#that freedom must be “earned” through strength

[evelynpr]

No one did "a Father's tough love" like Arlecchino

You KNOW she wants to tell her children how proud she is of them. How she wants to know what they're up to and what they like. How she wants to be a real caring father. How she wants to always ask "are you okay? Do you need help? What can I do for you?"

But she can't care. Caring is a lie, and being cared for makes you vulnerable. She has to be strong, because she must protect her children. She must protect her children, so she cannot feel cared by them. However, the children must care for each other, so they can be strong.

They cannot care for me, because they must be strong without me. They should not care for me, only fear me, for that is how they will survive without me.

[veritasss5]

The price for your new beginning | pick a card.

Disclaimer: this is a GENERAL READING, take what it resonates and leave behind what doesn’t. This is for fun and should never be taken seriously. This is for entertainment purposes. It is just for helping you to have a general idea about your situation. If it does help you fine I am very happy about it, if not then I am sorry that it wasn’t for you and move on.

Take a moment to relax your mind and choose with your intuition.

Pile 1 → Pile 2 → Pile 3

Pile 1

Pile one I sensed you have family issues where you wish to run away instantly.

I got the KEEPER OF BEGINNINGS for you.

In order to become free from any negative and toxic situation that you are in, you must sacrifice the cords and chains that are blocking you from flying freely to explore this world.

You must let go people’s expectations on you, they are “suggesting” to become a certain version of you, but none are the version of you want to be.

To become a butterfly, you must go through a metamorphosis. Sacrifice the old for the new. There won’t be a new beginning without the ending.

The never ending cycle of old and new would never exist without each other.

I do sense you are someone supposed to fly freely in the sky and explore the ocean of this world. Blue and light blue are strong colours that I see for you.

You may fight a lot for your freedom, and you are reluctant to sacrifice and make a huge discussion for your own personal choice.

Pleasing people is easy, but is it worth it? Have you ever seen a butterfly locked in a cage?

Choosing yourself was never an easy option, but at the end this journey full of obstacles will be worth it if you are the one to choose among others' expectations about you.

It’s fine to say no. It’s fine to misstep in a world full of perfection.

Go fly higher little butterfly of freedom. Don’t stay in this cage full of lack of empathy for you. If someone really thinks for you, it is you. People that love may not understand you, but it is fine.

You are the one to seek importance and validation from you.

It’s time to break the chains without fear of consequences.

Pile 2

Pile two I sensed you are very close to your new beginning. I saw a person in the dark really close to the door of light where you can exit the tunnel of darkness.

I got the KEEPER OF COMFORT for you.

You can relax now. All your hard work that you put before has paid off greatly for you. The price that you have to pay is only to get out of your comfort zone and do stuff that your past self would never imagine.

I do see that you are highly guided and protected. So the results earned is also thanks to your great spirit team or divinity that has your back.

There is one specific spirit or ally (can be physical or spiritual) that helped you a lot to get out from your darkness. They helped you greatly when you needed it the most and now you can share your happiness and achievements with them.

Some people do see a big shift of energy in you or a great change in you. They either congratulate you directly or secretly admire you from a far. They consider you as a strong person and a few of them never imagined you would do this big jump of change.

If you are still struggling, keep going because you are someone that has a high inner strength. You are very close to your new chapter and so don’t let go of your hope.

If you can’t handle anymore, ask help for divinities or spirits to come and guide you.

After that door you will enjoy a beautiful view, like a secret garden that no humans have ever seen before. That beautiful view that only you get to visit is a very beautiful and fulfilling prize after your struggles and hard work. Just like when you climb the mountain and see a beautiful landscape on the top of the mountain.

People won’t get it, but you are happy. You are happy that you got what you desire and that’s what matters the most.

You are a beautiful human being full of love and empathy, don’t let people shut down your light.

Pile 3

Pile three I sensed you are very heartbroken for something. I sensed grief and loss. You are very sad that you lost something important and you can’t recover those good memories of before.

Moving to the card, I got KEEPER OF SURRENDER for you.

This card is suggesting you surrender and let go of the things that you can’t recover or repair anymore.

You already made the sacrifice, you can’t undone the action. Sometimes losing something dear to you hurts so badly, but it is also a sign of healing and welcoming the new positive experience that is awaiting for you.

Your price for your new beginning is indeed sacrificing what can't have a good influence or impact for you. I see a lot of crying and grief. Please take a break and have self love healing sessions with yourself.

Put a lot of extra care with yourself, and treat yourself as a very light feather that is made of delicate material.

You may be overwhelmed by negative emotions right now, but soon you will be free from the grief.

For you that is autumn right now. Winter will come for you to rest and heal. And so on spring will also come for you to be strong and welcome the new beginning that Life (universe) is having reserved for you.

You are the pile that doesn’t need a new beginning instantly after the heartbreak phase. So take your time that you need to pick up your strength to move on. Listen to yourself and the voice that is hidden in your heart. It is time to think about what you actually need in your life.

One day you shall shine like a bright star, but it is not today, for now.

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim #55: Feeding

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: recovery, vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker

happy 2 year anniversary to kane & jim~! hard to believe it's been 2 whole years since i started writing...

wrote while listening to melodies of refresh by tenno gabni

-

Kane woke and looked to the door. Just like every morning the past week, it was a normal door. No silver. No lock.

He changed and washed his face, creeping upstairs with the hesitancy of someone who knew he wasn’t allowed, despite knowing full-well that he was: Jim had made that clear. He felt too quiet, his ankles free of chains.

It was early morning, early enough that the sun hadn’t risen yet–that terrifying tell-tale glow didn’t shine from behind the curtains. Jim wouldn’t be awake for hours, resting upstairs while Kane slunk around in the dark, in his own house.

Kane couldn’t fathom how much trust that must have required. He still couldn’t believe he’d earned that much.

The fact that Jim was still feeding him his own blood was a miracle in itself. He’d given a time limit of one month. One month for Kane to get used to freedom, to going out on his own, traversing society like a normal person after years as a prisoner. An adjustment period, Jim had called it, his mercies never-ending in the face of Kane’s fear of running to and from the border on his own.

There was no way Kane could ever repay it, not in a thousand years. But he at least had to try.

He turned the knob on the stove. It was something familiar, having owned a stove himself for heating up the contents of blood-packs in his time before he came to own Jim. Human stoves, like their food itself, were more complicated: four burners instead of one, all with dials offering various degrees besides just ‘on’ or ‘off’.

And it was something he hadn’t done since before.

The circle of flames flickered to life, blue and hot and threatening.

He quickly turned it back off, luckily managing to control his strength and not break the delicate knob.

Deep breaths, Jim had said, more times than Kane could count now. Look at me. You’re okay. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe here, remember?

Kane took a deep breath in, playing Jim’s soothing affirmations through his head, exhaling slowly. That’s it, there you go, the memory of Jim’s voice encouraged. You’re alright. No hurting.

After a few more of those, he turned the burner on again. The flames flicked back to life, and Kane watched them silently.

-

Jim woke, shook off the nerves, and marked another day off his calendar. Seven days down, twenty-one more to go, and then no one will take his blood ever again.

He could stop it now, if he wanted to. He knew he could. Kane hung on his every word like he was some kind of divine prophet. But once he stops, Kane has to start getting blood from vampire territory, and he’d have to talk to his parents to get the money to buy it… and it was too obvious he wasn’t ready.

Jim knew that feeling, going from years of captivity and isolation to suddenly being a person again. He knew how hard it was, even with support. There was no reason for Kane to have to rush into it immediately. The guy could barely go outside at night on his own he was so afraid, and he was a vampire. No, a month’s time would do him well.

Still. He couldn’t help but count the days until it was over.

As he stepped into his slippers and headed downstairs, he stopped in his tracks, hearing someone futzing around in the kitchen.

It was going to take Jim a while to get used to that, Kane roaming freely in his house. At night, even. He knew he could ask Kane to leave once he finds his bearings, but… despite the deep-seated terror, he knew he was safer with Kane here than without. Kane brought Laken home, after all. If any vampire came for him, Kane would save him, too. At least, he hoped so.

He continued down. “Kane?”

“Good morning!” came the cheery reply. That set Jim’s nerves at ease, at least. Right. Kane was friendly, now.

“Morning. You sleep okay?” Jim asked. As he made his way through the living room toward the kitchen, he noticed a distinctly… delicious smell. That couldn’t be right.

“Better! And you?” Kane appeared in the doorway, a big, fanged grin lighting up his face. It was a sight Jim had already long gotten used to by now, one that brought him pride instead of fear.

He shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. Hey, are you, uh… cooking?”

Kane held out a hand. “I am! Please come sit?”

Now he was smiling, too. “Haha, okay.”

Jim took his hand and let Kane lead him to the kitchen table, where a plate full of blueberry pancakes sat. They looked a bit off–undercooked, a little torn up–but the fact that they were there at all was astounding.

He sat down. “How did you even do this? You don’t cook.”

“I watched you,” Kane admitted sheepishly. “In the mornings. I really wanted to make you something, and I didn’t want to waste food by just guessing and doing it wrong, so I started paying close attention, and this seemed like the easiest thing to copy… are they okay?”

“Well, let’s see!” Jim cut into one– definitely undercooked. It oozed out around his knife, but Liz’s failed attempts at cooking had given him ample practice in this field. He popped it in his mouth without a care. “It’s great, Kane. Especially for your first time ever cooking anything. Thank you.”

Kane brightened up even further at the praise, sitting in the chair adjacent. “I know it’s not the same at all, but I wanted to feed you too, somehow. Like you feed me. I was wondering… if you could teach me to cook?”

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” Kane insisted. “I really, really do. But I don’t want to impose! I can always ask Laken.”

Jim cut away the less-done bits of the pancake he was working on, scooping up another bite. “Alright, if you’re really sure. Yeah, I can teach you. Doesn’t human food smell, like, really bad to vampires, though? Like it’s rotten or whatever?”

“I’ll manage.” Kane bore no obvious worry of the issue. Clearly, a bad smell was not something that registered to him as a concern any longer. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t until Jim had finished his breakfast and was about to get up that Kane spoke again, the smile fading from his face. “There was something else, actually.”

“Oh?” Jim put his plate and utensils back down.

Kane got down from his seat to kneel on the floor.

“Kane, buddy,” Jim said softly, sliding into that placating tone he always used when trying to calm the vampire down from one of his panics, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. It’s– it’s to show respect. Please.” As Kane looked up at him with those intense red eyes, Jim could see no fear at all.

“Well, okay then, I guess. What’s up?” he asked.

“I want to thank you. For everything,” Kane spoke carefully, as though each word was precious. Rehearsed. “For taking me away from the hunters. For not hurting me, even though you could have, even though you had every reason to. For helping me calm down when I panic. For feeding me, your own blood, even though it’s so hard for you, just so I wouldn’t starve. For giving me clothes and bedding and music and happiness again. You gave me my life back, but I owe you so much more than just my life. Because without you, I wasn’t dead, I was– I was there. And you saved me.”

Tears welled up in Kane’s eyes as he stared up reverent, overcome with emotion. “And I was thinking about all the times I’ve apologized to you, I was too afraid to do it right. I was just– I really was sorry, I’ve been sorry for a long, long time, but in those moments, I’ve always just been focused on not being hurt… but you would never hurt me. I see that now. Jim, I am so, truly sorry for hurting you. For every single time I hurt you, big and small, for those five years and since, I am so, so sorry. I was unimaginably cruel to you, and no one deserves that, but especially not you. I know that back then I told you the opposite, but I was wrong. You deserve to be happy! And I took that from you.”

Kane placed a hand over his heart. “And I swear to you, I will make it my life’s mission to give you back that happiness. I am loyal to you, Jim. Forever.”

He put his hand down. “That–that’s all. Thank you for listening.”

Jim sat in silence for a moment, absorbing it all. Wasn’t this why he’d originally taken Kane in? Wasn’t that the excuse he’d used– he wanted Kane fear-free enough to have an actual discussion about back then, without him devolving into a terrified, sobbing mess? He could do that, now. How long had he been waiting to hear Kane admit that he hadn’t deserved it after all? Fifteen years?

Oh, he was so unprepared for this conversation. He needed all kinds of psyching-up before they could have that talk.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Kane added quietly. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Right. Yeah,” Jim said, snapping out of it. Just because Kane was ready didn’t mean it had to be now. It could be any time, when he was ready, too. “That’s… wow. Hey, it’s okay,” he tried, far more comfortable comforting Kane than the other way around. He grabbed a tissue, handing it to him. “I mean, not the–not what you did. I mean it’s okay now. Um, thanks, is what I mean, I guess. For really apologizing.”

Kane wiped his eyes. “It’s the absolute least I could do. Everything I have is something you’ve given to me. Nothing hurts anymore.”

“Good.” His sincerity brought a smile to Jim’s face. “You know, maybe cooking isn’t the best idea if you’re afraid of burns? It’s not gonna happen every time, but even I get myself once in a while. Just thought I should warn you.”

“You give me blood,” Kane pointed out. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. “Plus, you’ll be there. Right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.” Jim patted him on the shoulder.

Kane smiled back up at him. “Then I’ll be okay.”

-

taglist in reblogs

[sunbearsophia]

"It didn't need to be this way, Surge. I would've drowned the world if you'd asked me to. Now? ... I'll just drown you along with it."

___

Been a hot minute since I've used Tumblr for posting, and since I've been focusing on Sonic a lot more lately, figured I'd share a bit about my new Chaosunami AU! Summary and bonus doodles beneath the cut!

Might make it a full fanfiction at some point, but for now, to sum up the AU, Kit ends up absorbing Chaos himself, gaining the near infinite strength and powers that goes with him, while also breaking free of his programming from Dr. Starline, no longer bound to the hypnotism and personality rewrites he'd gone through, and breaking the mental and emotional chains he'd been attached to Surge with.

