt with many patients over the years, some with eyes equally as fascinating, but something about Wanda's gaze is different. It's as if she's not just watching you but reading you, understanding you in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Your focus starts to waver under her scrutiny, and that's when you notice something strange. The dental tools on the tray beside you begin to quiver more violently, vibrating with an unseen force. Your heart skips a beat, realization dawning on you that Wanda's powers are reacting to her nervousness.

But it's not just her nervousness; Wanda's face takes on a look of surprise, her eyes widening momentarily. You can almost feel her presence in your mind, a subtle brushing against your consciousness. 

She's read your thoughts, albeit accidentally. 

She knows how captivated you are by her eyes. 

Catching yourself, you quickly shift your thoughts to a safer topic–your plants. The vibrant green of Wanda's eyes morphs into the various shades of green gracing the leaves of your beloved indoor jungle. Your Monstera, your string of pearls, your peace lily–

And yet, none of them are a match for the pair of green orbs that your mind keeps going back to. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck as you meet her gaze, the unspoken understanding between you making the air in the room feel charged. Wanda's cheeks take on a hint of color, and her control over her powers seems to falter, your tools–and a chair behind Wanda–now levitating a couple of inches from where they originally sat.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, wide-eyed and apologetic. You barely make out what she’s saying with her mouth still wide open. “I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” you reply in a comforting murmur, pausing your examination. The room fills with the soft humming of the overhead light and the subtle scent of sterilized equipment. “I'm here with you. We'll go at your pace. Just breathe.”

Giving Wanda a few moments to calm herself, you pull back, placing the dental tools on the tray beside you. You keep your eyes on Wanda, a soothing smile hidden behind your mask. Her chest rises and falls steadily as she follows your instructions, taking deep, calming breaths.

However, you can't help but glance at the floating items around you, fearing that one of them might go straight for your heart that’s thudding loudly in your ears now. They seem to be suspended in mid-air, almost like a magic trick. Wanda catches your gaze, following it to the levitating objects. The already present color on her cheeks darken, and with a flicker of her gaze, your tools reintroduce themselves to gravity once again.

You don't comment on it. Instead, you simply offer another encouraging smile, masked by your surgical mask, but visible in your eyes. You extend your gloved hand towards the once again earthbound dental tools, feeling the cool metal against your palm. 

“Are we good to proceed?” you ask in a soft voice, patiently waiting for her agreement before picking up where you left off. 

Wanda doesn’t move, seemingly hesitant to say yes or no.

“Will it help if I talk to you?” 

She gives you a small nod in response this time.

“Alright,” you say with a hint of a chuckle. “Don't judge me if I start to sound silly, okay?”

And so you start to speak as you get back to work, recounting random memories and thoughts as you continue with the examination. You talk about funny incidents at work, share stories about your beloved plants, and even admit to that time you almost killed your favorite fern with coffee instead of water. At first, you feel slightly ridiculous, babbling about the care of succulents to an Avenger, one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But as the minutes tick by, you see a change in her. The initial terror in her eyes fades into curiosity, her body relaxes, and she even smiles at some of your sillier anecdotes.

You get lost in talking to Wanda, feeling both delighted and somewhat ridiculous that you're enjoying this one-sided conversation. You're fully aware that she can't respond with an excavator in her mouth, but it doesn't feel like she's just tolerating your chatter. Her eyes are attentive, following your movements, reacting every now and then. Her body language is open, receptive, almost as if she's hanging onto every word.

As for Wanda, something unexpected is happening. She finds herself liking your voice more and more, feeling an unfamiliar pull towards it. It's warm, comforting, and filled with a sincerity that she didn't expect. She even finds herself slightly attracted to it. But it's a foreign feeling, one she doesn't quite understand, especially in this setting.

As you conclude your examination, you realize that one of Wanda's molars needs a filling. It isn't urgent, a situation that could be deferred to another appointment if she wishes.

“Looks like you have a small cavity,” you inform her, meeting her eyes. “It's not of immediate concern, but we should schedule another appointment if you'd like to have it filled.”

To your surprise, Wanda agrees, not just with a polite nod, but with a subtle hint of anticipation lighting up her eyes. She agrees to another date, another round of you poking around her mouth with your scary dental tools. And yet, there's a hint of eagerness that surprises even her.

As you finish your work, you lean back, pulling off your surgical mask and gloves. For the first time, Wanda gets a full view of your face. It's like a silent reveal, one she hadn't been expecting, and it takes her aback.

She finds herself caught in a subtle admiration, a feeling that quickly intensifies as she takes in your features. There's something about your face that she finds herself drawn to, the warmth of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft contours of your cheekbones.

And when you smile, her breath hitches slightly. It's a simple gesture, but one that lights up your face, reaching your eyes and causing them to crinkle at the corners. It's genuine, open, and a little bit contagious.

“Thanks for your patience, Doctor...?” Wanda voices, feeling a tad awkward. It occurs to her belatedly that she didn't have the foresight to ask for your name before you started the check-up. 

“Just call me Y/N. It's my pleasure,” you reply, your smile deepening, unaware of the effect it's having on the Avenger before you. “I'll see you for that follow-up appointment, then?”

As soon as Wanda is escorted outside by Vision, you release a breath you didn't know you've been holding. Leaning against the counter, you try to calm the racing of your heart, which beats as if you've just run a marathon.

Wanda Maximoff is... quite a surprise. Her beauty, her vulnerability, the way she seemed to really listen to your inane chatter–it's all unexpected, disarming even. You find your mind drifting back to the way her eyes softened, the almost shy smile that graced her lips.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dispel these thoughts. This is unprofessional, you think. She's your patient. A patient who just happens to be one of the world's most powerful individuals. It's nothing more than that.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing you've spent more time with Wanda than any other patient today. You should be moving on to your paperwork, getting ready to call it a day.

But as you sit down at your desk, the fluttering feeling in your stomach doesn't subside, and Wanda Maximoff's haunting green eyes remain etched in your mind.

Walking down the corridors of the Avengers compound, Wanda finds herself in step with Vision. As they pass various agents and fellow Avengers, Vision turns to look at her.

“Wanda,” he starts, his voice taking on that concerned lilt that she's grown accustomed to. “I'm detecting unusual signs in your vitals. Your heart rate is elevated, your body temperature has slightly increased, and your pupils are dilated.”

Wanda blinks, feeling an unexpected heat crawl up her neck. Her palms are also feeling slightly clammy, and she has this weird fluttering sensation in her stomach. She tries to brush it off. It must have been the anxiety, right?

“Are you not feeling well?” Vision probes further, halting in his tracks to face her. His eyes scan her face, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. Wanda's mind races, trying to figure out how to downplay her seemingly irrational reaction to a denti–a dental appointment.

“No, Vision. I'm... I'm just fine.” Her voice sounds surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forces a smile onto her face, aiming to reassure her friend.

Vision doesn't seem fully convinced but doesn't push further. They resume their walk, but Wanda can't shake off the feeling that something has changed, something she doesn't quite understand yet. And for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting back to a certain dentist with a soothing voice, warm eyes, and a love for plants.

How did it happen that a dental appointment, of all things, has turned into the highlight of her day?

The kitchen is dimly lit when Vision enters, the only illumination coming from the withdrawn overhead lights. Natasha is there, assembling her favorite late-night snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She looks up as Vision approaches, her eyes curious.

“I trust the mission went well?” Vision inquires, noting the subtle signs of fatigue in Natasha's posture.

She offers a half-smile, nodding. “It did. It's all sorted now. How's Wanda after the check-up?”

Vision's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates for a moment before responding, “She is... well. The new dentist was quite effective in putting her at ease.”

Natasha smirks, spreading the jelly onto the bread with precision. “Told you a change would do the trick. I still can't believe you managed to convince Tony to switch dentists.”

“And find the perfect replacement,” Natasha adds after some thought, licking the jelly from the knife.

“It was a logical choice. The previous dentist was less than satisfactory, particularly with Wanda.” He pauses, considering something. “But this one... she seemed to have a rather profound effect on her.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking up from her sandwich. “Profound effect?”

“Yes,” Vision says thoughtfully. “I detected unusual signs in her vitals afterward. Increased heart rate, heightened body temperature, a certain... excitement in her demeanor. It was quite unexpected.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile begins to form on her lips. “You don't say?”

Vision gazes at the digital interface on his palm, a soft hum of approval in his voice. “Indeed, she has also filed for a leave of absence a week from now. She has another dental appointment, but this time at the doctor’s private clinic.”

Natasha pauses, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. 

Vision meets her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do you think it could mean something?"

Natasha shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who knows, Vis?” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. “Maybe it's just a good dentist.” And then with a wink and a knowing smile, she adds, “Or maybe…”

She leaves the thought hanging, deliberately ambiguous, and exits the room, her satisfied crunching echoing down the hallway.

Vision is left standing in the kitchen, confusion etched across his synthetic features. He considers the day's events, attempting to analyze how Wanda suddenly managed to conquer her most irrational fear.

Humans really are something.

[scrimplications]

@jedijune week one — survive

a padawan and a master share a final moment during the early hours of the jedi purge.

tw: brief suicidal ideation

unnamed moon

thabeska system

19BBY

The clearing stinks of burnt plastoid and death by the time Cheppi scrambles over the last ridge and tumbles down through the briars and scraggly pines to find her master, laid out like a king to be entombed beneath a rocky outcropping.

He stinks of death, too. The not-quite-there-yet kind.

Gasping, heaving, she hauls herself upright on trembling arms. The still air seems to war with the abject chaos in her mind, the silence dizzyingly oppressive where moments ago there was only heartbeats and blasterfire.

Her master is not moving. Kneeling like a mourner, getting to her feet seems an insurmountable task. She wants to cry. She wants to lie down with him and not exist. She wants to dig herself deep into the earth and disappear. She wants to fight. Scream. Run.

She crawls.

On bruised knees, she crawls as a supplicant witness to his side. Master Vokam’s slow, staccato breaths move his broad chest up and down and up and down when Cheppi throws herself over him, gripping at his tunics like a child.

“Master. Master, please.”