But with that comes Chaos' emotional instability, and the easy corruption of what was meant to maintain balance. Kit's deeply buried anger and resentment at what had been done to them- done to him- rose to the surface, and seeing clearly for the first time in his rewritten life, he could see how Surge, his only friend in the world, essentially his sister had treated him just as much as a tool as their tormenter Dr. Starline had. Everything he had he gave to her, and everything he did he did for her, all to be useful to her, all to earn back a scrap of the love and devotion he gave to her, and even knowing how little of a choice he had in the matter, Surge took advantage of that, and even with their freedom, never saw him as a friend or even an equal. She certainly never showed it, never more than dangling the possibility of her caring about him in front of his face to use him as a weapon.

Through symbiotically merging with Chaos, Kit is changed, and he is pissed.

From there, it's a race to stop Kit from gathering the Chaos Emeralds for himself, to keep him from flooding and destroying the world that either abused or abandoned him. Sonic, Tails & Knuckles are certainly determined to stop him, as well as save him and Chaos both and see the Master Emerald and Angel Island restored. But in order to reach whatever reason that's left inside of Kit and Chaos both, they'll need help, both from the spirit of Tikal, and Surge.

But Kit's far beyond letting Surge, Starline or anyone dictate his life or make a fool out of him. Him and Chaos are one in the same now, and the past must be paid for. If he has to drown this world and put an end to the cycle that created him in order to finally know peace, he's prepared to do that...

... isn't he?

___

BONUS DOODLES BECAUSE I PROMISED THOSE!

In case it's hard to read!

S: "Kit, what the hell are you doing? This wasn't our plan-!"

K: "There is no our anymore, ma'am. I see now there never was an us. There's no use pretending you ever saw me as an equal."

Part of me wants to make either a whole comic or animatic based on these two in the AU, but for now, just made these doodles to show Kit's done relying on Surge for his strength, now bound to Chaos, and broken free from being programmed to her beck and call, and "Drippy" is no longer going to be Surge's designated punching bag.

Rough concept sketch I did of a Perfect Chaosunami idea, basically what happens if/when Kit gathers all the Emeralds. For context, he doesn't necessarily transform into this, but makes this form out of the ocean he's now in total control of, and pilots it from where Chaos' brain would normally be. Also didn't want to straight up recycle the original Perfect Chaos, and essentially wanted to make a manifestation of Kit's internal agony and sorrow. (The Kaiju from Ultraman Rising was a HUGE inspiration here, and wanted to give it more of an octopus/bird-esque appearance.

[ultfreakme]

Jay, Jon, and Anger: Meta on emotional expression and how it's defined by who you are.

Had a really fun discussion on the Supertruth server about JayJon, Superfam, and their relationship with anger. So kind of summarizing it all here.

If you've noticed during SOKE(and pretty much every Jon appearance during/after the SOKE era), Jon is rarely afraid to show his vulnerabilities. He cries, he seeks comfort, and he is kind of bad at hiding his fear and sadness. Meanwhile, Jay is rarely emotional. You can count on one hand how many times Jay has shown emotional vulnerability.

But what Jon has refused to show, and what Jay often shows with an amount of honesty, is anger. As my friend @bonitacita said; they're two side of the same coin, hiding the things the other shows.

Jon Kent: Anger is inhumanity

Jon rarely lets himself feel anger. He gets impulsive, he gets close to it, but he never lets it linger. He doesn't even allow himself to be fully angry with his internal thoughts, always attaching caveats and forcing himself to slow down.

This is because Jon, first and foremost, is afraid of his powers and what he is. This has existed during his childhood and follows him till now, his fear and confusion about what he is and his place in the universe is what prompted him to take the trip with Jor-El. You can see the panic he feels when he's out of control in SOKE, and the tight leash he has on his powers. Jon's specialty isn't just lightning, it's precision. It's always been the strength he earned and honed for himself.

Jon's fear of himself stems from former experience, where he has been seen as a threat, a weapon, or just an abomination by others (Damian, Savior Tim, Manchester Black, Eradicator). Kryptonians are powerful, they can flip the world if they want to, but Jon is emphasized as a worse threat than the others because of his half-human and half-kryptonian biology. Even among the Kryptonians, he's a bit of a freak. His powers are potentially greater than Clark's and he has been constantly told he is going to blow one day, or he will be used by others like a weapon if he isn't careful enough(Manchester Black, and now Waller).

Jon inspires fear by merely existing. It was a thing he had to tackle with constantly in SOKE, framed as dangerous and a rogue agent. This perception only gets worse with things like the Blue Earth movement. It's been hammered into him over and over again that he is 1) extremely powerful 2) dangerous 3)capable of inspiring great fear.

Hell he's even seen a future where he loses control and just blows up Metropolis.

Jon has also witnessed first-hand, painfully, what an angry 'Superman' can make people feel because most of his formative years was ruled by this guy:

He also saw injustice!Clark, who let his personal emotions guide the way he did his superman-work and it led to INJUSTICE.

Anger= BAD. He suppresses his anger so much, it manifests as another freaking power. Right after these panels, Jon says "I feel it raging inside me, feel it taking hold, something I've been holding back"- And THIS is when the lightning comes out and he shouts out against Ultraman. This is Jon's biggest show of his rage (so far).

But in most instances, he pushes it down, that's his norm. He lets himself show his vulnerabilities because there is no danger attached to sadness or fear the way it is for anger. Tears are allowed because it's not going to make anyone fear him and he is given freedom to express there. But anger? Anger, he must control as tightly as his powers, no matter the cost because he cannot, and will not be the monster people keep wanting for him to be.

Jay Nakamura: Anger is power

Jay has never shown his emotions in a completely open manner. He always wears a mask to hide his vulnerabilities, using witty quips and sarcasm to get by. But most of all, he is angry. It's this silent, persistent anger he wields through the aforementioned sarcasm and dry humor.

He's jaded. Gamorra is a country that's been colonized for a large part of its history and he is one teenager against an international dictator and now, the US government. He comes off as a little callous, rude. His reporting on Bendix is often very pointed and sharp. He didn't really find a need to hope, the Superman brand of it, until Jon.

Jay is angry, but unlike Jon, his anger means nothing to others.

He doesn't have the power to take on his oppressors on his own, and he is very aware of this. Jay's plights, and the plights of his people, are simply not taken seriously on their own because without the power to back it up, Jay's rage cannot impact them.

This also becomes important because Jay's powers are honestly nothing to scoff at. He IS powerful in a way, he can stand his grounds against a kryptonian if he tried. But he is also a Gamorran, a guy from a country that's been exploited and controlled. Due to his identity as a Gamorran citizen, he will be looked down upon, questioned, labelled 'terrorist'. The world is primed to look down on him because of colonization, so the lack of acknowledgement of his struggles, his emotions and the power his anger can hold against people like Bendix and Waller, makes people dismiss Jay as a threat.

Jay does not have the inhibitions Jon does wrt power.

He's willing to get his hands a little dirty(he never admitted to exactly what he did with The Revolutionaries, but it was 100% shady, and he does not plan on apologizing for it). His anger is seen most prominently in SOKE when he's talking to Jon here:

This is one of the few times we see Jay's cool smirk change into genuine emotion, into anger. Unlike Jon, he lets it be and uses it as a tool in creating The Truth. He uses it to convince Jon and also point out that Jon's overstepping Gamorrans by taking charge on a struggle that wasn't his to take control on.

Additionally, Jay has NEVER shed a single goddamn tear on-page. Jon has cried like 5 times but Jay? Nope. This is because while anger isn't even acknowledged when it comes from the oppressed speaking out against their mistreatment and discrimination, sadness and tears and showcase of vulnerability is an immediate weakness. It's something to exploit.

Jay's already the underdog, he cannot afford to be weak. He can't have vulnerabilities because if he dares show them, it will be used against him. Bendix did this by using Sara, now Waller is doing it again by killing Sara and threatening Jon to get Jay(and vice versa tbh). Anything other than cool stoicism and control is an opening for others to attack.

He'll allow for people to think of him as a threat, an asshole perhaps, a snarky bastard, because at least there is power in being seen as dangerous. The funniest part is people like Bendix or Luthor dismiss Jay's anger- Bendix didn't even realize his regime was being toppled by Jay until the final few issues. His anger IS powerful all on its own, but unacknowledged until a person with privilege like Jon comes in(he's white, he's Superman's son, he's considered an American citizen). Jay set up all the dominoes, Jon just gave a push.

The meaning of anger

Anger means different things for different people. For Jon it is decidedly bad, for Jay it is helpful, and the meaning of it is defined, in the end, by who you are and what you choose to do with it.

We can see why Jon and Jay use it in the ways they do over here, kinda succinctly summarized by Clark and Lobo:

Clark has been raised to see anger as an ineffective form of expressing anything. He doesn't manage it, or deal with it. He pushes it down the way Jon does. It simmers on the surface for Clark, but he does not feel anything positive about experiencing it. Meanwhile Lobo, a Czarnian who lbr, has been treated poorly because he is Czarnian, says anger is something you should face. It's two people, without their worlds, discussing what anger means to them. One who has belonging, who fits into the perfect model of human privilege and currently has a proper support system and community. The other, a solo rider in space who looks and acts in ways considered crass, who does not have the support that Clark does.

It's considered irrational if you express anything with screaming and anger. Any argument you put forth is dismissed because anger from the marginalized like POC, the queer community, etc., is seen as 'tantrums'. These emotions are not considered valid. But when anger comes from a place of power and privilege, it is taken seriously. Which is why people like Clark and Jon think of anger as a bad thing, while it comes from a need to control their power, it is also a matter of privilege. Their distress is taken seriously.

Meanwhile Jay was raging and shouting to the world for YEARS, but Bendix took notice only when Jon angrily barged into his office. Jay's genuine distress was not taken seriously because he isn't privileged enough, He has to present Gamorra's situation with an objective calm. Hell even he does so, even if he does everything to climb into some level of power, he gets dismissed the second his identity is seen

To conclude:

For Jon, anger is what's going to make people see him as a monster. The world watches him with anticipation, always a little scared he's gonna lose control. He will suppress it, come what may.

For Jay, anger is one of the few things keeping him going. It means nothing to the people who look down on him, so who the fuck cares if he feels it? He'll use it.

[idkyetxoxo]

Sixteen | Allure | The Last Kingdom

"Train me to be as formidable as you, I want to be hailed as undefeatable," 

"Is that what they say about me, that I'm undefeatable?" 

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───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

The journey to Aethelflaed's estate stretched out, a winding path through time and landscape. Along the way, I found myself delighting in the subtle art of teasing Sihtric, punctuating the journey with playful gestures. A coy tug of my lip, a deliberate sway of my hips upon the horse. Each motion seemed to ensnare him further, his gaze fixed, a knowing smirk playing upon his lips.

As we reached the familiar grounds, I dismounted with a light heart, greeted by the radiant presence of Stiorra. Unlike young Uhtred, she didn't despise me and my heathen ways. She welcomed me without reservation. Her likeness mirrored that of her parents, a reflection of beauty and strength intertwined.

"My favourite little one," I murmured affectionately, releasing Stiorra from our embrace. Her response was a scowl, directed not at me but at the sarcastic quip from Uhtred, who urged her to greet her father. With playful defiance, I stuck my tongue out at him.

"She clearly favours me," I teased, a smirk playing at my lips, as Uhtred scoffed in response, his scepticism thinly veiled. Yet, Stiorra's wink spoke volumes, a silent testament to the bond between us.

The arrival of Aldhelm cast a shadow over our reunion, heralding grim tidings. Aethelred's fate hung precariously in the balance, the absence of a succession plan leaving the estate shrouded in uncertainty. With a heavy heart, Uhtred instructed Stiorra to safeguard the children.

"How much longer must I remain a prisoner?" Stiorra questioned, her voice tinged with longing for freedom. In the hushed confines of the estate, her plea echoed like a whispered prayer.

"When he leaves I promise I will teach you how to wield a weapon just do as you are told for now," I whispered into her ear. Eagerly, she nodded, her resolve unyielding as she ushered the children into safety.

"If your words to her involve your peculiar brand of darkness, I object," Uhtred interjected, his concern etched upon his brow. In response, I silenced him with a gentle gesture, a finger pressed against my lips and he rolled his eyes.

As Uhtred and Aethelflaed prepared to depart with Aldhelm for the Witan in Aegelesburg, a solemn air settled over the estate.

"Do not worry, I'll keep a watchful eye over the children," I reassured Aethelflaed, my voice a whisper as she bid farewell to her daughter. A playful jab at the competence of Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric elicited laughter from Aethelflaed "I'm far more capable than that bunch in there" I added as she kissed Aelfwynn one last time.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

Stiorra and young Uhtred lingered outside, engaged in conversation with Aelfwynn, while Osferth and Aethelstan shared a quiet moment together. Meanwhile, Sihtric, Finan and I sat together as the men indulged in some game with cups. 

A burst of laughter escaped me as Sihtric's expression twisted in surprise when the last cup revealed nothing underneath. I ran my fingers through Sihtric's hair as he leaned back towards me humming in response earning a groan of frustration from Finan.

"Can't you two save this for another time when I'm not around?"Finan lamented, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes rolling dramatically. His words prompted a mischievous grin to spread across my face.

"Go back to your constant bickering and flirting with everyone but each other," he added, his tone tinged with mock irritation.

"One day, you'll find someone," I teased, a smirk playing on my lips. "She might be a bit miserable, but I'm sure you'll manage to keep her trapped." My comment elicited a scowl from Finan, and I couldn't help but laugh at his exaggerated reaction.

"Very funny," he muttered, shaking his head. "You know, not everyone understands this constant love-hate thing you two have going on."

In a swift move, Sihtric intercepted, taking my hand and pressing a gentle kiss to it. His gaze locked with Finan's in a silent challenge as he completed the action, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You see, Finan," Sihtric said softly, his voice carrying a hint of mock seriousness, "some of us know how to appreciate what we have." He glanced at me, his eyes filled with warmth and mischief, before turning back to Finan.

Finan threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I give up. There's no winning with you two."

I laughed again, the sound light and carefree. "That's the spirit, Finan. Now, how about some ale? We can toast to your future miserable lady love," I suggested, raising an eyebrow at him.

Finan's scowl melted into a reluctant grin. "Fine, but only if it means I don't have to witness any more of this... whatever this is," he said, gesturing between Sihtric and me.

Before we could move Stiorra sauntered into the room rocking back and forth on her heels, her movements a clear dance of anticipation. "Yes my love?" I inquired, prompting a swift reaction from both Finan and Sihtric, their attention snapping to me like magnets.

"You've never addressed anyone with anything other than their name or an insult," Finan interjected, his tone a blend of curiosity and surprise. Stiorra's smirk widened at the revelation, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes as I laughed.

"Stiorra is deserving everyone else is not," I quipped, redirecting my focus to her. Her request hung in the air, a reminder of my promise earlier. With a nod, I rose, Sihtric's groan of protest falling on deaf ears as he moved forward to grab my hips from behind pulling me back towards him.

"Lesson one," I announced with a hint of amusement, seizing Sihtric's hands from my hips. In one swift motion, I executed a manoeuvre, flipping his body over and sending him crashing to the floor. 

His groan echoed through the room as Finan and Stiorra erupted into laughter. Sihtric lay sprawled on the floor, his protests drowned out by the chorus of laughter.

With a gleeful abandon, he rolled about, his movements a blend of exasperation and amusement. The infectious energy of the moment enveloped me, compelling me to join in the laughter. 

I blew Sihtric a kiss before wrapping my arms around Stiorra's shoulders, guiding us outside into the crisp air of the estate grounds.

We had spent the last half-hour sparring, with me imparting the basics to Stiorra. As we progressed to more intricate manoeuvres, it became apparent that frustration was creeping into her movements.

"Maintaining your composure is key, letting frustration guide your actions will only hinder your progress," I advised gently as her sword clattered to the ground in defeat.

"I just want to be as skilled as you and my father," she confessed, her voice tinged with longing. Placing my own sword beside hers, I reassured her, "With Uhtred's blood coursing through your veins, you'll become a fearsome warrior."

"After all, Uhtred and I were trained by the legendary Earl Ragnar," I remarked with a smile reminiscing. Stiorra's determination shone brightly as she expressed her aspiration to match my skill level.

"Train me to be as formidable as you, I want to be hailed as undefeatable," she declared earnestly. Her ambition sparked laughter from me. "Is that what they say about me, that I'm undefeatable?" I quizzed with a hint of amusement, earning a resolute nod from Stiorra, her conviction unwavering.

Grinning with satisfaction, I affirmed, "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be the next incarnation of me." Her smile widened as she enveloped me in a hug, our bond strengthening with each passing moment. Resting my chin on her head, I savoured the closeness between us.

As we embraced, I glanced outside and caught sight of men in the distance.

"Stiorra, Aelfwynn inside, now!" I commanded, ushering the two girls indoors while motioning for young Uhtred and Aethelstan to join us. As we gathered within the safety of the walls indoors, I relayed what I saw.

"There are men riding up towards the gate," I announced, prompting a swift reaction from Finan and Sihtric. With a sense of urgency, I retrieved my daggers, concealing them upon my person as best I could.

Stiorra stepped forward "I have a plan," she announced. Scepticism clouded my expression as she allocated hiding spots for everyone.

"And you?" Sihtric inquired, his gaze fixed on me. Running my fingers through my hair in frustration, I grappled with the decision. "I believe they've already spotted me. I won't hide. Besides, I refuse to leave Stiorra to defend herself if anything goes wrong," I asserted, determination lacing my words. 

Sihtric nodded in understanding before planting a kiss on my lips and retreating to his designated hiding spot upstairs.

Taking a seat on the empty chest, I watched as Stiorra confronted the men at the gate asking if they were lost, her demeanour unwavering.

"We've come to take Aelfwynn to Aegelesburg," the man declared, his voice resolute. Seizing the opportunity, I interjected, informing him "She's already been taken to Winchester by Uhtred, my brother."

As the man's gaze bore into me with suspicion, I met his scrutiny with a disarming smile. With a directive to search the grounds, the men scoured every nook and cranny, their scrutiny palpable.

Clasping Stiorra's trembling hand in mine I pulled her towards me, I stood my ground as the man's glare intensified. "You ought to stop looking at me and my niece like we're animals" I warned, my voice tinged with defiance. Though his gaze remained fixed, his men found nothing of note.

"Thank you kindly for your thorough search, gentlemen," I muttered under my breath as they departed through the gates, their dissatisfaction evident.

Stiorra turned towards me, her eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and determination. I offered her a reassuring smile before another resounding bang against the gates shattered the tranquillity of the moment. 

"Inside," I directed urgently, watching as she darted into the safety of the estate while I instinctively drew my dagger, its glint promising protection.

With caution, I approached the gates, poised for confrontation, only to be greeted by the unexpected sight of Uhtred. "Oh," I muttered sheepishly, as he entered the estate grounds with a furrowed brow.

As we congregated in the entryway, Stiorra recounted the encounter with the men to Uhtred, his expression shifting from concern to calmness. Relieved, I stowed away my dagger, my focus now on the exchange unfolding before me.

A sudden commotion jolted us from our conversation and Uhtred instinctively pushed Stiorra and me behind him. However, our fears dissolved as Sihtric descended from the second floor with a mischievous grin. 

"You idiot," I chided, albeit with a hint of amusement, delivering a swat to his stomach as everyone else emerged from their hiding places, their relief evident in their smiles.

"Looks like you've got quite the clever one here," Finan remarked, tousling Stiorra's hair affectionately as I shared a knowing wink with her. 

With the threat averted, we busied ourselves with preparations, gathering our belongings in anticipation of our journey to Ceaster.

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

Finan and Sihtric duo >> 🤩

[heedmywarnings]

1

--

What a nice surprise. You definitely haven't been in this situation before, and if you do then you must be schizophrenic.

Let me introduce myself, I am the Narrator and today you find yourself in an unfamiliar environment. Spooky, right? Need not worry, I will guide you through this journey. Let us begin.

--

So dear, Reader. You wake up with no items, only some leather clothing and a cloak on your body. How odd! Well, the first thing you should do is go to to a civilization, right? So let's go straight ahead to the City of Wine and Freedom, Mondstadt.

The walk was peaceful, lush green sceneries all around it was very nice, you also saw many flowers and odd creatures. A stone bridge beholds itself to you, and the great city presents itself. No time like the present, let's get you situated inside the city.

Two guards greeted you, one asked you the purpose of your visit. Hm, well, considering you have just been... "born" a few moments ago, you don't really know the purpose of your life, let alone the purpose of your visit, right?

But I, as the Narrator, shall fill you in with a small advice. "Lying!" It can help you in situations, and oh no no, don't come at me with these stupid policies! I only want what's best for you.

"I-I'm just a traveler.. my sister.. she- she lives here and I wanted to.. visit her."

Not a great liar yet, huh? That's fine! Let's see how the guard reacts...

The Knight looks at you with slight suspicion, especially after seeing you with no baggage. The Knight excused you as a runaway.

Phew, a close call, huh? It's a good thing Mondstadt is very welcome. Truth be told, you are a terrible liar, looks like you need to level up your CHARISMA! Right now, you're at level one. It's fine, there are various of ways to earn exp.

Ah! How nice it is to be in Mondstadt. I haven't been here in ages-! Oh! That reminds me, you need to find work. What? You can't just come to me whenever you need the mora, no gain no pain!

Hm. There is much to do, and much to work at in Mondstatd. Maybe a bar? There's many of those here- but you're quite young and you shouldn't be exposed to such an atmosphere...

Ooh! I know, why don't you work at Good Hunter? Like a part-time job or something. Yes, yes! That will get you some experience.

Now, come with me just go forwards up these stairs- oh, to your left, yes! That's Good Hunter!

"Excuse me, miss... is it possible for me to work here?"

Sara, the woman tending to the shop looms at you for a moment before speaking...

"Ah, well. We do need the extra help in delivering the goods to customers. Sure kid, welcome aboard."

Congratulations on your first job! Now you cam earn mora and trav to the different parts of Mondstadt, that's such an opportunity!

Time for your first day, let's see.. oh! We need to go to Springvale to deliver this Calla Lily Seafood Soup to a hunter named Alan. Off we go then!

--

After an eventful day, we finally finished work. Well, it was just a four hour shift but still quite eventful. You'll be paid every week, seems like your leading a stable life already.

Oh? Seems like you've leveled up! Let's level up a skill, shall we?

Next Page...

[sheepwithspecs]

Freedom of Choice

|| FFXIV || Rated G || XIVRarepairWeek2024 ||

Ao3 Link

He was an idealist, she was a realist; can I make it any more obvious?

Day 1: Fated Arenvald x Fordola

“I wish you’d turn out that light.”

Arenvald turned his attention from the creased parchment in his hands, peering through his bangs at his sullen bedmate. Fordola had her face buried in one of his spare pillows, both arms burrowed beneath it as though she planned to smother herself in the soft featherdown. “Some of us are trying to sleep,” she added, her trademark scowl evident in every muffled word. At that moment, the midnight bell chimed low and strong from the chronometer.  

“Sorry, sorry.” Smiling patiently, he refolded the parchment and tossed it onto the bedside table. “It’s only that Alphinaud’s letters are always so interesting,” he explained, adjusting his legs with painstaking care before shoving a pillow beneath them. Pillows and cushions had come to be indispensable in the months since his accident, being one of the easiest ways to prevent pressure sores. He was on his way to becoming something of a connoisseur, gathering castoffs from all over Ala Mhigo in order to gauge the quality of the fabric, the firmness, the moldability, even the strength of the stitching. Fordola made no mention of his growing stash, though perhaps that was because she seemed to prefer using him as a pillow instead.

“He’s going to the New World soon,” Arenvald settled the bedclothes over his legs with a heartfelt sigh. “Tural, he said. I’m almost jealous… I wish I could go.”

“Then go,” Fordola grunted, peering at him from beneath her elbow. “Put that linkshell of yours to use and tell him you’re coming along for the ride.”  

“I could go, I suppose,” he mused, lacing his fingers on his stomach. “It’s not as though I’m bound by any real authority, not like when I was a Scion. And it’d be nice to travel again; exploring the star, meeting new people, delving into ancient ruins or scaling mountains in search of adventure…. But I’m better off staying here. There’s still plenty to do for Ala Mhigo, not to mention the former Skulls and their families. The Silver Griffins need me now more than ever.”  

“Glad that’s settled. Turn out the light.”

“Besides….” Arenvald grinned. “I’d much rather wait until a certain someone can come along, too.”

“It might take a long time, if you’re banking on me.” She gave up the pretense of sleep, rolling onto her side to face him. “Who knows when they’ll see fit to set me free, if they care to at all. Time means nothing to a gaoler.”

“If you ask me, you’re one of the few things in my life worth waiting for.”

“Hmph.”

Arenvald couldn’t bring himself to voice the full truth: the thought of being so far away from her, even for a day, was almost too much to bear. The Resistance soldiers already joked that they were nigh inseparable, with Fordola serving as a volunteer for the Silver Griffins as well as his unofficial bodyguard in the field.

There were, of course, those who found their relationship less than palatable, snide whispers and sidelong glances. The bastard and the butcher. There were those who insisted that Fordola must have seduced him, perhaps employing some Garlean technological trick that kept him in her thrall. Others were more simple in their hatred, calling her a whore and him a whoreson in the same breath. They weathered the insults in stride, her raging fire the fuel for his diplomatic tongue.

At their core, they were the same—children of Ala Mhigo. His half-Garlean blood had left him no better off than her efforts to earn their favor. In Garlean eyes, they were savages; to Gyr Abanians, they were traitors. If his lot in life was easier, it was only due to the fact that he’d arrived on the winning team, so to speak. It was strange to think that in another life he might have been a Skull, or she a Scion.

“Do you think—” he began, the thought sparking an idea, “that if things had happened differently—if our lives had been different, I mean—would we have still ended up like this?”

“What are you going on about now?” she huffed. “I thought we were talking about the New World.”

“I know, but listen. Remember that time after your father died, when you had a chance to run away from Ala Mhigo and start a new life with the refugees? What if you had? Or what if I had never left the city, and instead I’d joined up with the Skulls when I was older, or… or anything else, really. Do you think we’d have still found one another, even if things were different?”

Fordola stared at him without a word, lips parted in utter disbelief. After a moment she fell back to the pillow with a groan, rubbing her eyes with the heels of both palms.  

“Probably not?! What the hells kind of question is that?!”

“You don’t think we’re meant to be?”

“No! No one’s meant to be!” she snapped, gracing him with her best snarl. Her brows were furrowed deep enough to nearly meet over her nose, lips twisted almost comically in her annoyance. “There’s no such thing as soulmates or what have you; it’s all a heap of rubbish! That’s the sort of tripe spouted off by poets with no more common sense than a dodo two days from the axe.”

“But what about fate? Destiny? You don’t believe in that?”

“Tch! Of course not!” Fordola sat up, looming over him with a stern glare. “Fate’s nothing but a bloody myth. People do things because they want to, not because the stars are aligned. Rhalger himself could tell me otherwise and I still wouldn’t believe a single word. I’m here because I choose to be here, and no other reason. The only one in charge of my destiny is me. Now turn off this godsdamned light and stop asking silly questions!”

She lunged across the bed before he could move, arms straining to reach as she forcefully clicked the lantern shut, dousing the flame within and throwing the room into darkness. He blinked the spots from his eyes, waiting until she rolled back to her side of the bed before venturing to speak.

“Do you know what I think?”

“For fuck’s sake— No, I don’t know, and I don’t care to. Go to sleep!”

“I think that in every world, all the parts of you and all the parts of me… we always find one another, no matter what.”  

“Well, Ithink your friends are a bunch of liars. I’ll believe in other worlds when I see them for myself, and not a day before.”

“I think we knew each other before, when there was only one world. I think even in the Final Days we were together. I think—”

“Arenvald!” He fell silent, heart beating strong with conviction. Now that the thought had taken root in the forefront of his mind, it was nearly impossible to ignore. Maybe this was part of the Echo, the memory of what once-was. Maybe Fordola didn’t feel the same way because the Resonant was not built with such capabilities in mind. Or maybe she was right, and he was just being ridiculous. But even so—

He was startled from his thoughts by cool fingers on his chin, turning his head with a gentle touch that belied his partner’s strength. She placed a clumsy kiss on the corner of his mouth, the barest flutter of lips, before resting her cheek on his chest.