Her voice comes out all cracked and hoarse, broken by the sudden violence and the mad dash through the trees and the overwhelming sense of something ending, of everything ending. Right now. Today.

“Master. Get up. Please. They’re gonna-”

They. How quickly she turned them to faceless soldiers in her mind, white armor painted orange like sunsets and sand and amber, each pattern so familiar, her lightsaber carving through plastoid and flesh and bone like it was nothing—

Pressing her face against her master’s swiftly-failing body, Cheppi bites her tongue and lets chaos consume her mind for a single, breathless moment, and then; Exhale.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

Master Vokam’s big, firm hand is heavy on her back, spanning the width of her shoulders with ease.

“Well done, Cheppi. Well done, padawan.”

Under each word, a slow wet gurgling sound. She's heard it before, holding the hands of dying troopers. It seems so loud in this empty, quiet clearing.

“Master. Please.”

She isn’t sure what it is she’s pleading for, but the burning in her chest is growing stronger and master Vokam’s eyes are unfocused when she lifts her head to see him properly.

“My lightsaber, Cheppi.”

“No, master, you can’t fight-”

A sigh. More of that awful gurgling.

“I'm not going to.”

Horrible understanding lances through her the moment she places the hilt in his palm, and the look in his eyes makes her breath hitch with a grief so massive she has to shove it far away to fight the temptation of turning her blade inward and leaving the galaxy at her master’s side. He senses her struggle, gentles his tone, shakes his head minutely.

“No, my girl. Not today.” Master Vokam struggles to lift his weapon, strain in every line of his old, wise face. “Not like this.”

“Yes, master,” she answers, because what other answer is there? What else could she ever say to him?

The blade, as blue as the winter sky over them, ignites above her shoulder. She does not flinch. She knows what comes next. I'm not ready, she wants to say. I can't. I'm not ready.

His answer seems to float into her mind; You’re going to have to be.

“By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force-”

Far away in the treeline, helmet-modulated voices. Her time is up. Her time will always be up, from this moment on.

When master Vokam grasps her braid and cuts it with one swift, labored motion, Cheppi hides her sob in the sound of the blade. Master Vokam must hear anyway, because when he looks at her for what they both know will be the final time, the urgency in his eyes mingles with love and pride and faith so strong it aches.

“Rise, Jedi Knight.”

She does not look back.

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Taylor Swift is Derivative nonsense, not intellectually placed allusions. I'll die on this hill, and I have many more examples beyond just the one listed below.

Let’s talk about the difference between being derivative and utilizing allusion in text. :) 

I’ve seen a lot of defenses for Taylor Swift’s work that hinges on the theoretical concept of intertextuality. People don’t often know that they are arguing over the validity (or emotional impact) of intertextual cessions in Swift’s writing, but they are.

Intertextuality, if you don’t already know, is a set of determinable interwoven texts that all correspond on a particular thematic point. This encompasses, but is not limited to, the literary device of allusion.  

There are many examples of intertextual works, since it is intrinsically post-modern. Yet, I want to talk about how Taylor Swift attempts allusions that only ever fall into flat-facing derivative blandness. I want to talk about how, yes, Swift is in the spirit of the age; yet her work devolves into derivative insincerity simply because she is not an artistic writer.  

Now, for an egregiously bad allusion. (I think it’s worse because Romeo and Juliet is my favorite Shakespeare play). In “The Albatross” Swift writes, “A rose by any other name is a scandal” in which the obvious allusion is to Shakespeare's, “A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet” from the play Romeo and Juliet. The line in the play is often misquoted, so perhaps Swift is just ignorant, however the line means to draw attention to the fact that names are just words the that do not actually dictate the internal nature of someone.  

The full line, from Shakespeare, reads “O be some other name/ What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ by any other name would smell as sweet;/ So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d” (Romeo and Juliet). Thus, Juliet is lamenting the full divisive way in which her family is at odds with Romeo’s family; upon deeper consideration too, Juliet is modulating how social pressures, often outside our control particularly in youth, can impact and modify the discourse between reality, doing what is proper in accordance with the majority, and intrinsic human desire to fulfill our own needs. So, the line is not only explaining how Romeo and Juliet cannot be together overtly due to familial dispute, but in the same words it explains the full breadth of social dissertation for the pursuit of individual need. Afterall, he would still be Romeo "were he not Romeo call'd." Juliet is admitting that she would still love him with or without the constraint of social obligation due the environment, or family, in which we are born; thus, we can see how individually human desire can be placed at odds with the demands of mainstream society.

This is a nuanced conversation when considering it through moral theory. For instance, we often talk about how people should not go against the mainstream for immoral pursuit of individual desire and that is reasonable; yet herein Shakespeare's work the thematic point is on the morality of love and desire to go against social convention. Shakespeare is saying, "Love is a greater moral good than that of social obligation to follow tradition and to hate who you are trained to hate based on parental teaching." It's a genius fucking line, in a genius fucking play. Now, we all know how the play ends, the lovers run off together, they have a brief day in the sun. However, social pressure and adult obligation catch up to them again and thus they die for it. They die for their courage to love and to go against the mainstream.  

Let’s return to Taylor Swift, the human embodiment of mainstream social pressure, as she writes that "a rose by any name is a scandal." As such, she is saying that all roses everywhere are just a scandal waiting to happen. If everything is a scandal, rather than speaking to any nuance grief to the pervasiveness' of social pressure to adhere to mainstream. Swift is simply throwing petulance to the world, by saying “Rose by any other name is a scandal” she limits what a rose could be, or become in using the verb “is” to fully solidify a rose as a scandal; which is a message that is diametrically opposed to the thematic point Shakespeare is making with his line. For Swift, there is no redemption, no nuance, and there is no subtext in which implicit messaging lay to tell people that going against the mainstream might just be the last thing you ever do but God is it worth it. To live with that brief day in the sun. And die for courage. Swift is just saying the opposite and stating that the mainstream is inevitable- there is no use in fighting it. A name is a name. It remains to tell the rose exactly what it is. Swift lacks imagination.

I would argue that Swift does make obvious attempts at allusion in her work, yet it is so poorly done because she does not actually see or use the thematic point of the source material from which she pulls her allusions. For allusions, to be done in an artistic impactful manner, we must keep to the thematic point of the source material. When the allusion is done correctly there is a “layering” effect in literature that redoubles the overarching themes of human experience in a way that calls us from the past, Shakespeare, to the present. Thus, is the theory of intertextuality in literary works.

(I made that bold because it's the main point of this, and I don't want anyone to miss it).

Taylor Swift’s work here simply does not measure up to anything artistic, thoughtful, or well-done.  It is simply derivative of Shakespeare, but I don't think it qualifies as a true allusion.

[writinginatree]

Adaptability Part 2

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran/female!reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

A/N: Sorry this part is so much shorter than the first. I feel like it wraps the whole thing up pretty nicely as it is, though :)

Part 1

Being a third-year does have its perks, you muse as you sprawl on Bodhi's bed. It's bigger and more comfortable than yours because he's been appointed section leader, and gives you yet another excuse to spend all your free time in his room instead of yours. Not that you need excuses. Bodhi would stay glued to your side every second of every day if he could, and if anyone ever notices you slipping into his room for the night, they don't seem to care.

In the weeks since your return to Basgiath you have discovered that being blind makes people a lot more tolerant of any misbehavior from you in general. They think you're helpless, that it's just a matter of time until you die, anyway. Though even so, leadership still views you as enough of a threat that there have been attempts on your life, too. Not as many as on the others that were at Resson, but still.

The first time it had been close, the attacker taking you by surprise, but since then you've kept on guard, and sharpened your remaining senses with various exercises. Sneaking up on you isn't so easy anymore, especially since your echolocating skills are coming along nicely, too.

Upon your return, you had taken a trip to the archives with Bodhi the first chance you got to borrow some books on echolocation. Of course you couldn't read them yourself, but Bodhi and Imogen had been happy to help — there wasn't much else to do anyway in the five days between graduation and conscription day. One book on the bio sonar — another term for echolocation — of bats had been particularly helpful. From it, you had learned that the animals use it in two different ways. What you had been doing so far were CF calls — constant frequency. These calls have a big range, and are ideal for detecting the movement and velocity of a target out in the open, but as you already noticed yourself, they lack precision. The other 'modus', which is more suitable for close, cluttered environments, is called FM — frequency modulated. Those calls vary in pitch, a downward sweep through a range of frequencies to get all the details. They have a shorter range, but allow for a much more precise localization.

Getting the hang of frequency modulated calls is tricky — the first few days of experimenting with it almost drove you up the walls with frustration —, but you're getting there. It will never be the same as being able to see, of course, but that's okay. You've made your peace with being blind, and know you're still just as capable of being a rider as you were when you still had your eyesight. And when you do need help with something, you can always count on your friends.

Today challenges are starting, and despite all the training you've put in, you're a little nervous. This will be the first time since your injury that you're fighting for real, and not just against one of your friends. Judging by the way Bodhi is pacing the room, he's even more nervous than you.

"Relax," you say, rising from the bed and stepping into his path to pull him into a hug. "I'll be fine."

"I know," Bodhi says, but he's practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Just promise you'll be careful."

"Of course. Come on, let's get breakfast. You are done getting ready, right?"

Little things like that, your signet and sharpened senses don't help with. You feel the soft fabric of his shirt under your hands, but you can't tell if his shoes are tied properly, if he's done styling his hair, if maybe there's a speck of toothpaste left in the corner of his mouth. Though the latter is easy enough to find out — a swift kiss, and nope, you don't taste any toothpaste on his lips.

"Yeah, I'm done," he nods, and takes your hand, and you step out into the hallway together.

You don't need his guidance to navigate the halls anymore, but you enjoy the closeness, and if it makes others think he's guiding you — well, all the better, because life is so much easier when your enemies underestimate you. Though you suppose they will reevaluate if — when, Fonn's voice in your head insists — you win your challenge later. Violet somehow found out who your opponent will be — a guy from second wing, bigger than you, but only an average fighter. In theory, he shouldn't be much trouble for you. You watched him in the gym yesterday — or rather, Bodhi had, while you studied his technique with the help of your signet. Maybe that wasn't entirely fair, but denying yourself the advantage that comes with knowing your opponent would have been stupid.