“If it makes you feel better to think that way, go ahead and believe it,” she sighed, the breath tickling his sternum. “But don’t get upset when I call you a fool.”

“I think—” He wormed his arm beneath her, pulling until she was flush to his side. Even in this way, they seemed to fit together so well…. “I think that’s just my way of saying that I’d choose you in every lifetime, too.”

“Hmph. That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what you meant, though, isn’t it?” Arenvald smirked. He could practically feel the full force of her blush, hot as an iron against his bare skin. “Isn’t it? Fordola?”

“… Shut up and go to sleep.”   

[jedi-order-apologist]

A Sith's Promises (Lead Down a Dark Path)

Daal is sick of being afraid, and the medallion offers her a way out. Written for Fandom Empire Mahjong 2024 - Prompt: Courage/300 words and Star Wars 100 - Prompt: Freedom

Read on AO3

Daal has known fear all her life. It rules the workhouse, a looming threat of punishment if they do not work, if they don’t work enough, if the work is unsatisfactory, if anything goes wrong. The worst is when illness tears through the crowded bunkers they sleep in, leaving too many unable to work, and the rest, coughing, sneezing, trembling, and dizzy to scramble to pick up the slack.

No one can afford to show any weakness, but Daal feels helpless, sometimes, and she’s sick of it.

There’s freedom out there, she just needs an opportunity to take it.

She finds that opportunity in the medallion.

Of course, she knows it’s not the medallion itself that speaks to her, guides her, promises her freedom if only she is strong enough to take it. There’s a person behind those words, a person who tells Daal of carving her own path to freedom. Trust is not something she can easily give, especially to one unseen, but…Daal wants. She wants for it all to be true, to earn her right to a better life. The things the voice speaks of, not just material things, but respect, and power, luxuries Daal can scarcely imagine, spark in her mind and call to her deepest desires.

A life, without fear. That’s all that Daal wants. That’s what the voice promises her.

But Daal must prove herself, first. She must face tests if she is truly to follow the path to freedom. She must become strong.

Strength, and courage, the voice tells her. These are the only things that matter. When you face your own mind, what else will you have? And if you lack strength, if you lack courage, then you have nothing but the weakness of your own mind.

And Daal must be strong.

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 2.

Innocent Blood.

Tags: Darksiders, War x Reader, Strife x Reader, hurt/comfort, War makes a mistake and then immediately tries to make it better, thank god Y/n has waterproof mascara, the dress must remain unharmed.

Warnings: Whump, Blood, injury, descriptions of wound, threat, violence, vague explanations of sanitary products to two, massive Horsemen.

Summary: Trapped over the shoulder of a giant, you're taken on a trip across the Void, all the while having your privacy invaded, your humanity called into question, and your nerves completely and utterly frayed. You meet another stranger, but you aren't too sure that this one isn't even more terrifying than your captors.

----------

It is with an... admittedly puerile reluctance that War has to admit his brother may have been right about the little creature currently draped across his broad, left shoulder.

While it's possible you could belong to any number of species, it's becoming abundantly clear to him that you might not be a glamoured demon after all. No demon War has ever encountered has been this... helpless. Though a few have admittedly come close.

That isn't to say you haven't been putting up an admirable fight – thrashing wildly beneath his heavy gauntlet and striking at his back with your tiny fists. It's just that the strength behind your fight is pitifully ineffective.

When it becomes clear that pounding your fists against his shoulder won't convince him to put you down, you resort to using your little, rounded fingernails to scrabble uselessly and frantically at the thin layer of black leather he wears beneath his armour, accomplishing little else but to satisfy an itch that's been steadily working its way up his shoulder blade.

It would seem, to War, that it's in your nature to choose flight over fight.

Even now, you're far more preoccupied with the desperation to be free than you are with finding a solution to earn your freedom. You haven't caused a lick of damage to the Horseman. It's as if you aren't even trying to.

Nothing about your makes sense to War. He doesn't believe you're a human, not for a second, though he'll begrudgingly admit that you bear many similar features to one.

But if not a human... then what in the nine realms are you?

The only explanation he can fathom is that you must be hiding behind the magic of a glamour. If that's the case however, then you should have revealed your true form by now. He and his brother might have dealt any number of blows against you by now.

Why continue to hide?

It's a conundrum the hulking Nephilim continues to silently ponder over as he trundles along the path ahead of Strife.

Ever vigilant, War keeps his senses honed on the void around him, a tricky feat given that his ears can't quite tune out the very one-sided conversation taking place at his back.

His brother, it seems, has taken it upon himself to antagonise their unwilling tagalong by absconding with the strange, white satchel you'd been carrying over your shoulder.

The younger Horseman's lips curl into a frown, disgruntled by his brother's tendency to pilfer.

With unashamed nosiness, Strife plunges his curious fingers inside, rifling through your belongings whilst you slump defeatedly over War's shoulder, one of your elbows dug firmly into his back with your chin propped up on a palm.

At least you seem distracted into silence by Strife's thievery, sparing the younger Nephilim's ears from your piercing cries and pleas to be released. With every step War takes, he instead catches the gentle rustle of your dress next to his ear.

“So, you got a name, kid?” the gunslinger asks, pulling an unfamiliar coin from your satchel and holding it up in front of his helm for inspection, “You can call me Strife.”

The tangible blanket of quiet he's met with is enough of an answer in itself. Perhaps sensibly, it seems you don't trust either of them with your name.

War almost snorts aloud at your stubborn uncommunicativeness.

If there's one thing he's learned from travelling alongside his brother, it's that trying to ignore Strife is like trying to ignore a grenade exploding near your feet.

Inadvisable, and simply impossible.

“No name, huh?” Strife shrugs his armoured shoulders, entirely nonchalant as he drops the coin into the depths of your satchel once more and begins rooting around for other treasures, “All right. Suit yourself. I'm pretty good at namin' stuff. How'd you feel about... uhh... Princess?”

War registers a minuscule fist bunching itself into the fabric of his cloak.

“No?” his brother pries when it becomes clear the only response he'll receive is your tearful, exasperated glare, “Tiny, then? Half-pint? Little Lady-”

The younger Horseman can hardly blame you when, after only a few seconds of being subjected to Strife's incessant suggestions, you finally cut him off with a nervous bark. “- God, fine! It's Y/n. Happy?”

“Y/n Happy?” Strife snorts, lazily pulling a piece of lint from your bag and flicking it off his fingers, “That's a weird name.”

Bristling, you grit your teeth and shoot back, “It's just Y/n...”

War can already hear his brother's terrible joke before it even leaves his mouth.

“... Oh, well then. Pleased to meet you, Just Y/n.”

You really should have seen that one coming. Closing your eyes, you unclench your fists and press each palm smoothly against War's back, forcing out through tight lips, “Y/n...”

All at once, Strife's eyes light up and he thunks a gauntlet to his helm, disturbing the peace of the Void with a volatile 'clang' of metal on metal. “Oh! Y/n!” he exclaims, “... Why didn't you say so?”

Rolling his eyes, War steps easily over a yawning gap between two, floating boulders, at which point you make the mistake of glancing down, spotting the continuous drop into the mists far below you - a sight that pulls a murmur of alarm from your lips.

“So, Y/n,” Strife adds as he hops over the gap after War, apparently unwilling to let the very unbalanced conversation peter out, “You got a lot of weird stuff in here. No weapons though. Sorry, War!”

Up ahead, his brother merely grunts in reply, though he's privately assuaged by Strife's forethought to at least check.

“Say, what's this doohickey?”

Heaving a weary sigh, you tear your eyes off the ground below you and raise your head to see what the Horseman has plucked from your bag, giving the little, cotton tube a brief glance before you deadpan, “That's a tampon.”

Unable to resist the lure of curiosity, War turns his head to spare a look over his shoulder at the unassuming object, slanting one, silver brow as Strife holds it up and dangles it in front of his mask, pinching a tiny, blue string between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh... What's it do?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

A part of you is half convinced that you've somehow died and this is Hell. And Hell is apparently a place where you have to explain sanitary products to a couple of armoured giants.

Your mouth drops open and you blink dumbly at the silver-clad Horseman. “Are you serious?”

You've met some clueless men in your life, of course, but with these two, you suppose you shouldn't be surprised as to their ignorance.

You're still not entirely sure if they're human.

Lifting his shoulders, Strife gives you a noncommittal shrug. “I'm never serious,” he tells you seriously, then adds, “But yeah, I have no idea what this thing is.”

Eying him dubiously, you turn your face to the side and narrow your gaze, cautiously venturing, “They, um... absorb blood.”

Over your shoulder, War lets out a grunt. “Hemostatic dressing,” he says, nodding in apparent comprehension, “You carry one around with you everywhere you go?”

“You must get yourself hurt a lot, huh,” Strife adds as he drops the tampon back into your pilfered bag and instantly starts digging around inside for your other personal effects.

Pursing your lips, you raise your brows and mutter, “Oh yeah, at least once a month.”

The Horseman carrying you shifts his grip and clamps his hand more firmly against the back of your thighs, taking a far larger stride from one floating platform onto the next, unsurprised to feel you twist your fingers securely into his cowl when the ground drops away below you once more.

Perhaps you really are as weak as you look.

It's to your utmost dismay that the next object to be pulled free from your bag is a golden tube of lipstick. “Woah,” Strife remarks, fiddling around with it until he works out how to pop the lid off, tilting the tube towards his mask to squint down at the colourful stick of wax, “What's this do?”

“What, have you been living under a rock?" you respond, voice taut, "That's lipstick.”

“Lip stick? The hell's that?”

Vexed at his brother's ignorance, War gives his tongue a sharp, impatient click and spouts, “Clearly it is intended to fasten the lips of her enemies together, to prevent them from running their mouths.” After a brief pause, he turn his head to address you over his shoulder. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate its use on Strife.”

“Haa,” his brother chuckles wryly, “You'd like that, wouldn't you, tough guy? But which one of us is wearing a visor?”

As if in threat, spends a couple of seconds playing with the tube until he gives the bottom of it an experimental twist, successfully swivelling the lipstick up and halfway out of its casing before he aims the tube at the back of War's head, all of which you watch with rapidly dawning horror.

In spite of your sense of self-preservation, you fail to keep yourself from acting on an impulse.

“No!”

At once, to both of their surprise, your body jolts and you try to lunge forwards towards Strife, swiping an arm out as if to grab the stolen lipstick, but with a colossal gauntlet laying heavily across your thighs, you miss by a mile and end up collapsing back over War's shoulder, crying out, “Don't! Don't you dare waste that! That's Chanel! Delilah let me borrow it for today, she'll tear me to pieces if it gets ruined!”

“Relax, kid, I'm not gonna use it on you,” Strife says assuringly as he advances on his brother, “Just on War.”

“If you put your hands anywhere near my mouth, you'll lose your trigger finger,” War retorts flatly.

“Oh yeah?” Strife's golden eyes flare brightly with impish glee. “How're you gonna bite me if your lips are stuck together?”

“Th-that's not what it does!” you try to explain, struggling to get the words out fast enough, “It doesn't... I use it to turn my lips a different colour! That's it!”

To your relief, the lipstick's slow crawl towards the back of War's hood abruptly halts.

“Oooh...” Strife perks up, withdrawing his arm and snapping the fingers of his free hand. “Oh! Sounds like that stuff Fury uses to stain her lips. What's it called again?”

“Carmine,” War returns without hesitation.

Mouth agape, you stare apprehensively as the silver giant drops Delilah's precious lipstick back into your bag. Only once it's no longer in danger of being used as a weapon do you exhale the breath you'd unwittingly trapped inside your chest.

At least if you do manage to escape this, you won't have to worry about Cain's sister finishing what these two have started.

With a disgruntled shake of your head, you ask, “What are you two talking about? Who's Fury? A-and what the hell is carmine?”

Strife's eyes flash towards you just a little too eagerly, pleasantly surprised that you've asked.

“Fury's our sister!” he starts to tell you, only for War to cut him off with the answer to your latter question.

“-Carmine is extracted from the shells of bomb bugs and scarabs,” he mutters stonily, “She crushes them to extract the acid and and smears her lips with the remains.”

A palpable beat of silence stretches between the three of you. Slowly, you let your jaw creak open, brows twisting together. Then, when your expression adequately matches your revulsion, you let out a long, squeamish, “.. Eeeewww!!!”

The noise startles a laugh out of Strife, whilst War merely grunts his agreement. “Mm, I never did see the appeal in it myself.”

“How'd you know so much about Fury's lip staining habits anyway?” Strife asks.

The look he receives from the other Nephilim is cold enough to turn his blood to ice. “I do not wish to revisit the bleaker days of my youth...” War says slowly.

“... Oh yeah. I think I remember.” Throwing his head back, the older Horseman barks out another short laugh, resting his hands over his hips. “Death thought you two were tryin' to kill each other.”

“She was attempting to put insect viscera on my face. We were trying to kill each other.”

You're beginning to think you should have jumped off that rocky plateau while you had the chance.

“Hey,” Strife adds, his tone mockingly sympathetic, “At least you looked good in red, right?”

“One more word out of you, brother, and I shall stain my lips with your blood.”

Maybe if you could convince him to put you down for a second, you could still take that leap, on the off chance that this really is all a dream, and the sensation of falling will be enough to finally wake you up.

Apparently satisfied that he's managed to make the man carrying you nice and riled, Strife settles back into a lazy gait and hums pleasantly, raising his eyes to meet yours and tipping his head to the side like a curious bird. At least he stops pulling out your belongings, seemingly content for the time being to observe you instead, your bag dangling over one of his elbows. It'd be a comical sight if the straits weren't so dire.

Swallowing thickly, you lock your jaw tight and angle a watery stare at the uneven ground passing swiftly beneath the larger brother's boots. All the while, you can feel Strife's eyes sear the top of your head like a pair of burning suns.

He's studying you, and if you weren't so exhausted from your failed escape attempts, you'd probably have the sense to study him right back, perhaps search for any kind of weakness or a chink in his armour.