You're glad when it's finally time to head to the gym. The anticipation is the worst part, the nagging worry that you're not ready, that no amount of training will be enough to get your fighting skills back to what they were before your vision was taken from you. You refuse to let these thoughts take hold in your mind. You'll be fine. In your training sessions, you'd managed to defeat both Bodhi and Imogen multiple times, and you know neither of them would ever do you the dishonor of going easy on you. If you can keep up with them, then some random idiot who's not even that good a fighter won't stand a chance against you.

You'll try if you can win without echolocation, but while the use of signets is technically forbidden during challenges, you won't let that deter you from using it should it become necessary. There is no way for others to detect the sound waves, so it's not like anyone will know what you're doing. The Riders Quadrant doesn't exactly accommodate disability, so you have to help yourself, even if that means breaking a rule here and there.

Bodhi gives your hand an encouraging squeeze when you're called onto the mat, and you know he'll be watching the whole time, ready to step in if anything goes wrong.

You take a deep breath and roll your shoulders as your opponent sneers about having to fight the only blind cadet in the quadrant, complaining that he was hoping for a real fight. He'll change his mind about that soon enough, you think to yourself. After you're done kicking his ass, he'll wish you were as helpless as he thinks you are.

You calm your breathing, turning your focus to the sounds your opponent makes — the soft rustling of his clothes, the drag of a boot against the mat as he shifts on his feet, his breathing, heavy in anticipation of the fight. You've spent endless hours in the gym with your friends, practicing to track an opponent by sound alone. Now it's time to put all that training to use. You'll resort to using echolocation if you need it, but first you want to try if you can win without it.

"Of course you can," Fonn scoffs in your mind. "That fool is no match for you."

"Hush. Let me focus."

Professor Emetterio gives the go, and you immediately attack. Your punch lands on your opponent's shoulder — he tried to twist out of the way at the last second. But you did hit him. You follow with another punch, not giving him any time to recover from the surprise of you knowing where he is. This time your fist collides with his cheek, and he stumbles a step backwards, but by now he has collected himself enough to take a swing at your face. You feel the rush of air preceding his fist and duck, using the opening to land a punch to his stomach.

A pained wheeze tells you the punch landed right on target. You kick where his knee should be, saying a silent prayer that you will manage to take him down and get him into a hold that will force him to surrender. The shorter this fight goes on for, the better. A thud tells you your foe has hit the floor just as intended, and you crouch down, managing to block a punch with one hand as you pull your dagger with the other. It takes precious seconds to find his throat, but then you have him at your mercy, leaving him no choice but to yield, unless he has a death wish.

Fonn's pride reverberates through you as you victoriously step off the mat to where you know Bodhi is waiting for you. You let out a sigh of relief. You did it. And it hadn't even been as hard as you'd feared it would be.

Bodhi's hand slips into yours as come to stand next to him as the next challenge is called. His lips brush your cheek. "I'm proud of you, darling. I knew you could do it."

You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder as you tap into the stream of Fonn's magic to follow the next match through your echolocation. Maybe she's not entirely wrong in constantly telling you you're the fucking best.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜I Love, Robot | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | containment breach⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

As you settled back into the captain's bridge, the crackling voice of Tyler suddenly broke through on the intercom, his words garbled and frantic. "It is a form of shutdown. Andy, the door. Fuck! He is not authorized to open the door," you could barely make out the urgency in his voice, signaling something had gone terribly wrong.

Navarro rushed over to the communication panel, her expression tense. "What's going on?" she demanded, her voice sharp with concern.

From the intercom, Tyler's voice emerged clearer this time, his frustration palpable. "We're locked in the cryo-chamber. Someone triggered a lockdown, and Andy can't override it—it needs higher clearance."

Bjorn's sneering tone followed, laced with disdain. "The piece of trash can restart the ship but can't open the fucking door to a different room?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a snarly comment. "Why would they even think Andy had the credentials for that? It's not like he's been programmed with full admin rights," you muttered, the irony of their reliance yet dismissal of Andy not lost on you.

Rain's voice then pleaded through the intercom, her tone desperate. "Y/N, can you do anything to help?"

For a moment, a wicked thought flashed through your mind: to leave the two men locked inside since, after all, Andy was just a machine and could survive without food or water. But your better instincts prevailed.

Grumbling, you grabbed your satchel filled with small tools and your tablet, capable of jailbreaking many machines and codes.

As you stood, Rain's hopeful voice carried over from the men's frustration, "Y/N can probably get them out."

Navarro, however, sounded skeptical as she joined you in preparing to leave. "I'm not sure. Honestly, if Andy can't open the door, she probably can't either. He is a Weyland-Yutani synth. We're just intruders."

Rain, undeterred, insisted, "Still, she can try..."

With a resigned sigh, you followed Navarro and Rain through the airlock onto the Romulus, leaving Kay behind on the hauler.

As you stepped through the airlock, your mind was a tumult of conflicting emotions, yet determined to resolve the situation, not just for Andy's sake but to prove that when it came to family—biological or constructed—you don't abandon them.

The station was in shambles, with evidence of damage everywhere you looked. Panels hung off the walls, sparks occasionally erupting from exposed wires.

The dim lighting gave the corridor an eerie, flickering ambiance, casting long shadows that twisted and turned as you moved.

Nearby, a large hole in the floor appeared to have been corroded by some acidic substance. The air was heavy, filled with the sharp, metallic scent of ionized air, mingling with the acrid tang of the acid.

But what caught your attention most was the damaged synthetic lying against the wall; its casing cracked open, revealing a maze of wires and circuits.

You, Navarro, and Rain rushed toward the cryo-chamber, the sounds of struggle growing louder with each step. When you arrived, you found Bjorn and Tyler trying to open the cryo-storage, their movements swift and determined.

Hooking up your tablet to the chamber door's control panel, you began to frantically input commands, trying to override the lockdown.

Your fingers flew across the screen, but each attempt was met with a denial.

Navarro, peering over your shoulder before turning to Rain, asking, "Do you have any ideas?"

"Not yet," the girl replied, her voice tinged with frustration.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, Rain turned and sprinted toward the damaged synthetic. She pushed on its port, extracting a small disc—a module that might hold the key to ending the lockdown. She quickly moved to install the extracted module into Andy, hoping it would grant him the necessary clearance.

Navarro, puzzled and anxious, called out, "What are you doing?"

"If the module works, it can transfer its authorization to Andy so he can open the door."

Meanwhile, Bjorn, still pulling at the locked door in frustration, yelled back to Rain, "It's stuck!" He then rushed to the back of the chamber to grab something to bang on the door with, his patience worn thin.

Andy, observing Bjorn's actions, cautioned, "Maybe we shouldn't touch anything, it might—"

Bjorn snapped back as he returned, wielding a piece of metal, "Shut the hell up, it's hot in here."

As you watched through the glass, a sense of unease settled in your stomach despite understanding the necessity of the module swap.

You watched as Rain retrieved the disk from the damaged synthetic before rushing over to the cryo-storage door, passing the small disk to Tyler through the narrow slot in the door. "Here. This is from the synthetics. Try putting it in Andy's module," she instructed urgently, her voice tinged with hope.

Tyler, with hurried movements, pressed down on Andy's port to insert the disk. The moment the disk clicked into place, Andy's expression contorted in discomfort. "I-It hurts me terribly," he articulated, his voice strained as if the insertion of the disk caused him physical pain.

"Just hang on, Andy," Tyler murmured, his brow furrowed in concern before turning towards the door.

Bjorn, anxious to leave the overheating room, paced back and forth. "Now let's just get out," he muttered impatiently. But as he moved, he felt something wet brush across his foot in the water accumulating from the melting ice in the cryochamber. "What was that?" he exclaimed, looking down with a mixture of disgust and alarm.

"Stay straight," Tyler advised ready to leave.

Suddenly, Andy paused, his face and hands beginning to twitch unnervingly. "T-Tyler?" he called out, his voice echoing with a mix of confusion and distress.

Tyler, who had been checking the perimeter for more emerging threats, spun around upon hearing Andy's strained voice. "Andy... Shit. Did I do something wrong?" he asked, panic rising in his voice as he saw Andy frozen in place.

The stark red emergency lights casting an ominous glow over his synthetic face, his expression a mix of pain and malfunction. It mirrored the tension gripping the room—every line of his features etched with the struggle of the conflicting commands ripping through his circuitry.

From behind the safety of the glass, you watched, your heart pounding with worry. "He's just rebooting. It takes a few minutes," you called out, trying to reassure them despite the dread filling your own chest. The image of Andy's strained face haunted you, reflecting the tension and uncertainty of the moment.

Tyler's voice echoed with concern as Bjorn's frustration manifested in a sudden splash of water, kicking up debris and sending ripples through the chamber. "What are you doing? Bjorn! Stop that shit."

"There is something in the water," Bjorn replied, his voice tight with tension.

"What is it?" Tyler demanded, scanning the murky depths.

"No idea, but it's in the water." Just as Bjorn spoke, something small and swift darted through the water, leaping onto Andy and knocking him down with surprising force. "What the hell was that!?" Bjorn yelled, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Andy!" you shouted from behind the glass, panic seizing your voice. "Bjorn, help him!'

Andy, still recovering from his reboot, slowly came back online. His systems stabilized just as Bjorn, cursing under his breath, helped him to his feet. Meanwhile, Tyler fought off the few swift, shadowy things swirling in the water.

"Come on, come on, come on! Hurry, Andy!" you urged as Andy, now regaining his functionality, touched the interface. The doors slid open just in time, allowing the trio to stumble out, escaping the watery trap.

"Come on, Bjorn! Tyler!" Navarro called out, rushing alongside you as all five of you made a desperate run for it.

Just as you all escaped, one of the creatures, however, was quick and managed to escape just as the cryo-chamber door slammed shut behind you, locking dozens of the other creatures behind it.

Your heart raced as you all sprinted towards the safety of the lab.