If it wasn't clear by size alone, the fact that War hasn't even vaguely struggled to keep you situated across his shoulder with a single hand is enough to convince you that you won't be forcing your way out of this mess. Apparently, you'll have to resort to using your brain... Which frankly doesn't infuse you with a lot of hope.

You couldn't even wrangle your way out of an unwanted wedding, how the Hell are you supposed to come up with a way to escape two, armoured titans?

Hopelessness is a heavy feeling. You bitterly hope it makes you heavier to carry, though War hasn't shown any signs that he's struggling to bear your weight as of yet.

It isn't long before your oddball kidnappers bring you to a curving stone staircase that sweeps and stretches in a spiral up towards yet another platform of rock floating high over your heads.

Sickly, green light spills over the lip of the steps, cast by some unseen source that originates from somewhere on the rock above you.

Ascending takes time, but even then, your stoic mode of transport doesn't even shift to adjust you in his grip.

Cain had once made a remark about putting his back out if he had to carry you over the threshold of your new home, but the man holding you now is as unimpeded as you would be carrying a feather. The strength in those muscles that ripple below your torso is terrifying.

You're jostled suddenly from your thoughts as War makes a wide step over a missing section of the stairs.

Your first clue that something isn't quite right is when hard, metallic fingertips gradually start to dig into your thighs through the dress until you wince, shifting around as if you could escape the pressure. Worried for the silk and tulle, you're just about to tell him to ease up when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a subtle change in Strife.

You don't like the way one of his hands has moved to rest languidly over the barrel of his pistol's holster, and for a gut-wrenching second, you wonder if you've done something to set them off, but the silver giant is no longer looking at you at all. His eyes are instead fixed on the platform you're steadily climbing towards.

Their sudden edginess only serves to whittle away at your flimsy backbone.

What could these titans possibly be worried about?

“Um... Where exactly are you taking me?” you gulp, subconsciously curling yourself a little more tightly around War's shoulder.

Strife's gaze doesn't shift from its unseen mark, even as he responds to you. “We're as much strangers in this place as you are, kid.”

At his admission, the darkness of the void seems to press in around you and you shrink even further into yourself, limbs too stiff with unease to reach up and tug your veil down over your face.

All too soon, War's stride leads you all over the top of the steps. He doesn't make it a metre from them before you're suddenly jerked in place as he stops dead in his tracks, body turning rigid as stone underneath your belly.

Strife however, stalks right past his brother and continues further out onto the rock until you lose sight of him altogether, unwilling to twist around to see past your captor's immeasurable bulk.

Facing back down the staircase, you're blind to whatever they have locked in their sights.

“Well, I was expecting Samael, but Horsemen..?”

Oh...

A new voice slithers into your ears, slow and shuddersomely cold, and you're instantly struck by the image of a snake flicking its forked tongue to taste the air around it.

“Things are getting interesting.”

It's the kind of voice that deters you from crying out to it for help.

You expect hostility from the two brothers. You even expect a fight to break out - They seem the type to be inclined. 

You certainly don't expect Strife to promptly greet the stranger in a manner that could be construed as borderline friendly.

“Hey! Vulgrim, right?” he asks, “The Soul-Eater? Dig the nickname.”

You beg to differ with his last statement. “The what?” you hiss, whipping your head left and right, as though you might catch a glimpse of the being who could earn such a horrifying nickname.

“Strife,” the voice greets in a slimy, rasping lilt that slides up your spine like chilly fingers, grating on your ear drums, “Like me, your reputation precedes you.”

You're suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent need to see the owner of the voice, if only because you don't think you can stand to have your back to it a moment longer.

Planting your palms against War's sturdy shoulder blade, you push your torso upright, straining your neck over a shoulder to try and catch even a glimpse of the newcomer.

The Horseman's unreasonably large pauldron obscures most of your vision, but what little you do manage to catch in the corner of your eye is enough to still the rattling breath in your lungs.

The crown of a head looms high above the Horsemen, adorned by a pair of black, crooked horns that jut forwards like prongs from its hooded headdress, though that's all you're able to see before War promptly gives his shoulder a rough shrug, dislodging your hands and sending you crashing chin-first into his back once again.

“Ow! What the Hell was that for!?” you complain, only to receive a gruff, “Quiet,” in response.

You realise too late that he may have been trying to keep you quiet for a reason.

“Oh? What's this?” the voice crawls over the airwaves towards you again, “Have you brought me a delicious morsel on which to feast?”

The muscles below you somehow grow even more rigid as War bristles, and the sensation of cold, unpleasant air whooshes against the exposed skin of your ankles. Whatever it is has just swooped closer.

“Mmm, how enticing,” it gushes, “And... Oh! How daring! I assumed they weren't to be touched.”

All of a sudden, War's body quakes below you under the force of his own, booming shout. “Keep your distance, wretch!”

You doubt his hostility is out of concern for your wellbeing.

The resounding chuckle is by far your least favourite noise to have left this newcomer's mouth.

“Pardon my curiosity,” it drawls as a shadow slowly creeps around War's shoulder, “It isn't every day I'm offered meat as rare as this...”

Stiffly, you twist your head sideways, your pulse hammering fit to bust when the familiar sight of those jagged, charcoal horns poke into view.

Stale air fills your lungs, drawn in by a quiet gasp as an awful, impossible countenance finally reveals itself.

What had Strife called it?

Vulgrim?

Well.... It's grim, all right.

Half cloaked in the shadows of its purple headdress, a ghastly, hellish face peers down at you from around War's bulging arm, gaunt and skeletal with sunken eye sockets, inside of which sit a pair of shrewd, devilish eyes that gleam the colour of envy.

Your throat is too tight to scream, but you manage to eke out a croak of abject terror as you sweep a glance over its face, taking in the dark cavity where a nose should be, and – far more alarmingly – the wide jaw that's stuffed so full of large and jagged fangs that they seem to spill out of its mouth, unhidden by any semblance of lips.

Its eyes lock with yours and that same mouth stretches into a lecherous grin, pulling at sallow, grey cheeks until the skin creaks in protest.

The... creature – for what else are you to call it? - parts its jaws to speak.

But you beat it swiftly to the punch.

“FUCK!” you promptly shriek, scrabbling sideways along War's back as best you can and keeping yourself at bay by digging the heels of your palms behind his spine, “What in the mother of FUCK!?”

That's not possible... It can't be possible.. That's... beyond the scope of your imagination, of your comprehension. You can only stare in dread at the monster leering down at you, your eyes burning with the absence of a blink.

'Vulgrim's' smile only grows wider.

“Vocal little thing,” he remarks, drifting backwards on a pair of leathery, vestigial wings when War shifts his weight around to face him again. Evidently, the Horseman is reluctant to let him get too close to his blind spot.

You however, find yourself facing the opposite direction once more, a fact that you vehemently loathe now that the creature is behind you again. What in God's name was that?

“How in the Nine Hells did you get your hands on a human?” Vulgrim continues as if you aren't currently flailing your legs to ward him away, “I thought the Council burned every path to the Third Kingdom. Not that I'm complaining, of course... I hear they're a delicacy.”

Your valiant efforts to yank yourself out from under War's colossal gauntlet is as fruitless as ever, yet still you try, your grunts and whimpers through gritted teeth the only sound that permeates the silent void.

You don't even notice how the air around you has grown charged with electric animosity.

Eventually, it's Strife who speaks up, and the dangerous growl in his tone is enough to stop your escape attempts.

“What'd you just say, demon?”

You fall deathly still as metal boots stomp across the stone, growing more ferocious with every step, like he's trying to cause the ground itself to crack through his weight alone. “Vulgrim, what the Hell did you just say!?”

To his credit, Vulgrim actually seems perplexed when he responds. “The... Council? They... destroyed-”

“- every path,” Strife brusquely interrupts, “Yeah, we know. Before that – you asked how we got our hands on a human.”

Tentatively, you boost yourself up on War's shoulder again to try and see what's happening past the ruffles of your dress.

“Yes, I did...?” Vulgrim draws out the answer, green eyes devoid of pupils darting between you and Strife, as if he's trying to connect a pair of crucial clues. “I fear I'm missing a point of some kind.”

You flinch again when War booms out, “Why claim she's a human?”

To this, the stranger almost sounds offended. “Well, I may not have the nose of a hound or a goreclaw, but I can assure you, I'd recognise the stench of a human anywhere...” He scowls at you disdainfully for a moment, sending you ducking your head to hide a bit further behind War's pauldron, “Even if it is disguised beneath that rancid, floral odour.”

Belatedly, you realise he must be talking about your perfume.

The metal fingers sitting heavily on the back of your thighs suddenly clamp down like a bear trap, hard enough to pull a squeak of pain from your lips as sharpened tips poke at you through the layers of your dress.

To his credit, War's hand goes slack almost as soon as you cry out, though you hardly take that into consideration when Strife pipes up again. “Okay, but how do you know she's human? How'd you know she isn't a glamoured demon?”

You almost want to interject with a scream. Not this again. How can they know what a human is yet not recognise one when they see it?

Vulgrim seems only too pleased to elaborate. With a wave of his grey, spindly hand, he replies, “While your little morsel here only bears a vague resemblance to a human being-”

You can't help but scowl, realising that you should probably be offended.

“- and though it certainly smells a great deal cleaner, there's no hiding that underlying stench. Every species has a unique aroma. It's... not unlike a fingerprint, I suppose. And besides, glamour cannot fool a demon,” he finishes smugly, “Or did you forget that we're the ones who came up with that magic?”

Neither Horseman speaks for some time, long enough that your arms start to ache and you reluctantly ease yourself down, losing sight of Vulgrim again, much to your chagrin.

“Yeaaah... I call bullshit,” Strife scoffs suddenly, sounding far more casual now than he had been moments ago.

You hear the distinct sound of a tongue being clicked before Vulgrim spreads a pair of long arms out wide, drawing your gaze to the three-inch talons that sit at the end of each finger. Only four fingers, you note absently, including the thumb... Hardly information you'll retain, but in the moment, it strikes you as something utterly and horribly inhuman.

“Tch! If you don't believe me, Horseman,” he gripes, “You can always just kill it to be certain. Glamour magic wasn't made to withstand damage.”

Oh. You're really starting to hate this Vulgrim character.

Raising your palm to smother a choked sob, you try to think of something – anything you could say that might turn the Horsemen away from such an unfavourable idea, but before the words spring to mind, War speaks, grasping your attention.

“Perhaps we needn't kill her,” he rumbles slowly, shifting his hooded head, presumably to address Strife, “Do you recall Death's story? Of how he dispelled the disguise of the demon, Asmodeus?”

There's a beat of silence before Strife replies with a baffled huff, “You actually listen to his stories?”

“All it took was one slice of Harvester's blade,” War forges ahead, heedless of his brother's inane query, “Even the most powerful glamour will fail if blood is spilled. The demon speaks the truth.”

Without warning, thick, metallic fingers curl into the back of your dress and you're hoisted rudely off the Horseman's shoulder, and before you can even utter a word of protest, you're dropped in a rumpled heap on the ground.

“Oof!” Your chin smacks painfully against hard, unforgiving stone, yet you aren't given a second to recover. Once again, War's gauntlet snatches your forearm and with a single and effortless tug, he hauls you onto your feet.

The moment your shoes touch the ground, you try to make a run for it, though your escape attempt is cut woefully short with War's grip fastened around your wrist.

Snarling, he yanks you back towards him, looming over you as you twist in his grip and start to beat frenetically against the metal fingers of his gauntlet, crying out, “Please don't hurt me!” You're entirely nonplussed by the way your voice catches pitiably in your throat. “I'm a human! I – I swear! Why are you doing this!?”

A hot breath hits you in the face, followed by War's deep, resonant growl. “To expose a liar.”

Behind you, Strife chimes in, “To find out if you really are who you say you are.”

Then, in an soft tone that doesn't sit in keeping with his stature at all, he adds, “Nothin' personal, kid.”

“Wait, w-wait! Wait! Please!” you cry.

“Face your fate with some dignity,” War rebukes, glowering down at you until you seal your lips together and sniffle wetly, terrified that if you make too much noise, he'll do far worse to you than whatever it is he already has planned.

Only after you fall silent does he emit a dismissive grunt, flicking his gaze over to Strife. “Would you care to do the honours?”

Tears glisten persistently on your eyelashes and no matter how much you try to blink them away, they're only replaced by a fresh coat moments later, their predecessors rolling like rivulets down your cheeks and dripping off your chin.

Following War's gaze, you fix your bleary eyes on his brother, unable to see whether or not he's peering back at you.

He is, of course, though you can't tell through the tears warping your vision. That sharp, unreadable glare studies your face for a long moment until at last, Strife twists his helm sideways with a huff and folds his arms over a wide chest.

“Nah,” he sniffs, “I don't wanna get blood on my boots.”

Charming.

You nearly miss the moment War pulls his immense sword off his back and yanks on your wrist, drawing you roughly towards him with a single tug.

But you don't miss the cold, deadly-sharp blade pressing against your open palm.

“Wh-!” Your heart's frantic beats reach their deafening crescendo. “What are you doing!?”

War doesn't bother to respond, he only tightens his already crushing hold on your wrist until your knees start to buckle and you let your mouth fly open soundlessly, fingers curved into rigid claws as the pain of bone grinding on bone momentarily overrides your panic.

All the while, Strife's eyes remain hard as stone, but beneath his mask, hidden by the metal, his teeth close firmly over his lower lip.

His brother's gauntlet flexes around Chaoseater's grip, blue eyes narrowing on the palm of your hand.

One cut to find out the truth.

Sure it'll hurt, but the ends justify the means...

… Don't they?

Strife's hand twitches once, and he has to bite down on an exasperated groan. “Oh for the love of... Hey, War?”

Just like that, everything stops.

His brother's eyes burn under his hood whilst yours spill liquid like a broken fountain, whipping your head around to stare blearily up at Strife. He can see the desperate pinch of hope on your face at his interference... All at once, he finds it surprisingly difficult to meet your gaze.

Tearing his eyes away from yours, he glances down to where Chaoseater's blade is still pressed to your palm.

“Cut her forearm instead, yeah?”

From the corner of his eye, he watches your face crumple as the last of your dwindling hope falls out through the bottom of your shoes.

War's expression, however, has turned notably sardonic, brows raised and eyelids lowered to half obscure the flat stare he aims at his brother.

There's only one way to perceive Strife's sudden request.

Regardless of species, a common rule of biology is that there are far more nerve endings in the palm of a hand than there are in the back of an arm.

It doesn't really matter where the Horseman draws blood – he'll get it from you one way or another, but it'll hurt you a hell of a lot less if he takes it from your forearm.

Strife is offering you mercy.

War might have taken the moment to accuse his brother of going soft if he didn't think it'd earn him a black eye, and besides, he doesn't necessarily have to follow Strife's suggestion...

The younger Horseman spares your face a fleeting glance.

Glistening cheeks, intricate eyes that dance with tears, a quivering bottom lip... He hasn't even hurt you yet, and this is the state you're in?

Grumbling something in a language you don't understand, War heaves a begrudging sigh, but after a brief hesitation, he finally pulls Chaoseater from your palm and moves the blade to rest against your outer forearm instead, in the space between his gauntlet and the juncture of your elbow. Pausing, he quirks a sleek, white brow over at his brother as if to say, 'Happy?'

Strife's only response is to offer a nonchalant shrug.

Ignoring your blubbered pleas for him to wait and 'think about what he's doing,' War returns his attention to the task at hand, testing the weight of his sword and eyeballing the width of your arm.

Time to expose you for what you really are.

At last, in one, fluid motion, he draws Chaoseater's cragged blade easily across your skin.

You think you scream.

The agony that wraps itself around your limb is quite unlike anything you've ever had the displeasure of experiencing before in your life. In an instant, you realise that up until this moment, you've lived a relatively pain-free existence.

Right in front of your eyes, your forearm opens up for the hungry blade. Paper-thin skin falls apart in the wake of the sword's path, exposing the muscle below and unleashing a torrent of crimson, glistening blood that begins to gush abundantly from the wound, streaming down the curve of your arm like water.

You suddenly become aware of a hideous ringing in your ears, loud and unbearable as an ambulance siren, and it's only when you run out of breath that you realise your mouth is hanging ajar and the bloodcurdling scream is pouring out of you.

Without warning, the metallic hand releases your wrist and you go tumbling backwards, landing painfully on your coccyx, though your eyes remain transfixed on the inch-deep cut that's been gouged out of your flesh. It burns like someone has lit a fire under your skin, a fire you can't get away from.

Pulled down by gravity, the blood begins to gather beneath your arm. Your eyes flash to the widening droplet that threatens to fall at any moment, and in a burst of sheer thoughtlessness, you hurl yourself forwards onto your knees and stretch your bleeding limb out in front of you, keeping it well clear of your wedding dress.

Your head feels woozy, a pounding pulse beating against your eardrums, muffling Strife's voice as he hisses through his teeth. “Dammit, War! Did you have to go so deep?”

Slowly, shakily, sounds begins to filter through the haze of your agony and panic. Everything turns sharp again in a flash – a little too sharp, likely an effect of the adrenaline currently sweeping through your veins.

Staring down at you, War resists taking a step back, his brows slowly drawing together until they form a solid, ivory line across his forehead.

“She hasn't changed,” he hedges.

Up until now, he'd been convinced that you were lying. He just.. hadn't figured out to what extent. He never dreamed you'd actually been telling the truth, when the truth was just so unbelievably farfetched.

But as he eyes you bleeding on the ground, he doesn't catch even the tiniest ripple of failing magic, nor a whisper of another form hiding underneath your skin.

You... weren't lying... And if you weren't lying, then that means... he's just put his blade to someone who never had a fair chance to fight back.

Perhaps if he were a different Horseman like his older siblings, he'd brush that fact aside with ease, but War's principles have always been abnormally high, especially for a Nephilim.

You hadn't attacked him. Hell, you hadn't posed a threat at all to either of them. It had never been a fair fight. You aren't even armed, for Creator's sake.

A sense of wrongfulness settles like a rock in the Horseman's expansive chest.

Drifting up beside him, Vulgrim reminds everyone of his presence by smacking his lips and announcing in a smug drawl, “I tried to tell you.”

Slowly, War's hardened stare drops down to Chaoseater. The blade is thrumming hungrily, unsatisfied with such a meagre taste of blood and wholly unconcerned by the realisation that's swiftly dawning on its wielder.

“She's an innocent....” War stresses, predominantly to himself.

The heavy thunk of metal boots signals Strife's arrival at his side.

“She's a human,” his brother breathes incredulously, his eyes growing round with wonder.

Together, they stare down at you with equal degrees of astonishment, neither Horseman quite sure what to make of this development but both certain that they've just stumbled upon the impossible.

Sudden movement to War's right snaps the two brothers from their state of shock as effectively as a slap to the face.

Vulgrim has made the ill-fated decision to drift a few feet closer to you.

A 'shing' of metal accompanies the click of a gun's fallen hammer, and the demon stops short, suddenly finding the tip of Chaoseater pointing directly at his exposed throat.

In a jarring shift of priorities, the Horsemen round on him as one, War's shoulders squared and his expression set in that infamously thunderous scowl that would send a lesser demon running. Strife too has shaken off any lingering vestiges of shock to glower up at the merchant, growling, “That's close enough, pal.”

Vulgrim may be many things, not all of which are particularly pleasant, but he's no fool.

Flitting backwards at once, he holds up a pair of long, bejewelled hands in a placating gesture, yet he can't resist casting a hopeful glance over Strife's head, his green eyes drinking in the sight of freshly-spilled blood.

“Oh, come now, Horsemen,” he gripes, “You'll spill a human's blood all over my floor, but you won't even let me have a taste?”

In the corner of one eye, Strife notices his brother's finger twitch around Chaoseater's grip, the closest thing to a flinch War will ever permit himself.

The silver-clad Horseman's brows furrow beneath his helm as he absently tries to recall whether War had flinched even once during the battle against his own kind.

“Not another step, demon,” War growls.

Gradually, so as not to spook you, Strife turns himself about, trusting that his brother will keep Vulgrim at bay if necessary.

Amber eyes fall upon you and instantly sweep down to the arm that you're cradling out in front of you, your features pinched by a glazed, faraway expression.

Shock... he imagines.

“Ah... shit.” Exhaling softly, Strife risks a step closer and lowers himself down onto one knee within arms reach of you, lifting a hand to rub awkwardly at the base of his neck.

You don't react to his sudden proximity, never once tearing your eyes from the cut in your arm.

A Nephilim – Hell, even a demon or an angel wouldn't even balk at such a shallow wound... But then... you're not a Nephilim, are you? Nor are you a demon, or an angel...

'... Human...'

The name of your species still sounds so foreign to his ears.

A thousand questions fly at him from every direction his mind tries to spin him in, but it's the most pressing that rises above the others and falls off his lips in a quiet murmur.

“You okay, kid?”

Even before he says it, he knows it's the daftest question he could have asked. You're clearly not okay. But what the Hell does one say to a creature who isn't even supposed to speak the same language? Who's barely supposed to have even developed a language at all?

They may have solved the mystery of what you are, but all they've really accomplished is to open up yet another puzzle for them to solve.

If nothing else, at least his voice seems to be the catalyst that eases you from your shock.

Everything inside you is screaming for you to run – flee. Danger is still very much present. You can't stay here, you're going to bleed out.

It's a challenge to string a complex thought together, yet at the sound of a low, husky voice calling out to you, you grow entirely still, suddenly becoming aware of the presence that looms in the space just ahead.

Wrenching your head upright is the only way to drag your stare off the blood cascading from your arm, but finding the Horseman's silver helm so close to you startles a shriek right out of your lungs.

In a burst of desperation, you scrabble up onto your feet, still clutching the underside of your injured limb. “Don't!” you exclaim.

To your dismay, Strife follows you up, towering high over your head as he stretches out a cautious gauntlet.

Bridling at its approach, you snap, “I said don't!”

Quick as a flash, he retrieves his arms, holding them up as if he's trying to soothe a spooked horse. “All right, I gotcha,” he assuages, “No touching. Read you loud and clear.”

Quivering with adrenaline, you retreat a step, horrified that he maintains the distance by taking a single stride forwards.

You recoil again when the silver titan splays his arms out wide, offering you his palms with a little shrug. “Hey, at least now we know you were tellin' the truth, right?” he chuckles breathlessly, like he's as thrown by this entire situation as you are. 

The sharp retort that builds on your tongue is swallowed back an instant later when the red-cloaked giant turns to face you at last, his square jaw set like a thick, steel trap.

The demon behind him remains floating in place, apparently knowing better than to push his luck.

Suddenly, War begins to approach, sending your nerves flaring in palpable alarm.

On clumsy feet, you stumble backwards, eyes bursting open wide, though you soon find that War's lengthier gait vastly outpaces your shuffling retreat, and in terrifying seconds, he's upon you, his immense gauntlet reaching out for your arm once again.

The open wound gives a searing throb, as if it remembers the man who carved it in the first place.

With startling swiftness for such a large brute, he shoots out his hand and clamps it around your fist before you can pick a direction to flee in, swallowing the entirety of your appendage in his palm.

“No, no, no! Not again! Please!” you babble, wrenching on your trapped limb, only to let out an aborted cry as his grip turns crushing.

This time however, at your choked exclamation of pain, War hesitates.

For a second, he cocks his head, studying your twisted expression. And then, like a light has finally switched on in his skull, he blinks, and to your immense relief, his hold loosens considerably, as if he's only just realising his own strength.

Regardless, the iron grip on your hand still doesn't allow you to wrench yourself free. Tugging at all only earns you a rumbling growl that seems to emanate from somewhere deep within War's almighty chest.

With his other hand, he begins to reach for a small, brown pouch hanging from the scarlet cumberbund that's wrapped around his waist. In your fear-addled mind, the only thing you can imagine he's reaching for is that sword strapped to his back.

Knowing full well that fighting back is futile, you let out a quiet sob and screw your face up tight, ducking your head down low between your shoulders and feeling that telltale creep of anticipation along your spine.

With your eyes clamped shut, you don't see the strange vial filled with swirling, green liquid as he pulls it from his pouch, held delicately between two of his massive fingers. You don't even register the sound of a cork being unplugged from the bottle by a set of teeth.

But oh, you sure as Hell feel it when a hot, viscous substance is poured unceremoniously into the gash across your arm.

In an instant, your eyes flash open again and you have to stuff your teeth into your lip to hold back a scream when that caustic burn spreads out inside your limb.

Your first, perfectly rational assumption, is that he's just poured acid over the wound, but as you watch, squinting through streaming eyes, you quickly come to learn that isn't the case at all. Wisps of shimmering, emerald smoke rise out of your wound with an ear-scraping hiss.

Perhaps more distressingly though, you can see the blood inside the wound drying up, crusting over and turning brown at the edges, like you're watching a scab heal over in fast-forward. But the pain? The pain has already begun to subside.

“What... have you done to me!?” you croak, only to gag when the smoke disperses and you're left with an uninterrupted view of a shallow, pink cut, its margins significantly contracted, pulling towards the wound's centre. It almost resembles a particularly nasty scar, but you don't give any thought to whether it'll be a permanent feature on your arm, not when you have far more pressing concerns to address.

Against all odds, the excessive bleeding has stopped, and if it weren't for the trails of sticky blood coating you from wrist to elbow, you'd almost think it could have been an injury you sustained weeks ago.

Exhaling a raw, uneven breath, you blink dumbly at your own arm as War releases you and drops the half empty vial back into the pouch at his side, letting out a surly grunt. "There. Now, cease your incessant whining."

His brother sidles up beside him, staring up underneath his hood with such scrutiny that War begins to wonder if he's grown an extra head.

Amber eyes bulge comically behind a silver helm as Strife points an accusing finger up at his fellow Horseman and exclaims, “Was that a poultice?! Since when did you start carrying poultices!?”

War understands his brother's bafflement. It's a reputation he's rather proud of – to be known as the Horseman so sturdy and unassailable that he rarely, if ever, needs to rely on magic to heal his wounds.

Outwardly, one of his immense shoulders lifts into a shrug. “When Death caught wind of this mission, he came to find me and insisted I stock up,” he offers.

Underneath his helm, Strife's mouth tilts into a sly grin. “Aw, the miserable bastard cares about you after all, huh?”

“He did not give them to me for my own use,” War replies evenly, his own lips quivering against the temptation of a smirk, “He thought you'd be offended if he tried to hand them straight to you. He asked me to hold onto them in the inevitable event you'd need to see their use.”

Predictably, Strife's indignation becomes all too clear with the swell of his chest and the bristling of his black, spiked hair. Blowing a hot exhale through his nose, he snaps, “The Hell's he tryin' to imply? I don't need that asshole watchin' out for me!”

War only lifts his lips into a flat, placid line. “That remains to be seen, doesn't it.”

Their ensuing argument is abruptly cut off by a thin and rasping voice croaking out, “What... what was that stuff?”

As one, the Horsemen return their gazes to you, finding your wide, watery eyes blinking back up at them, still with your bad arm cradled out in front of you.

Strife has to admit, he's impressed you've managed to keep that strange, white garment blood-free. He's seen enough ivory feathers stained red to know that anything white is nearly impossible to keep clean.

Cocking a hidden grin at you, he replies, “That's a healing poultice – My brother's recipe.”

“Your...” Bloodshot eyes dart over to War and a little, pink tongue shoots out to nervously moisten dry lips. “Your brother?”

“Oh. No, not this one,” he amends, jabbing a thumb at War, “Our eldest. Death.”

What little colour had remained in your face drains away, leaving you with a complexion that's ashen and haunted. “Death?” you quake, “What the Hell kind of-... Why can't any of you have normal, innocuous names like... like Tim, or Greg!?”

At the back of the group, the demon pipes up, “What's wrong with Vulgrim?”

Barking out a derisive laugh, Strife shoots back, “Man, what isn't wrong with you?”

“She's trying to run,” War pipes up conversationally.

It takes a second, but soon enough, Strife's helm spins forwards again so quickly, he almost gives himself whiplash.

True to his brother's word, you've turned towards the staircase and made a rather pitiful escape attempt, your white dress bobbing up and down with a noisy rustle of fabric as you half stagger, half jog away from the Horsemen.