The sharp, muffled scream that followed turned your blood cold. Whipping your head around, the sight that greeted you halted your breath—a creature, like something out of a nightmare, had latched onto Navarro's face.

Andy stood slightly in front of you as if trying to shield you from the unfolding horror. You peeked over his shoulder, your hands trembling, as Navarro thrashed on the ground. Rain could only stand next to you in horror as everything unfolded.

Tyler and Bjorn were quick to react, their hands desperately trying to pry the creature off, but its grip was like iron.

The creature's tail was tightly wrapped around Navarro's neck, making every attempt to remove it perilous.

Tyler's voice was tense as he shouted instructions, trying to coordinate their efforts without causing further harm to Navarro. "Pull it! Pull it that way!"

"Fuck! I-I'm trying!" Bjorn's curses filled the air, his usual bravado drowned out by urgency and fear.

The creature's resilience was horrifying; it seemed to tighten its grip in response to their attempts.

The sight of Navarro, struggling and suffocating under the creature's hold, was almost too much to bear. Andy's presence was a small comfort, his large frame providing a physical barrier between you and the chaos.

The sight was unbearable—the creature's tail coiled like a vice around Navarro's neck, cutting off her air.

"Keep pulling! We have to get it off her!" Tyler barked, his voice strained with desperation. Bjorn, face set in grim determination, renewed his efforts, his hands slipping against the slick, sinewy body of the creature.

You knew if they didn't act fast, she wouldn't make it.

"Lift her up!" you commanded, stepping forward, your voice cutting through the chaos. "We need to get her to the main lab, now!"

Bjorn and Tyler exchanged a quick, frantic glance before complying. Bjorn, with a grunt of effort, scooped Navarro up, supporting her head and shoulders, while Tyler grabbed her legs.

Together, they moved quickly but carefully, carrying her down the narrow corridor toward the main science lab.

You ran ahead, clearing a path through the debris, heart pounding in your chest, every second stretching into an eternity.

Once inside the lab, they laid Navarro on the floor, her body convulsing slightly under the creature's weight. The lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows across the room, as if even the station itself was unsettled by the scene unfolding within its walls.

Tyler and Bjorn immediately resumed their attempts to remove the creature, but with every pull, the tail only seemed to tighten around Navarro's neck, her face growing paler, her breaths more ragged.

You could feel the panic rising in your chest as Navarro's breaths grew shorter and more desperate under the tight grip of the creature.

Rain's voice was frantic, filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. "It's suffocating her! Stop! It's suffocating her!"

You could hear the panic in her voice, mirroring the fear coursing through your own veins. "Stop, Bjorn! Stop, goddammit! It's about to kill her!" you shouted, your voice a desperate plea.

But Andy's voice cut through the din, calm and devoid of emotion, sending a chill down your spine. "I don't think that's what the creature is doing."

Both you and Rain snapped your heads toward him, taken aback by the sudden change in his tone. It was as if something in him had shifted—his voice sounded colder, more detached, almost clinical. "Andy?" Rain asked, a note of confusion and fear in her voice.

Andy didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on Navarro and the creature, observing with an unnerving intensity. "The rhythmic pulse of the creature's abdomen is in time with her breathing," he noted, squatting down to get a closer look. "This suggests it's providing her with oxygen to keep her alive, though the reason remains unknown."

Realizing something was wrong Rain blinked, her fear turning into bewilderment. "What the—Andy, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Andy blinked, tilting his head to the side, his expression blank. "I'm an N-D-255 Weyland-Yutani synth with mining and guard functions. You called me 'Andy.' That is not my name."

You cursed under your breath, frustration boiling over. "That fucking module," you muttered, running a hand through your hair and gripping it in exasperation.

You knew the module would have altered him, but this… this was something else entirely.

Rain moved forward, reaching out to remove the module from Andy's neck, but before she could make contact, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist with surprising force. "Your name is Andy," she insisted, her voice firm, trying to remind him of who he was—or who he used to be.

Andy hummed, seemingly oblivious to her plea. He looked down at his hands and arms, turning them slowly as if seeing them for the first time. "The new module has upgraded both my powers and my AI," he explained with an unsettling calmness. "I am now in the process of repairing my motor system. A much-needed upgrade."

Bjorn, panting heavily from his efforts to remove the creature, shot a glare at Andy. "That's it, I'm roasting this shit," he growled, reaching for his weapon, ready to burn the creature off Navarro.

But before he could act, Andy's voice sliced through the room like a blade, cold and commanding. "No!"

Everyone jumped, startled by the sudden sharpness in his tone. For a moment, the room fell into a tense silence, everyone's eyes on Andy. "The current will cause its tail muscle to break her neck," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion but carrying an unmistakable weight of authority.

Bjorn, his frustration boiling over, snapped back, "What the hell do you want us to do, huh? What?"

Tyler, more composed but equally desperate, asked, "Do you know how we can help her?"

Andy remained silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the creature with a clinical detachment. "My databases are unchanged. I don't know what the creature is or how it can be removed." His gaze shifted to the damaged synthetic lying on the ground nearby. "But there is possibly someone in the room who does."

Following Andy's line of sight, Rain's eyes widened in realization. She turned to Tyler, her voice urgent. "Move that synthetic up onto the table! If we can reactivate it, maybe it can help us understand what we're dealing with."

Tyler nodded, and with Bjorn's help, they quickly lifted the mangled machine onto the lab table. Rain wasted no time.

You watched as she hooked the synthetic onto the motherboard computer behind it, your heart still racing, hoping desperately that this long shot might give them the answers they needed.

The hum of the machines filled the tense silence of the lab, their lights flickering as they whirred back to life. You could feel the tension in the room, thick and suffocating, as the weight of Navarro’s fate pressing down on all of you.

Finally, the synthetic sputtered to life, its head jerking slightly as if waking from a long slumber. His eyes flickered open, blinking slowly, filled with a vacant, eerie emptiness as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

His face and uniform were in a state of disarray, covered in grime and torn in places, revealing parts of his damaged, synthetic frame beneath. His shirt was soaked with a strange liquid—likely a mix of synthetic fluids and other substances—creating a sticky, uneven coating over his torso.

His movements were jerky and uncoordinated, his limbs twitching sporadically as if they struggled to respond to his internal commands. His left arm, twisted and partially mangled, hung at an unnatural angle, further highlighting the extent of his deterioration.

A large portion of his chest was missing, exposing the internal machinery and wiring, now sparking intermittently with blue and white lights.

He seemed to be fighting against his failing systems, his face contorted in an expression that might have been pain, confusion, or both.

"Must… secure… substance Z-01," he muttered, his voice halting and mechanical, filled with a strange urgency. "Highest priority. Must… complete the mission." His eyes were wide, his gaze unfocused as he repeated the words, almost like a mantra, its programming overriding its awareness, his programming seemingly overriding his awareness of his own damaged condition.

As you observed him, it became clear that the synthetic—Officer Rook, according to his nameplate—was barely functional—a ghost of his former self, struggling against both his failing systems and the urgency of his directive.

Andy stepped forward. "It pains me to say, but you have failed your mission."

Rook turned his head sharply, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "What? No, I…" His voice faltered, the words trailing off into a hollow silence, as if he was trying to process this new information.

You moved closer to Andy, your heart racing, a mix of fear and urgency driving your actions. "How can we help her?"

Officer Rook slowly turned to face you, his gaze steady but distant he looked up from Navarro's twitching form. "You must not help her. You must escape. Hurry away," he said, his tone eerily calm, as if stating an obvious fact.

Bjorn, still holding on to a sliver of hope, shook his head defiantly. "Nah, no. We are not leaving her," he said, his voice hard and resolute.

Rook's expression remained unchanged, his voice mechanical and emotionless. "So show mercy and kill her. Otherwise, you will all die."

Rain turned to Andy, her face a mix of confusion and horror. "What does he mean?"

Andy looked at Rook, his synthetic eyes unblinking. "What does it do to her?"

Rook's head tilted slightly, as if trying to recall something from deep within his memory banks. "The parasitoid implants a Plagiarus praepotens in her. There, it will absorb her DNA and grow out of her," he explained, the words clinical, devoid of empathy.

Andy pressed on, his voice almost a whisper. "What will grow out of her?"

Rook's gaze shifted slightly, his voice now carrying a weight of grim certainty. "Xenomorph XX121. One of our ships came into contact with the specimen here two decades ago. Only one of the USS Nostromo's crew survived and blew the creature out of the airlock. We've been looking for it ever since. The xenomorph was brought on board, presumed dead. But lack of oxygen and food has no real meaning for this perfect organism. But nothing is immortal. Obviously. It razed the station until our surviving soldiers shot it and triggered its swan song."

You glanced around the room, your eyes catching on the large hole in the wall, the metal corroded and eaten away. "Acid blood?" you asked quietly, piecing together the horrors you'd read about in old reports and the devastation around you.

Rook nodded, confirming your fears. "Sulfuric and hydrochloric acid. I sealed the station, but too late."

Bjorn's patience snapped, his face contorted in anger and fear. "We are very happy with your ship! Now get to the fucking point on how to help my damn sister!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the lab, filled with desperation.

Rook turned his gaze back to Bjorn, his expression as cold and mechanical as ever. "There's no saving her," he said bluntly. "Just save yourselves while you still have time."

Tyler's eyes were wide with desperation, refusing to accept the cold truth presented by Rook. "There must be a way," he insisted. His gaze shifted to you and then back to the androids, seeking answers where there seemed to be none.

Bjorn's frustration boiled over, his movements erratic as he turned sharply to face both Rook and Andy. "No! There's gotta be a way! I'm not leaving without my sister!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You two are fucking androids, figure it out!"

"Calm down, Bjorn," Tyler urged, trying to steady his own nerves even as his hands shook. "But he's right—there's got to be something we can do…"

Your mind raced, scanning the lab for anything that could help. As you paced around, your foot accidentally knocked into a knocked-over canister.

You glanced down and saw the label: cryofuel. The very thing that had been the reason for prolonging the original mission.