“Woah! Woah, hey! Hold up-”

You let out a strangled gasp when a pair of thick, armoured limbs curl around your waist and hoist you effortlessly into the air, legs kicking out to try and unbalance the behemoth at your spine.

Without warning, you're spun about with a shriek and plopped back onto the ground in front of War, who rises like a living mountain over your head, scowling at you down the length of his nose, though you're beginning to wonder if that's just the one expression he's actually capable of making. Strife, meanwhile, remains at your back, and it's with a terrible, sinking dread that you realise they've boxed you between them. A Horseman ahead of you and a Horseman behind you.

… Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place....

“Okay, human,” Strife announces, his hands alighting on his hips, “Think there may be a few trust issues here.”

A resentful scoff escapes your lips before you can seal them together. “A few?! You nearly cut my goddamn arm off!”

“Ah, c'mon,” he brushes your concern aside with a flippant wave of his hand, “It wasn't nearly that bad. Right, War?”

The larger Horseman flexes his oversized gauntlet that obscures his left hand, grunting in apparent concurrence.

“Besides!” Strife continues, “It was necessary.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you retort, “It was barbaric!”

“Hey, he healed you up afterwards,” he argues with a petulant huff, “You ought'a be grateful.”

“Gratefu-!” You have to cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut and inhaling loudly though your flared nostrils. Only when you trust your voice not to squeak do you peel your eyes open again and aim them at the ground near your shoes, shakily uttering, “I would be grateful if you'd just... let me go home...”

At that, Strife falls deathly silent, prompting you to force your gaze up the length of his armoured body until you can bear to meet his eye.

You can't even begin to fathom what's going on behind that helm, and even his voice is devoid of emotion when he finally responds, only to say, “We can't.”

Those two, damning words scare you almost as much as his brother does.

Your stomach rolls anxiously. “But... why not?” you beg, voice thick with desperation, “I don't want any trouble! I-I just want to go home!”

To your surprise, the Horseman abruptly shifts his weight back onto one leg and offers you an apologetic shrug. “Hey, look – If I could take you to Earth right now, I would-”

“-This is no place for a human,” War adds, nodding sagely.

“-Right,” his brother continues, “But when I say we can't, I mean we literally can't. Earth has been cut off.”

“...What?” you press, stomach sinking down to your shoes, “Cut off?”

You really don't care much for that phrase at all.

Strife's shoulder lifts in yet another shrug. “Council's orders. Access to Earth has been pretty much revoked.”

You can't believe what you're hearing. Literally. How can he expect you to believe what he's telling you? Shaking your head, you close your eyes and raise your hands, pressing manicured fingertips delicately to the inner corners of your lids. “And who the Hell is this... this Council!?”

Hesitating, the Horsemen exchange a furtive glance before Strife returns his gaze down to you and answers, “Well, they're... kind of in charge.”

When he doesn't elaborate further, you fling your eyes open and urge, “Of what?”

“Uh, everything? I guess?” Raising a hand, Strife scratches at the hair that juts from the back of his helm like ebony spines. “I'unno, I dont' really pay attention in the meetings.”

Furrowing your brow, you drop your eyes to the ground once more and stare pensively at the stone underfoot, your brain chugging along as it attempts to unscramble the vast influx of information you're being fed. It isn't long before a dull throb starts up in your temples.

Fine. You'll have to deal with your apparent descent into madness later. Right now, you have to solve this problem and try not to dwell on it too closely.

“You keep saying 'Earth,' like it's a third party...” you hedge carefully, lifting your head to Strife, “Why?”

You're startled – and somewhat agitated - by the Horseman's brusque snort of laughter. “Ha, for such an advanced human, you sure are-”

“-Ignorant?” War offers.

If you weren't so terrified of getting that sword drawn on you again, you'd shoot him a rancid glare.

Appeasingly, Strife replies, “I was gonna say uninformed."

You don't know how much longer you can stand this. It's as if neither of them can grasp the gravity of your situation. Or perhaps they don't want to. Pressure builds inside you like steam in a valve, piling on your wrecked nerves until at last, you let it out in a cry of frustration, stomping your pearly-white heel on the ground. Immediately, the pair of titans fall silent, turning to stare at you.

“Just.. tell me-!” you plead, “- if I'm on Earth right now, please? I-I just want a straight answer. Something that makes sense!”

Strife doesn't even hesitate.

“No, you're not on Earth,” he says.

And nothing more.

[slimeranch7]

vampire ei x reader

Hey bro thanks for the request!!! I'm happy to share more thoughts on monsterfucking. It's a guilty pleasure…. 🤪

ao3 link

Content warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dubcon/coerced sex, mentions of blood/gore, mentions of r*pe

-----

Vampires are said to be elusive and highly territorial. That being said, it's not unheard of for them to live in pairs or more. It's just an extremely rare case.

You gambled that every time you took a bounty to wipe out a vampire that had been terrorizing a small town. Vampire hunting had its own merits, if the ring of harvested fangs hanging on your belt is anything to go by. It earns you enough cold, hard cash to last months, and the gratitude of locals wherever you go. 

And with merits come dangers. Taking on one is enough to leave you scratched up for the worst. A lone human can't handle two alone, even with the best equipment or the most experience. Even if you managed to finish one, the other would tear you to shreds in an instant, and the blood from their harvest would be enough to undo the damage you've caused. 

This is the gamble you took. And like most games based on chance, you're bound to lose the more you roll. 

The info broker hadn't mentioned a second one when he sent you the files. All the locals told you the same thing- long, purple hair and a single pair of violet eyes that crackled in the dark like thunder and lightning. Adorns a stoic, yet somber expression, based on what survivors were able to make out. Not that you could really understand their babbling much more than that. Most trailed off into a religious chant you couldn't quite discern, but one thing's for sure- this fight wouldn't be easy. 

On the ground is the Raiden Shogun, and a heavy wooden stake that took all your strength and fight to run straight through her chest. The browning blood splattered on her coat was yours. Vampires didn't bleed. Freezing black mist exuded around her wound, something you could never get used to no matter how battle hardened you've grown to be.

On your side was a borrowed cross from the local church that had been bent out of use from her strength. Your crossbow has been battered as well, strings frayed and definitely in need of heavy maintenance. 

Legs pinning both of her sides down, you huff, giving the stake another push to drive it in further for good measure before cold, sharp fingers curl around the back of your neck. 

Your breath stops, condensate disappearing into the frosty air. 

"Mm. That's it. Now, up." You could feel the way her fingers slowly drag against your skin, pressing . "Slowly."

You move in tandem with her force, like a leash pulling you up until your back straightens, heart sized in your throat and nerves frozen shut. You don't dare to object. You couldn't. Or you could just die fighting for your freedom.

It's an instinctual fight or flight response. In this case, flight immediately leads to fight, so for a moment, you revel in the adrenaline pumping through your vessels, pray to the lord for strength and protection and pull out a hidden cross in your inner coat in hopes to repel the grasp on your neck-

Only for it to get fruitlessly slapped away by the vampire that shouldn't even be alive below you. It lands hopelessly far from your reach, and your wrists throb in punishing pain from the sheer force of her hands. 

When your eyes turn down, not daring to move your head with how tight the grip on your neck has gotten, the Raiden Shogun's eyes glare violet as she pulls the stake out with a pained hiss. The only sound you've heard from her since the fight began.

"I must say, quite capable of you, to be able to land such an ugly gash on my beauty. Many like you have pitifully died by her hands, without leaving so much as a scratch." The lady behind you speaks in such an eloquent manner unlike the feral, bloodthirsty beasts you've slain in the past. "Oh dear,"

You can feel her other hand loop around your waist, fiddling with the ring of fangs you've once proudly adorned like a trophy. In one swift movement, she plucks it from your belt. Now, it's nothing more than a warrant for your demise. 

"How very obnoxious." She hums thoughtfully. "Teeth, dull. Those lowlifes don't deserve to be displayed on this chain. They can't even maintain their fangs properly. Unsightly."

The ring rattles, and from the corner of your eye, you watch in silence as she flicks it off to the side. 

"Now, I believe you took something that belonged to the Shogun." She continues. Her nails, like claws, press even further, daring you to swallow down your fear. 

Below, while you were still straddling her hips, the Raiden Shogun sat up, one hand pressed against her wound in futility, and the other snaking around the small of your back, pulling you in closer. 

She closes in so suddenly that you don't have the time to squeeze your eyes shut to brace for the terror of being eaten alive. 

White, searing hot pain flashes through your eyes and your hands- moving on their own, instinctually latching onto anything as an anchor to keep you floating off into the abyss. Somewhere in the crevices of your panic-addled mind, you know it's your neck she's punctured, but it's almost as if every point of your body collectively decided to share the same caliber of pain.

Breathing is impossible, your mouth heaves dryly, begging for air that doesn't come, and your nose is assaulted by the tangy malodor of your own blood. 

You can't say for sure how long the terrible experience lasted for. It felt like it had been hours and mere seconds simultaneously, but when she finishes- and you know she does because she licks your wound- your hands immediately fly to your neck as an instinct to apply pressure, only to find it clean and fully clotted like the puncture had been healing for days. 

But wait, why were you still conscious? Were you dead? You could be, for all that mattered.

"The merit of proper maintenance. It keeps our meals' mess to a minimum." The voice behind you pipes up again, though it's significantly foggier, like your ears had been clotted. "And as long as you're alive, our saliva will help clot the blood at increased speed. But, most don't to live to tell the tale."

Words, words, words. She sounded like the lecturers at those fancy institutes. You couldn't respond anyway, the lack of blood finally catching up as the stimulant effect of adrenaline wears out. 

"Now, stand and we will return to my estate at once. I would like to get to know you better."

You were then hoisted to your feet, much to your brain's weak protest. The moment they let go to let you stand on your own, the world swayed and swung upside down and you felt your head collide with snow and frozen dirt. It did not hurt, or if it did, you weren't lucid enough to feel it anymore.

As the rest of your senses dulled, your eyes managed to catch the faintest detail, though it's hard to discern if it's the lack of oxygen that blurred the lines of reality or if it really was the truth- the two figures standing before you looked nearly identical. 

-----

You hardly dreamed, but when you did, you imagined retirement to be a well earned paradise by the beach, all on your lonesome, and a humble wooden shack sitting on the treeline, facing the waves. Your toes would sink pleasantly into smooth, ash-like sand, waves rolling in tantalizing motions off in the distance. The air would be salty yet brings a refreshing change of pace, and the only bits of life accompanying you would be oceanside critters. 

But the sad reality is, most vampire hunters don't live long enough to watch their children grow up, let alone hit retirement age. It's a dangerous and thankless, commission-based job taken on because of family tradition or by those only desperate enough for mora. Anyone suicidal enough to face vampires head on signed their life away for every bounty they take. You're no different.

Then why dream of something so far out of reach?

To you, it was better than falling into the hands of alcoholism and tobacco dependence like everyone else. 

When you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, the terrible, cruel world would melt away. Firstly, it was the salty, cold seaside air that would fade into a pleasant, smokey firewood scent accompanied by what seemed to be mild floral perfume.

Secondly, opening your eyes proved to be difficult with how lethargic your muscles felt. You felt your heavy eyelids twitch, slowly cracking open to adjust to the dim light, and though you knew it was merely a fire crackling away, to your pounding headache addled head, it was a million suns assaulting your senses. 

Thirdly, when you craned your neck, everything in your body screamed for reprieve. But one thing is for certain: the gut deep fear that registered not a second after. 

The bite, it's the after effects that nearly sent you back into shock. And before that, you had lost a fight against not one, but two vampires. Was it two, now? It sure felt like it. 

You tell yourself that this very moment was a dream, but what was the fading memory of an oceanside retirement before? And the cold fingers that wrapped cruelly around your neck? The searing hot torment coursing through your nerves was enough to prove that this is reality. And if that wasn't enough, the same voice of the women that gripped your neck moments before flooded your ears.

"I must admit, I almost feared that you would no longer wake." She said. Soft, embroidered lavender fabric filled your limited, sideways view as she stepped closer. You felt a cold hand rest briefly on your cheek, lifting as quickly as it came. "I am not experienced in human medical knowledge, but your skin turned nearly as pale and cold as mine from the outdoors. I didn't think you would recover so quickly."

So again, despite having cleared up with yourself that this was reality, new information presented before you had flipped everything you thought you knew, right upside down. Vampires don't save humans. Vampires don't care if humans recover quickly or not from the cold frosty air of the northeast. Vampires don't fear, and frankly, they don't speak with such eloquence. And you certainly should not be lying on a vampire's couch across a fireplace, layered by thick, heavy blankets warmed by your recovered body heat. 

She could have very well left your dying corpse to freeze outside. A vampire of her caliber could have very well hunted for other game instead of waiting for a vampire hunter, armed with crosses and stakes, to recover from blood loss.

You reached from underneath the blankets to see if they had disarmed you, only to find that not only have they disposed of your equipment, but they also likely have disposed of your clothes along with it. Not even a scrap of undergarments to preserve your modesty. You can feel the way the blanket rubs embarrassingly against your bare skin.

Despite your throbbing headache, you sat up with nothing more than your life to lose, yet shamefully still holding the blanket up to your chest. "Were you always this talkative?"

The lady before you blinked in surprise, stoicism replaced by what you could only interpret as wonder. She tilted her head curiously.

Dread pools in your stomach at the silence she answered with. "... I mean, you didn't say a word when I tried to…" Your nerves got the better of you, but perhaps it would be unwise to bring up past affairs that didn't work in your favor. 

Her face then twisted into amusement. "Ah, but of course. Who you confronted was not me, but the Shogun. She is not the talkative type at all. Neither am I, but at least I can still make for better company."

Is this your purpose for being sustained alive even when vampires are known to dispose of dried blood bags after their hunts? So whatever this imitation of the Raiden Shogun could talk your ear off as you inconspicuously eyed windows and doors for escape routes?

When you searched her eyes for answers, she, yet again, returned void. In fact, it almost felt unreal how human the Shogun look-alike seemed to be with her composed, gentle demeanor. Whereas the one you faced in a life-or-death fight- she bore no traces of humanity, only brutal, mechanical movements with the singular objective of efficiently ridding you of your existence. 