A spark of hope ignited in your mind. "What if we use the cryofuel to freeze the root of its tail?" you suggested, the idea spilling out in a rush. "Then it might stop suffocating her."

Rook paused, his head tilting slightly as if considering the idea. "It is a possibility."

Without wasting a second, you grabbed the canister and moved quickly to Navarro. Tyler and Bjorn helped hold her still as you carefully applied a controlled spray of cryofuel at the base of the creature’s tail, aiming to freeze the root without harming Navarro.

The creature shuddered violently, its grip loosening slightly. "Now!" you shouted.

Tyler and Bjorn pulled at the same time, and with a sickening squelch, the facehugger was dislodged, falling to the ground with a thud.

Rain immediately recoiled, her voice a sharp cry of fear. "Get it away!" Tyler was quick to dispose of the creature in the large hole.

Bjorn pulled Navarro into his arms, his breath coming in quick, panicked bursts as he held her close. "It's gone. I have you," he whispered, trying to soothe her as she panted and looked around, disoriented and scared.

Rook, however, remained unshaken, his gaze fixed on Navarro. "I'm not so sure about that."

A ripple of confusion spread through the group, but Andy's expression grew serious, catching onto Rook’s meaning. "What are the odds?"

Rook's reply was matter-of-fact, as though stating the weather. "60/40 against your friend."

Rain's face twisted with confusion and fear. "The odds for what? Andy, what's he's talking about?" she demanded.

Rook's blank gaze shifted towards her, his voice coldly factual. "For the creature to finish its mission, of course."

A cold dread settled over the group. As Rain, Bjorn, Tyler, and you crowded around Navarro, checking on her condition and trying to offer comfort, you noticed Andy speaking quietly with Rook out of the corner of your eye.

Something about their exchange caught your attention—an urgency, a quiet intensity in their otherwise emotionless faces.

You broke away from the group, moving closer to hear their conversation. Just as you approached, you caught Rook’s final words to Andy, his tone unusually commanding. "...You must help them. You must help them."

The statement hung in the air, filling you with a mix of confusion and dread.

As you all headed back to the Corbelan, the events of the past few minutes weighed heavily on everyone, each step echoing with uncertainty and fear.

Andy's normally calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that sent a chill down your spine. His directives, altered by Rook's module, seemed to drive him toward a single, unyielding conclusion.

When the group reached the airlock leading to the hauler, you noticed Andy pause, his eyes fixed on Navarro. His posture stiffened, and his gaze was unnervingly blank, as if processing a difficult decision.

You gently touched his arm to get his attention. "Andy? What's wrong? Do you know what's happening?" you asked softly, your voice laced with concern.

Andy stared at you for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, before turning his gaze back to Navarro. "We can't take her back to the ship," he declared firmly, stepping forward to block the exit to the airlock connecting to the hauler.

Bjorn's reaction is immediate. Fear and frustration boiling over, he grabbed a large stun baton from the nearby equipment rack. "You deranged pig!" he shouted, rage filling his eyes as he prepared to charge at Andy.

You rushed between them, raising your hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, calm down!" you pleaded, your voice steady despite the rising panic. "I'm sure he's got a reason. Let's see what he has to say!"

Bjorn looked at you, his eyes a storm of conflicting emotions—hurt, anger, desperation. His arm dropped slightly, but his voice was still laced with bitterness. "Y/N…" he muttered, but the hurt quickly morphed back into anger. "Fuck off! I'm not keeping my sister here! You can stay behind with your fucking boy toy all you want," he spat, his voice dripping with venom as he turned to help Navarro up.

Together, they shuffled toward the door, but Andy quickly stepped between them and the exit again, his movements deliberate and unyielding. "You must understand that there are certain choices that must be made," he said, his tone calm yet firm. "And I'm afraid you all won't make the right one if I don't step in."

Bjorn's face twisted into a feral grin, his patience gone. "I warned you—" he growled, suddenly swinging the stun baton with brutal force.

The highest voltage coursed through Andy, causing him to convulse violently before being flung several feet away, crashing against the metal wall with a heavy thud.

"No!" you screamed, rushing over to Andy with Rain right behind you. "Andy!" Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached his side, your hands fumbling for the Reboot Key, desperate to bring him back online.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Bjorn pulled Navarro through the airlock and onto the hauler. "Let's get away. Come on, come on. Come on, Tyler," he urged, his voice tight with urgency as he dragged Navarro toward the controls.

Tyler hesitated, his eyes flickering between the leaving Bjorn and Navarro, and Rain, who was still kneeling beside you next to Andy. His face was torn with indecision, his loyalty divided. "We can't leave her," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze lingering longingly on Rain.

You could feel the weight of his choice in that moment, the pain of what it would mean to leave Rain behind.

Unfortunately, despite your efforts, Bjorn and Navarro reached the ship first.

You heard the dull thud of the airlock sealing shut, trapping you, Tyler, Rain, and Andy on the station. The cold, metallic echo reverberated through the corridor, a stark reminder of your current predicament.

Andy twitched violently from the voltage, his systems struggling to stabilize. His voice, distorted and shaky, broke the tense silence. "F-Forgive me. I have always been nothing but a burden to you. Today I can finally help you. Don't see me as a child anymore." As he finished speaking, he looked directly into your eyes, a strange mix of determination and sadness in his expression.

Then, just as quickly, his body stiffened, freezing in place as the reboot process took over.

"A-Andy?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sounds of the station around you. The fear of losing him gnawed at your insides, but you couldn't afford to panic—not now.

On the other side of the airlock, Bjorn watched the scene unfolding with a deep scowl. His face was set in a mixture of anger and sadness, his mind clearly made up. "Navarro, disconnect the ship!" he barked, his voice echoing in the enclosed space.

The overhead system chimed in, a calm but firm voice announcing, "Disconnection initiated. Please escape the airlock."

You glanced up, seeing the airlock doors sliding shut with a mechanical finality. Your heart pounded in your chest as you helped Andy to his feet, your mind racing for a way out of this.

"What the hell is he doing?" Tyler shouted, his voice tinged with frustration and confusion as he looked towards the sealed airlock.

Rain, her expression a mix of fear and resignation, answered quietly, "He thinks Andy will kill Navarro." Her eyes flickered with uncertainty as she tried to piece together Bjorn's reasoning.

Tyler turned his gaze toward Andy, who was still rebooting, his body rigid and his face expressionless. "What? Does he want it?" Tyler asked, trying to make sense of the chaotic situation.

Rain glanced back at Andy, who now stood upright, his eyes gazing intently at the side of your head as if lost in some internal process before he turned to face the airlock, his expression still unreadable. "I don't know," Rain whispered, her voice heavy with uncertainty.

Something deeper was at play, something all you needed to understand if any of you were going to make it out alive.

A/N: hey guys! i'm back with another update, but before i leave i want to be honest/frank. once again, i'm receiving messages/asks critiquing what i've written so far and though i'm thankful that my writing is garnering enough attetntion to even experince this, i just want to say that it's really kinda offputting that i'm being told that Andy shouldn't be written with the intent of romance. ima keep it short and cute because i could literally make an entire post about this (as a matter of fact i will do just that) but just understand that i will continue to create showcase Andy in the romantic light because he deserves it just as all the other cast does...

Tag List: @dreamsarenicer sadslasher13 ravenswife izzymae288 fairy-cores-world

[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl-wr1t1ng]

The M3duS4 Protocol 

Part 1.0

Rubble shifts and slides under slender pointed feet. The dark haze of night shrouding her swift movements through the crumbling streets, the abandoned machine world silent around her as she darts from shadow to shadow. Her almost impossibly dark chassis perfectly suited for infiltration and stealth, reduced now to slinking around like an old world rat. Void pauses as she reaches a jagged opening in the floor in front of her, the edges of the pit’s yawning maw partially melted and gnarled. Void’s sensors begin to scan and calculate, she has no idea what weapon could have caused this damage but she does notice its trajectory, all the damage bent outwards, towards the sky. Whatever it was came from bellow and fired out, and hopefully, if she’s lucky, continued that way itself. She knows she has to decide quickly, spending as long as she has inside such an active zone without an encounter is a miracle, and she’ll need a few more if she’s gonna make it out intact.

A silent sigh escapes her body, she cant afford to stay out in the open any longer. Gingerly she starts her descent, every step carefully placed as to not create any noise, the pile of metal left over from whatever rampaged through here making a convenient staircase down into the dark under-city. Her sensors carefully scanning the room as the sky above her is replaced by thick metal. Her nimble body quickly swallowed by the total darkness of the streets below.

Without the natural moonlight lighting her path, and the thick machined walls insulating her from the world above, Void now relies solely on her other sensors to navigate. Her infrared scanners detecting nothing but the cold, lifeless metal all around her. She could easily get lost down here, with thousands of identical rooms and rundown corridors all it would take is one slip up. Void forces the thought from her CPU.

We need to focus

Continuing along her path she continues to scan each branching pathway for a potential exit, unsure what such an exit would look like, but remaining confident she would know it when she sees it. The dark corridors feel almost alien to her, the old world used to be so fascinating and incredible. She would spend hours studying everything about it. In the hopes that it would make her more capable, better at keeping everyone safe...

Just stay calm, we can alwa-

A loud clanging rings out from beneath her as her foot collides with something she hadn't noticed laying in her path. The sound reverberates off the walls, no doubt alerting anything nearby of her presence.

Fuck

Void freezes in the growing silence as the sounds bouncing around her fizzle out, every sensor in her body working overtime in a desperate attempt to detect any reactions to her fumble. Bitter memories rise up in her memory banks, flashes of a similar situation, decades ago, forever burnt into her core, pain and fear elevating throughout her system in equal measure. Distorted screams impossible to forget.

A heavy force slams into Void’s left side, distracted in the depths of her own memories she didn't sense it approaching until she was already halfway to the ground. Her light, metal frame slams hard into the cold, unforgiving floor as the force in her side crashes down with her. Scrambling under the weight above her, panicking as she gets her hands beneath her chassis, the lithe body of her assailant slowly coming into focus as her sensors turn towards it. A lightweight, civilian frame containing a mess of wires and rusted metal, two poorly connected arms on either side of its torso grasping and scratching desperately towards her.

“Get off me!” Void screamed, hoping in vain that it would understand.

The bot opened its mouth in what looked like an attempt at communication but all that escaped its throat was the sound of ancient parts grinding together, its voice module long since decayed. Not that communication would have helped her. The frenzied movements and ancient design indicated clearly what she feared, the bots core had already completely destabilised, its body acting on nothing more than instinct and impossibly faded memories.

Flailing desperately Void gives the bot a shove with all the strength she can muster. Despite the civilian design it doesn't budge, the four arms and angle of approach giving it a significant advantage.

Knife

Void scrambles to keep the clawing hands at bay as she reaches her free hand down to her thigh, a small click and the outer casing slides apart revealing a small compartment containing a dark metal rod. Clumsily she grasps at the bar, forcing it into her grip. Almost instantly, as if knowing the danger present, a slim blade slides out from within the dark steel. Quickly she takes the blade and thrusts it as hard as she can into the closest shoulder. Something bursts inside the bots body as the blade tears through it, a dark liquid spurting out of the wound and any gaps within the already damaged chassis. The bot, seemingly unbothered by this explosion, continues to grasp and claw into her armour. Void braces her other arm against the bots chest, remembering her training, and slams the knife back down. This time into the exposed wiring coiling up its neck. Almost instantly the bot buckles above her, both its right arms collapsing to the floor, its torso falling flat against Void’s chest.

Sensing her moment, Void pushes with all her might against the partially disabled bot, her body sliding out from underneath it. Clambering to her feet she breaks into a sprint down the corridor, her mind spinning as she desperately tries to escape the now dangerously noisy area.

Synthetic adrenaline surges through her system as she dismisses several warning alerts flashing across her visor. Her panicked movements desperately working to get her as far away as possible. Struggling in the dark she finally spots a branching corridor to duck down, her feet sliding and sparking against the floor as she drifts around the corner, almost slamming into the opposite wall.

Peaking back behind her as she runs, another warning burns through her system, this time a proximity warning. Confusion fills her core, quickly replaced by fear when she turns back to face a burning bolt of plasma rushing towards her, almost the width of the corridor. She dives to the ground, the impossibly scorching heat partially colliding with her left arm as she falls. Another flurry of warnings rocket through her as she once again slams into the hard metal flooring.

Looking up with a long, distorted moan, Void attempts to discern the source of the projectile. She suddenly makes out a large, hulking form limping its way towards her. Six crab like legs straining to hold up a heavy weapons platform, an incredibly ancient warbot. Its design so old it could only have been built during some human war, long ago lost to time.

Multiple targeting lasers circle the dark space, most of them slowly coming to focus on her centre mass, a few others pointing off in seemingly random directions. Void drags her limbs closer underneath her in a desperate attempt to stand and fight. Her servos screaming at her as they fail to give her what she wants. Void sighs, accepting her fate, letting herself think back to those deep, desperate memories. Her body failing her now as it did back then.

I’m sorry

Before Void is able to fall too far into her shame, the entire floor lurches beneath her, a deep rumbling pulses through her body. A deafening explosion roars from somewhere behind her and the entire space around her is shifted and distorted. Void is thrown from her prone position forcefully into the ceiling, before dropping back down onto the now rapidly collapsing floor, the structure disintegrating and warping around her faster than she can process. Watching as the ancient warbot across from her is sucked through the floor, its towering form swallowed by the darkness below.

Attempting to avoid a similar fate, Void thrusts her knife deep into the wall in front of her. Almost as quickly as the knife enters the wall does the floor crack and sunder beneath her, being torn away by whatever force propelled the explosion. Her entire body briefly suspended in the stale air. Gravity quickly takes hold, her form plummeting downwards before jolting to a stop, anchored to the wall by her blade. Her relief is short lived as her her arm is torn from its housing, shorn wires sparking, lighting up the darkness as she falls fast. Warnings and alerts fill her vision, her entire system screaming at her one final time as the impact ruptures something within her, sensors and servos lose power almost instantly, her consciousness only seconds behind. Her limp body pathetically falling through the dark before thudding into a metallic surface one last time.

~~~~~

I'm currently saving up for a tattoo (as well as just trying to survive) so if you wanna support me know it would go to a hot as fuck tattoo hehe - Ko-Fi

[divinit3a]

drabble - "display only"

G - ~1000 words prototype!Moon ("Moondrop") might turn this into a full fic.. some day! i have schemes... for now, enjoy--as this wip has been sitting on the shelf for too long!

The world is so, so small. The routine never changes. An orchestra where all the notes are perfect and predetermined, a waltz without a single misstep. 

At 6:30 am sharp, blistering lights and theme music kick on automatically. The animatronic is alerted from its rest cycle, a nagging popup in its code to exit low power protocols. Optics flicker open, sounding as if a camera shutter going off, swift and keen as a gunshot. The scanners readjust, pupils dilating to accommodate the right shutter speed to capture light. 

The view before it never changes. Mundane. The Moondrop settles into its perch. 

An obedient, oversized toy. 

Capable of motion, yet kept on a short leash. The animatronic neatly tucks away its charging wires, and enters the Sun’s iconic pose as prompted by its hardwired scheduling. The first cycle of the day is always a Sun showcase, no if ands or buts. 

The Moondrop cannot complain, but some days, it finds itself wishing to. Wearing a mask of pure sunshine rapidly depletes its energy resources. Constantly running the risk of powering down before the gift shop closes for the evening.  

But. Not like anyone would listen to its “concerns.” 

Arms outstretched to the heavens, warm and inviting to greet customers into the toy shop. Its joints and hinges creak and whine in protest. Finger segments wiggle, loosening its stiff posture. Perfectly calculating for areas in its stance to appear imperfect, to sell the optical illusion of humanity and warmth. 

Optics cycle to a glowing, milky white. The rays spin out, beginning their slow, metronome, clockwork rotation. The low hum inside its faceplate indicates that the ray’s belt tracks are in working order, although, if anyone asked the animatronic–it would say that they need a little oiling. The slight vibration keeps ever so subtly shaking its faceplate, souring its “mood.” 

An imposter masquerading as its brighter half. 

Without a companion Sun AI coded into its circuits, the lone Moondrop can only follow prompts that are disorientingly alien to its suggested personality module. The chameleon change is convincing from afar. Perfect, as long as it's not prompted for dialogue. Its improvisational database is underutilized, its voicebox out of tune. When it attempts vocalization, a gravelly rasp drawls out, no matter the mask at the forefront. 

Pointed shoes heel-toe around the platform beneath it, until it hears a click. It is locked into position. A human would quickly tire of the enthusiastic pose, arms shaking. A robot can be set on display for eternity. 

Keys jingle just outside the thick glass of the display case. Naturally, the celestial animatronic is stationed at the front, right within view of the gift shop’s towering windows. Enticing the curious to wander in closer, and then wrangle them with the appeal of merchandise and colorful toys that kids can’t resist. 

The Moondrop checks its internal clock system. 

At 7:00 am, usually more so 7:02 am, a human employee opens up the gift shop. The names and faces are lost on the animatronic’s limited “socializing” capabilities. Facial recognition was proposed after the completion of it, to install security protocols. All features that a mere prototype, a proof of concept, shouldn’t need to access.

Designed for display only.

Instead, it remembers employees by their reactions. By their voices. A few always startle and jump, so it has learned to restrict its movement in the presence of most humans. Denying itself the slightest swivel of its neck hinge, peering through the periphery of imperfect optics. A dead pixel flickers on its gridded gaze. 

“Good morning, Sun!” The employee calls out, unlocking the front doors for customers with the continued chorus of jingles. The animatronic resists stirring. The urge to yell out a cheery hello drums in its circuitry, grating and too loud.  

“Enjoying your imprisonment today, too?” The human jokes, a relentless solo act. They swing their keyset, which is weighted with enough keychain charms to kill a man. 

“Jeez, what they put you in for, jester crimes?” They tease. The “Sun” can’t respond, though latent programming latches onto the joke with hunger. 

There’s a tickle in its circuitry, a surge of electricity flickering through its wires, preparing the dialogue for a quip back. But when the command finishes executing, there is only null code. Blank. Empty. The sensation fizzles out completely. A statement left unfinished. 

The human walks around the radius of the display case. “Looks like we need to call in a cleaner.” They swipe a finger against the glass, frowning as they leave a trail in the fogged up muck. “Or is that in my job description…?” The human talks to themself, never expecting “Sun” to respond. Only listen.

Thankfully, Moondrop loves to listen. To expand its definitions.

While the human amuses themself, the database scrolls through a dictionary. 

/ɪmˈprɪznmənt/ [uncountable] ​imprisonment (for something) the act of putting somebody in a prison or another place from which they cannot escape; the state of being there. 

Yes, imprisonment– that is what “life” feels like. In theory. 

But the emotions behind the definition are not correct, nor applicable. It does not yearn for freedom. The concept is too human. No, it merely gets curious, at times. A little intrigued. Nothing more. 

Before its lenses trickle in the hustle and bustle of a crowd.

Now and then, fingerprints press against the display case, the animatronics eternal tomb. A child– a young boy, from its rudimentary calculations, keeps pointing to it. Stars sparkle in his eyes, fearless. His mother tugs him away, insisting that she will buy him something else later. After eavesdropping over countless years, the Moondrop prototype has deduced that the prices at the gift shop were absurd, for an average income family’s standards.  

By 10:00 am, the mall is abuzz with families, loiterers, hungry for deals and entertainment. A teen slams their hand against its display case. Long ago such actions would rise a reaction from the Moondrop, but it has since desensitized to the unstructured chaos of humans.

Instead, it focuses on counting each minute until the "Moon" showcase swaps in around 12:00 pm.

Until then, the world continues on, while it remains stuck within a vault of glass. 

[freelancearsonist]

when the sun came up, you were looking at me

➔ Din Djarin x gn!Reader - 2.4k

➔ A bounty on your head and a bad ship wreck are just a few of the circumstances that have you questioning if you and Mando will ever be out of the woods.

➔ Rated PG-13 for curse words that are probably not canon in star wars, reader is generally able-bodied but otherwise is completely a blank slate, mando is probably ooc but we’re all a little delusional here, lots of blood, i don’t actually know how concussions work and we’re taking some broad liberties with injuries here.

➔ this is another submission to @beskarandblasters's Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! (if you're reading this kel ily <3) this fic is non-linear so pls bare with me - the timeline will make more sense at the end!

You keep your head down and walk quickly, ignoring the frantic heartbeat of city noise surrounding you as your legs carry you down a dim street.

This is the last place you want to be right now. Even with your cloak’s hood drawn up around your head, you feel too exposed.

The apothecary is a very little hole-in-the-wall type place; you walk past it twice before you finally locate it. The facade looks like it’s about to crumble, and the single window is caked in a thick layer of dust. It looks like it’s been abandoned for decades, rotting with the telltale signs of neglect.

The storekeeper inside looks even worse. She’s a decrepit little woman, squat and skinny, white hair brittle and tangled. Just looking at her makes you want to slowly back away and apologize; say you have the wrong building and run away as quickly as you can.

This is the only shot you have, though; the only place that won’t immediately call the authorities when you step through the door. If you get picked up, everything is fucked.

With a deep breath, you swallow your nerves and summon Din to mind. You think of his easy, authoritative tone and you try to emulate the confidence that modulator always used to convey.

You hear the crash before it happens.

It’s unlike any sound you’ve ever heard before. A high pitched whistle in combination with the deep, metallic scrape of mechanisms working overtime.

And then you feel it. It shakes the very earth you stand on, sends tremors and shockwaves up your legs all the way to the crown of your head. Even after the ground has stopped trembling, your fingertips tingle with the sensation.

You grab a blaster and you run.

You know before you even find it that it’s Din’s ship. There’s a churning, nauseous wrench in your gut and you just know.

There’s so many thoughts swirling through your mind that it doesn’t feel like you’re thinking at all. Your body simply moves on autopilot, like you’re watching a holovid. You traipse bravely into debris and ruin, locating the crumpled remains of the cockpit.

All that beskar is a damned curse, because he blends right in amongst the crumpled and twisted metal of what used to be a functional ship. Stolen, sure, but functional all the same–and the only one either of you had. 

But you push aside your anger, because he isn’t responding. You’re calling his name and shaking his chest and he’s just laying there. Not joking about you smudging his armor, not breathing a little heavier at the sound of his name on your tongue like he always does. He just lays there, limp and unresponsive, and you’ve never been more terrified in your life.

There’s smoke and everything feels hot, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, adrenaline surges through your veins and you start dragging him. More than two hundred pounds of bulky man and armor but it doesn’t matter because if he dies like this you’ll never fucking forgive him, never fucking forgive yourself.

You drag him out of the wreckage and dump him unceremoniously on the grass, and then you get really scared. He hasn’t made a single noise, hasn’t even tried to help you with his weight.

You thump a little harder than you should on his chest, desperation outweighing any logical train of thought. “Din, wake the fuck up!”

It’s the slightest of movements–just a barely discernible turn of his helmeted head–but it’s enough. 

“Where are you hurt?” You beg, plead, cry. “You have to tell me where you’re hurt, I can help, but you have to tell me.”

His neck is just the littlest bit exposed, but it’s enough. You see scarlet red rivers tracing paths down corded muscle, and it makes your gut clench so hard you almost get sick right then and there.

“You have to take it off,” you whisper–your hand comes to rest at the side of his helmet, the only thing between living and dying at this point. “You have to take it off, Din, I can’t do it for you.”

His fingers twitch indecisively at his sides, and you realize with a gut-wrenching pang of fear that he might not be strong enough to do it himself. 

Or, even worse: that he might rather die than show you his face.

As soon as you’re back out the door, your body tremors with a sudden wave of previously repressed anxiety. You want to break out in tears, but you can’t yet. If there’s ever a time you have to be strong, it’s now.

You tuck the bag of supplies underneath your cloak and draw the fabric tightly around your torso as you walk back down the street the way you came.

You don’t think the storekeeper alerted anyone who shouldn’t know about your presence here, but you walk as quickly as you can anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

The ship is old and barely functional, but it’s the best you could scrape up on short notice. It works well enough for these little in-system supply runs, even if it does shake a little more than is comfortable when you take off and land.

After what happened to Din, you swore you would never fly again. That promise went pretty short-lived.

“You’re late. Again.”

You’re used to the deep, gravelly tone of his modulated voice by now, but that doesn’t stop the shiver that works its way down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as meek as you can sound. You set a bundle of herbs and vegetables down on the counter, hoping the offering will appease him at least a little bit. “I found a garden and–”

“And you shouldn’t be going that far alone.” His voice is firm, there’s no room for negotiation.

“Din, I–”

“Don’t. Argue.” And there’s just something about that authoritative tone that makes your traitorous heart seize in a way it shouldn’t. “You are in danger. I brought you here to protect you but I can’t if you keep running away.”

“I wasn’t ‘running away’, I just wanted to be helpful.”

But he’s not budging–not on this one. “You can’t be helpful if you’re captured or killed.”

He stands towering next to you, so solid and imposing. He sets his hands on his hips and you hate the disapproval radiating from him. More specifically, you hate that you’ve disappointed him.

Your voice sounds small, meek–you hate it. “I didn’t do it, Din.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a galactic fugitive with a bounty on your head.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle defensively anyway.

“You said we were safe here. You said we could lay low here until my name is cleared and no one would find me.”

“If you follow my orders,” he adds firmly. “You’re reckless and it’s going to get you killed.”

“I’m restless!” You correct, throwing your hands up in the air. “I hate being fucking… cooped up! I want to go out, and I want to do things, and I want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me!”

There’s a heavy moment of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. You know as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you’ve said too much, but you don’t know how to backtrack now.

“I can take care of both of us.” His voice is so much softer and gentler, you almost think you’ve misheard him. Surely you have, because it’s only been a few weeks since he rescued you from certain death–since he decided the price of the bounty on your head wasn’t more valuable than your innocence–and he’s been a stoic enigma the whole time. Always quiet, always imposing. You’ve never been able to get a good read of what’s going on behind that visor, so you’ve always assumed there wasn’t much.

Maybe you were wrong. You so desperately want to be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, stepping a little closer. Approaching him like a wounded animal, terrified of scaring him off. “I’ll be more careful.”

And you hear it–the hitch in his breath through the modulator at your proximity. You’re closer than you’ve ever been before by choice, and he knows it.

“Good.”

He turns on his heel and retreats into the back room of the little cottage you’ve commandeered and fixed into somewhere livable, and you can do nothing but slump in defeat.

He barely gets the helmet over his ears before he passes out, but it’s enough. Your hands catch the heavy beskar before it can slide back down over his face and you pull it the rest of the way off to toss it safely out of the way.

You’ve seen little peeks of his skin before–mostly his hands when he tugs off those heavy leather gloves–and you know right away he’s too pale. His face is completely drained for color, and again you feel that uncomfortably sharp twist in your gut. But you tell it to fuck off and your hands spring into action, desperately trying to find what’s wrong.

There’s a small yet jagged piece of metal sticking out of his neck, right under where the helmet's protection ends but above where the neck of his shirt would normally sit. Just the smallest strip of exposed skin, but it’s enough. Luck wasn’t on his side today.

You have to pull it out to get a better idea of just how deep it is, but your fingers are so slick with his blood that you can’t get a good grip on it. That’s when the frustration kicks in and your eyes well with tears; your blurry vision only makes you more frustrated, until you’re helpless and sobbing into his stomach.

But you feel it–the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He’s fighting, but he needs your help. You need to get it together because you’re the only chance he has.

You take a deep, unsteady breath and wipe the blood from your hands–and then you reach for that jagged piece of metal again.

You have to sit in the cockpit of your rusty, scavenged ship for a moment to catch your breath after you land safely and in one piece. You’re not even scared of crashing, you’re scared of dying and leaving Din alone. Din, who believed you when you said you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with. Din, who took you to the safety of this mostly uninhabited planet and assured you that no one would find you. Din, who swore that he would protect you.

Din, who has yet to wake up since he fainted lifelessly in your arms.

The metal wasn’t imbedded that deep, thank the Maker. He lost a fair amount of blood over it, but not so much that he couldn’t recover, and it didn’t knick anything too important that you couldn’t stitch back up even with your unskilled hands. 

It’s the concussion that worries you. You’re certain it’s not the first he’s had, but it’s definitely got to be the most severe. His skull must’ve bounced around in that damned helmet like a stray pinball. You’re able to take a small amount of comfort from the way his pupils retract when you lift his eyelids, at least, but that comfort wanes with each passing day that he doesn’t wake up.

This is your third time returning from that shady little apothecary on the next planet over, but it’s the first time his eyes have been open when you come through the door.

And for one horrible, gut-turning moment, you think he’s dead. He stares so blankly at the ceiling that you want to fall to the floor and die yourself.

But he hears you approaching, and his eyes flicker over to you. Those deep, chocolatey brown eyes that you’ve come to crave meet yours for the very first time and you start to sob with relief.

You push his back firmly against the mattress when he tries to get up, and you shake your head when his lips part around unspoken words. You just need to cry right now, so he lets you.

Everything comes up all at once–days of panic and fear, days of never knowing if you would ever hear the sound of his voice again, days of tears that you haven’t cried because you haven’t allowed yourself to. It all comes to a boiling point and spills over the edge of the pot, and poor Din just lays there and lets you cry into his chest because there’s nothing else he can do.

It takes longer than you wish it did for you to regain some composure, and when you finally pull away you’re feeling a little more than self-conscious about the very apparent display of emotion.

He must sense it, and even though his face is unreadable, he catches your hand before you can retreat too far.

“H-helmet?” He croaks, throat dry with misuse.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’ll go get it. I… I didn’t see your face, as far as this is concerned. You’re safe with me.”

But he doesn’t let go of your hand when you step to retrieve the helmet–if anything, he squeezes it tighter.

“S’okay,” he whispers hoarsely. “K-kinda… feels ni-ice.”

And it makes your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. That not only is he letting you see his handsome face, but he might even be enjoying it.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” you murmur as you start to remove the bandage from his neck. It’s healed down to a thin line now–the bacta’s run its course, and it’s faded to a simple scar. It could be years old if you didn’t know better. “I… I was so scared.”

“M’sorry.”

And you laugh, because it’s so ridiculous that he feels the need to apologize. It’s so ridiculous that he could think you’re upset at him for getting hurt when all you feel is pure, unadulterated relief.

He takes a deep breath and catches your hand again. “Saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” you murmur–before you can think about it, you ghost your lips in a feather-light kiss over his knuckles.

His eyes flutter shut from that minimal amount of contact, but it’s enough. He’s okay, you’re okay, and it’s enough.

➔ beta: @shakespeareanwannabe; dividers: @saradika-graphics

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

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[lilyblackdrawside]

Fartooth, Lunacub and the people's dislike of skills that only give ASPD

Long Post.

Fartooth’s S2 gives ASPD and lets her target enemies that are blocked, regardless of them being in her range or not.

Fartooth’s S1 gives ATK and ASPD and is just the generic Swift Strike Gamma.

I’ve had more than one person say that they think that her S1 is better than S2, because it gives ATK and without that, she’ll struggle to damage enemies.

The overall sentiment seems sound. There’s no point to just shooting quickly if it ends up bouncing off of even moderate defense stats.

Exusiai is the poster child of this with her insane raw dps that she by herself struggles to put into practice.

Fartooth’s S1 gives +45% ATK and +45 ASPD, costs 35 SP and lasts for 35 seconds.

Her S2 gives +110% ASPD, costs 40 SP and lasts for 35 seconds.

I will ignore the slightly higher cost of her S2 in favour of disregarding that entire segment for this comparison, because it’s close enough to not matter.

In a vacuum,

Swift Strike Gamma gives a x2.1025 raw damage multiplier and

Ally Support a x2.1 raw damage multiplier.

With that, the case is closed, right? S2 has worse cost and performance: just use S1.

No. Stay in your seats. Fartooth has a talent that looks and feels like it should be on a 5 star, but it contributes to her performance in a meaningful way in this case.

Fartooth’s first Talent „Concentration“ grants her +22% ATK if she hasn’t taken damage in the past 10 seconds. Furthermore, her module also gives +7 ASPD.

Due to how ATK and ASPD increases work, this changes the total damage multipliers she has with S1 and S2 to this:

S1: x2.5384

S2: x2.6474

So in practice S2 does give her more raw dps. Not by much, admittedly, but you are getting more out of it.

It does still leave her with a lower attack stat than S1.

But the thing is, you’re not using S2 to hit tanky enemies. This is silly. Her S3 is right there.

You use S2 to provide Support to your Ally. Just one.

The point is that it changes her fire rate to be like a Marksman Sniper’s.

With S1, her attack delay goes to 1.78.

With S2 it goes to 1.24, which is almost like the Marksman’s 1s interval.

So now she’s a Marksman, so what?

The difference is in base stats and targeting priority.

Usually a Deadeye Sniper’s low def priority is honestly really annoying and detrimental. You try to have Fartooth snipe a boss from a reasonable distance only for a Hound to catch her eye.

With a high attack stat and a low fire rate, you’d think they’d be made to hit tanky enemies but then they have this weird targeting.

To understand this, we have to take a step back to the beginning of Arknight’s life.

Firewatch is an operator who has been around since the start of the game and her deal is being specialized against ranged enemies.

Essentially, her job is sniping Casters. She gets a damage bonus against ranged and unarmed enemies and her S1 gives her a solid attack buff and Invisibility (the good stuff, not Camouflage) at a frankly ridiculous 20 SP and 50s duration.

At full development, she was able to deal just shy of 3000 damage per attack on ranged enemies, which many of them did not survive and almost none could take two hits of.

To facilitate this playstyle, they made her prioritize low defense enemies - enemy Casters and Snipers.

Why not just give her ranged-priority?

Well, I can’t give a definitive answer to this. But since there are only two operators in the game who have this targeting priority and one of them is the 3 Star Marksman Sniper Adnachiel via his talent, I think the devs are valuing this targeting priority quite highly and won't give it out so freely.

So basically, we can all blame Firewatch for causing the entire Deadeye Branch to be stuck with a targeting priority that really only she likes. and Ambriel. and Lunacub.

So it’s really the minority of them that don’t like this priority, but in reality they’d all prefer having ranged over low defense priority. Tough luck, your skill budget didn’t allow it.

So going back to Fartooth with this knowledge, what can we make of her S2 then?

It’s designed to make use of her innate targeting.

By making her fire quickly across the entire screen, she excels at clearing out small-fry enemies that she either one- or twoshots. Yes, she hits this hard, even without an attack buff on her skill.

Stat comparison time:

Exusiai with whatever module gives her the highest attack: 768

Fartooth with the only module she has, she only has a ModX don’t look that up, I’m the authority on this matter here: 1752

Yeah. She just sits at 1752 atk offskill. This is why she can afford to have a skill that gives nothing but ASPD. Because Deadeyes have really good attack stats. S1 brings this up to 2400, which doesn’t really let her meaningfully damage all that much more. You’ll still always want to use S3 for serious business.

Her S2 attack stat is well enough to serve the purpose of this skill.

There are instances where operators with normal targeting will get stuck on a tanky enemy that just happened to be there first, causing small fry to pile up and eventually leak.

This can’t happen to a Deadeye, because they will target the chumpy enemies first (generally the tough enemies will have higher def than Hounds and basic fellas, even if they’re not meant to be very physically tanky).

Her S2 is pretty situational to begin with, but when that situation comes, it does the job really well.

And with this I can pivot the discussion to Lunacub.

I feel like she fell under the general radar as an operator in Il Sicarusano, no doubt due to the very, very popular operators that debuted with her. Classic 5 star story.

She’s pretty much a Firewatch-like.

Her talent „Wilderness Instinct“ gives her Camouflage while her skill isn’t active. Yep, she’s permanently cloaked. Like two years before Wiš’adel was even conceived, take that. When her skill is active, her talent also lowers her attack interval.

Her S1 „Time to Hunt“ gives her +100% ATK for 20sp for 18 seconds. This is a fine skill, but I don’t care about it.

Her S2 „Umbral Ambush“ gives her +140 ASPD and Camouflage for 8 seconds and defeating an enemy gives her Camouflage for 8 seconds. This costs 50sp and lasts 25 seconds.

I do care about this skill!

Lunacub fully embraces the Marksman Sniper Deadeye style.

She has 1177 ATK (notice how much lower this is than Fartooth’s? What the hell. Even multiplying it by x1.22 leaves her 300 atk short)

With her S2 active, her attack interval goes down all the way to 0.84s!

For stat comparison, let’s take the most important, well-known and well-liked 5 Star Marksman Sniper

GreyThroat: She has 644 ATK, so she’d need a +80% ATK buff to match Lunacub, at which point they’ve got pretty much identical attacking stats.

+80% isn’t all that much when it comes to dedicated attack buffing skills, but Lunacub’s also has the Camo utility attached to it, so if we were to say she was a Marksman Sniper instead of a Deadeye, then her skill would essentially give her +20 ASPD and +80% ATK.

So there’s obviously some loss of efficiency in this conversion from Deadeye to Marksman, but you still get some benefits:

Low-def targeting and larger attack range. Also camouflage.

Lunacub’s kit is made to let you just deploy her wherever and have her wait to strike. Off-skill, she can just casually shoot enemies that walk by and once the critical target appears, you use her S2 and she rapid fires them down! It usually works.

This got a little unfocused near the end here, but to cap it off with an easy to understand statement:

Skills don’t exist in a vacuum.

Fartooth’s Ally Support would be junk on a Marksman Sniper, but works fine for her because she has a huge attack stat to begin with.

Lunacub will never kill anything that has at least 900 def, but she’s not designed for that anyway.

Did you know that Lunacub's oprec features her less than a faceless npc they made up for it?

[sofiemystique]

WIP WEDNESDAY

I was tagged last week by @paramortality & @hedwigoprah . So this week I bring an offering of ANGST from when Allette and Professor Emmrich Volkarin first met in the Necropolis.

“Professor Volkarin?” Allette knocked on the open door into his office. Shelves lined with skulls and bottles with preserved bone lined one wall of the office while the other boasted an extensive personal library. A skeleton was standing in the corner holding a tray while the professor sat looking over parchments. Annoyance crossed his features as he looked up. “Yes, how can I help?” his voice was short, he was obviously very stressed. Allette almost turned and walked out, apologizing she had even bothered him. However, if there was a chance, the smallest hope she could move forward in the module then it was worth asking. Moving into his office she stood in front of his desk. “I am terribly sorry to interrupt you but I did have a question.” “It is quite obvious you have a question or you would not be here.” A snap. She wasting his time. He was busy, a senior necromancer in the Mourn Watch and an esteemed professor. She needed to be succinct and quick. “The Introduction paper you have asked prospective students to write, is it possible to have an extension? 24 hours at the most,” Allette began but he held up a hand to stop her. His face strained and his eyes narrowed. “This course is quite rigorous and demanding. The expectations of punctuality with attendance and work completed leaves no room for negotiation Miss...” “Ingellvar,” Allette supplied. The way Professor Volkarin's left eye twitched made her stomach sink. “Miss Ingellvar,” he said her name as if it tasted sour on his tongue. “Perhaps becoming a Senior Necromancer is not the appropriate choice for you if you have not yet mastered your skill in time management.” Allette blinked and forced a smile. “You are absolutely correct, Professor. Thank you for your time. Good afternoon.” Her exit was swift, as was her walk back to the dormitories. For all the accolades Professor Volkarin had along with his grand reputation, it was a surprise they had failed to mention he was a complete ass.

All right so to tag some friends : @redheadsramblings @deny-the-issue @hedwigoprah @razildor @holdingontojupiter @paramortality @milothatxh @farore05 and anyone else who would like to participate.