"While some vampires come to be by birth, some were… infected, as I would put it." She began, suddenly, circling a low table to feed more logs into the fire. "My name is Ei, and I was once human. I enjoyed sweets, then. But as you might know, human food does not hold the same taste nor nutrients as it would to a vampire."

Questions swarm your head like incessant flies, but one keeps popping up. Your mouth opens before you can think, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Hush, allow me to continue, if you will. Firstly, I feel that it is vital to inform you that you are not the first. You are free to perceive this as a threat or as consolation, though I greatly suggest the latter, for your sake, and, perhaps rather selfishly, for mine." 

No matter how much solace she expected to bring you with such foreboding warnings, the fact that you weren't the first for whatever sick game she was about to instill upon you, in combination with the fact that you have not once heard any tale of the Raiden Shogun's identical double feeling inclined to impose sick games onto hunters after their bounty, drove you even further into a pit of worry and desperation. Her phrasing wasn't important- it would never be, because vampires posed a natural threat to your survival from the get-go. 

"Secondly, you shall not reject any of my advances. Not that you would want to, of course, and I recommend that you don't, from my experience. But on the off chance that you do, my dear Shogun does not care for trivial matters such as sweets. Your pleasure will not dictate the measures she will take to ensure your compliance."

It's almost as if she were purposefully baiting you into folding. You almost feel foolishly inclined to insist that she hurries along her long, disconcerting list of terms, but the rational- albeit cowardly- side of you firmly argues to stay silent and entertain her with no pleasure of watching you tremble like a petal.

She takes your silence for acceptance, it seemed. “As I had said, I greatly adored sweets. It has been rumored by others of my kind that human pleasures tend to sweeten the blood for the better.” Her eyes flicker over to you. “I have sampled a multitude of different flavors myself, each with varying levels of sweetness and purity. But you,"

She circles back, not unlike a shark smelling fresh blood in the water. "Your blood is unblemished by tobacco and alcohol. Those impurities have always tainted my marks, no matter how much sweetness I wring out of them." 

You've stopped listening at this, cringing at the implications of her absurd statements. Treating your predecessors like gourmet meals just as humans did with livestock. Most hunters drank and smoked- those vices greased the wheels for them. You either indulged, or you would succumb to the stress and anxiety that came as a package deal. 

She must've known. She's a vampire, after all, and their heightened senses must have turned you into a mouth watering meal, comparable to ripe fruit kept free of disease and pests. 

Your thoughts run back to the last tavern  you drank at, that reeked of sweat and cheap beer. The alcohol was bitter and foul, so utterly indigestible that you gave the rest of your mug away to a drunk stranger and proceeded to rinse your mouth clean in the privacy of your own room. And before that, your mentor had offered a cigar after your first successful hunt, but the post-traumatic stress that poisoned your mind had you retching and regurgitating whatever lunch you had managed to stomach as soon as you inhaled. Even now, the consideration of downing a pint of beer or indulging in a smoke makes you shudder.

"So you're going to rape me?" You spit out, half considering her terms. 

"That is putting it extremely. But I won't have to if you oblige. Perhaps I'll even spare you, if you behave." Her smile twists up sardonically.

"Would you let me go if my flavor is not up to your gourmet standards?"

"Hardly even a question. I would feed you to the Shogun. It would be up to her what she would want to do with you." Her honesty renders her fully transparent leaving no room for further inquiry. This is a waltz she knows well. You aren't sure if you should feel safe or terrorized by how casually she handled your interrogation.

"... Will you be gentle?"

For once, genuine surprise returns to replace her cold, distant resting expression. 

"It's… I," Would it be better to keep this to yourself? Perhaps you could rouse pity if you were honest. "I've never been with anyone…" 

"Not even yourself?"

You flushed at the implication of her rebuttal. Admittedly, you've tried before, in the safety of a rented room of a tavern. But judging from how little you've achieved by yourself, the safer answer would be no. "Look, if that's an issue, then just kill me right now and spare me the humiliation." You bite back. "It won't be pleasant for me regardless."

Ei leans over, fangs hovering just above the shell of your ear. "A rare purity of soul, body and mind. It seems I've struck gold." She whispered, sending cold, hollow chills down your clammy skin. "Do not fret, little lamb. I did hold a preference towards women before my time as a vampire. Your pleasure means all the more value to me."

If that was a lie, it did not matter to you. 

-----

Ei reminded you of the noblewomen you've met in your time serving as a commissioned bounty hunter. They were regal, elegant and held their chin up high with unwavering confidence despite being overshadowed by their husband's status. To you, it seemed admirable, though you could never compare your social footing to theirs. Sometimes you wondered if they had always been the ones pulling the strings from the shadows. 

But Ei- she was different. When she rose to full mast, her poster demanded attention and respect and you instantly knew she was the head of her own estate. Her height was overpowering and dizzying, and though her muscles were lithe, you had no issue accepting the fact that the vampire could fold you with ease. 

When Ei peeled the sheets that held your warmth away, you did not dare to struggle, lest you incur her wrath. However, you did shiver from the sudden gust of cold air as your core temperature plummeted despite the warm fire nearby, almost immediately shriveling up like an insect. As soon as you curled in your limbs to protect your warmth (and modesty, though it was pointless, you knew), her strong, boney hands wrestled your legs open like a pliant play doll baring your holes for her to view at her pleasure. 

And despite your bewilderment, she offered no words of solace, but only drank in the sight of your untouched pussy with animal hunger present in her eyes and an unfriendly, sinister smile. "Do not be afraid of me, my little lamb." She whispered, smelling the bitter musk of terror oozing from your glands. "It does you no favors to serve me such an unappealing meal." Her cold fingers trace around your untouched clit.

It's hard to teach yourself something you had no knowledge in. In your trade, every clever trick in the book you absorbed from observing your mentor, and if it didn't work, then you wouldn't live to tell the tale. Likewise, attempting to stimulate yourself without knowing what to do had gotten you nowhere, but when the Ei gathered up your slick and gently pressed into your pussy, it took you damn near everything not to combust on the spot. 

"Poor thing, so desperate to seek the pleasure you could not find yourself." She stated cruelly, and it was like instinct, to allow such a monster to devour you whole. No one else's appendages, human or not, could ever provoke the same, blinding pleasure that spiked your core like fireworks. The expertly timed circles around your throbbing clit and the shallow dip of her fingers worked wonders on your rapidly deteriorating psyche. 

It was not enough. It could not be enough because you could still see the rest of her pale, slender hand, resting just outside your greedy cunt when it should be buried deep by the innards of your burning flesh-

Sweaty hands immediately sought purchase on her forearm, hoping to pull her in for more. Cold, black mist seeped through your fingers, through her broken skin. "Careful now, you might be biting off more than you can chew." She warned you, but made no effort to pull away as you accepted more and more of her. Your stomach lurched, chest heaving to make up for it and throwing your head back as white flooded your vision. 

Although your lips spasmed against the intrusion from overstimulation, your spine arched into her touch, hips greedily searching for more. Immediately, she forces down your entire body back into the plush comfort of the sofa. "What a pliant, little lamb you are. So willing to accept what most of your kind have struggled so valiantly against at first. Tell me, then, were you always this depraved?" 

"Nu-ah! No, it's- I'm not…" 

"Or, is it how I fuck this tight, little virgin cunt of yours?" Her wrists flick in tandem with your hips, easily matching your erratic pace. She must've felt the way you clenched up at her dirty words. Elegant, regal noblewomen wouldn't speak as such, but you supposed she was the lady of her own estate. And she was a different kind of beast. "You enjoy this, don't you, dirty vermin? Being stuffed full of me, put in your place. Nothing but a deviant that craves a vampire's touch."

You are not a deviant. You weren't succumbing to her pleasure because you wanted to. It was a matter of a prey's final, desperate attempt at survival, and your mind begged for that to be the case, but a further part of you had long conceded. Ei's touch numbed the bone deep ache, relaxing yet intense. You cried. You thrashed. Maybe you did none of that and took her fingers without trouble, or maybe she had to help you make it fit, but this moment was unbound to time and reality. It should be impossible, how well she worked into the crevices of your body and wrung you dry just as she promised.

Every word you tried to voice was caught in your throat as she diligently drilled in between your walls. The timing was too immaculate. She could have very well been reading your mind, and that wouldn't be the most absurd revelation you've had the pleasure of witnessing this evening. 

"Little lamb, you should feel lucky that I am just as ravenous as you are." She damn near growled but you could only perceive the gentle rumble of her chest as she spoke. "That I did not expect of you to beg." Compared to your glazed, half lidded eyes and heavy breaths, Ei's movements did not seem the least bit influenced by exertion. The last of your sanity receded somewhere far into the back of your mind as her fingers pressed against a spot you could not have possibly imagined of finding. 

"Come, now. Come for your master. Show me what a good, delectable treat you are for me, you little whore."

You didn't need your imagination to see the dominion she held over you. Getting fucked senseless by a vampire couldn't possibly feel this good, but it did. When you squeezed your eyes shut, you saw blackness but also blinding light. Whatever is left of your sanity fizzles away like beer foam and you wail (or maybe it was a soundless cry) because it was too much, too good, too overwhelming-

And something, perhaps her boney hands, gripped your jaw as you cried out, exposing your jugular, but did not feel agonizing when she bit down, reaping what she sowed. Your walls continued to spasm relentlessly around her fingers, leaving a slick mess all over her thigh and hand, knowing nothing but the sweltering ecstasy of being owned, filled and used so thoroughly that you could not possibly belong to anyone else but Ei.

When you crack open your eyes for a split second, Ei captured your lips. You didn't feel the sharp point of her fangs, and she did not open her mouth, but you could still taste the residue of your own blood. There was no sadism, no ownership to be claimed as she kissed you. It was just Ei- or rather, you knew, it was simply a human behind the embrace you sank into before sleep overtakes you.

-----

Warm porcelain pressed itself insistently against your lips when you stirred. Upon opening your eyes, you are met with a violet pair staring back earnestly. Obediently, you allow yourself to sip, careful not to choke. It tasted herbal, flowery. 

"Paralytic?" You wondered out loud. 

"Tea." The vampire answered curtly. 

"Where did Ei go?" The Ei you've come to know despite having only spoken to her for a short while would have babbled on about the healing properties of the drink. "And why am I not dead?"

"Because Ei has more use of you alive than dead." The Shogun replied, settling the half empty cup on a tray next to you. "She went to deal with that incessant dog. Only she can handle Miko without trouble. I would advise you to steer clear of her."

"Werewolf?" You didn't miss the claw marks on the edge of the door of this room. 

"Perceptive." The Shogun flashed a rare, small smile. "As expected of a seasoned hunter." She then moved to feel your pulse. 

One two, one two. You felt it through her fingers, cold as ever. It's weak, your body dealing with the brunt of the effects, and the consequences are no less harsh on the headache you have to endure.

"Rest well. You are exerted. The tea has been steeped, you can use that to relax and recover." The Shogun stands up from your side and makes her way to the door. "Tomorrow I will take my fill. Do not expect me to be as generous as Ei."

She stopped at the entrance of the door, seeming to hesitate for a second. Then, more resolutely, she looked over her shoulder. "Like she said, I do not care much for sweets. However, you have piqued my interest."

[charliedawn]

DEFECTIVE GOOD

part 8

It was a surprise when the shuttle landed on a rather beautiful planet surrounded by water and the beach made of thin layers of white sand. It was a strange and unusual sight for a stormtrooper. JR-6025 looked around as she felt the sun gently heat up her skin under her armour…It wasn’t the kind of place she was thinking of. She even smiled as she saw men and women walk alongside the beachside with children laughing and smiling.

…It really wasn’t what she has been expecting.

JR-6025 gazed around the stunning alien coastline with quiet wonder. This idyllic scene was like nothing she had ever experienced during her stringent First Order training. Children playing without a care in the world, families spending leisure time together in the sun—it was a vision of peace and prosperity that stirred unfamiliar feelings within her. What must it be like, to grow up with such freedom and joy ?

Her hesitation must have shown, for General Hux addressed her calmly. "I see this place confuses you, Trooper. But make no mistake—the simplicity you see here hides rot at its core. This system's people grow complacent in their comfortable lives, blind to the true threats lurking just beyond."

He surveyed the beach with a cold eye. "Our spy has roots in this community. With care and discretion, we may move among them unnoticed and extract the knowledge we need. Then this façade will crack, and they will see why true order must be imposed from above."

JR-6025 nodded solemnly, pushing down her lingering doubts. The General knew best—his vision would save worlds like this from themselves. She had a role to play, and would see it through with focus and precision. JR-6025 walked ahead and it seemed all the locals were shocked to see soldiers wearing armour and carrying weapons within their place of peace. As soon as word spread, they all started surrounding the soldiers—children curiously observing them. Some even poked at their armour.

Once in the center of their village, a man approached them and greeted them.

"Greetings, First Order. We didn’t expect you to land on our shores. What can we do for you ?"

JR-6025 stepped forward calmly to address the village elder, despite the crowds of curious onlookers.

"We come in peace, seeking information vital to our efforts against those who would threaten stability across the galaxy. Your system is known to harbor collaborators with the traitorous Rebellion." She kept her voice level yet authoritative, hoping an open display of strength could give way to cooperation. Violence would only breed more rebellion here. "If you value the safety and freedom of your people, elder, help guide us to those who may darken your shores with war. A show of good faith could secure your system's protection under the First Order."

Glancing sidelong at General Hux, she sensed his approval of her diplomatic approach. These people were innocents—there were gentler ways to earn their trust than threats or shows of power. Compassion might unlock the answers they needed most.

The elder smiled and nodded.

"I know who you speak of, but I am in the regret of informing you that they have already left. Two days ago."

JR-6025 considered the elder's words carefully. "I see. And do you happen to know where they were headed when they left ?" She kept her tone neutral yet probing, observing the elder's reactions for any signs of deception. Much could be gleaned from what was said, as well as what remained unspoken.

A glance at General Hux found his keen eyes equally assessing the situation. His strategic mind was no doubt weighing options for ensuring they picked up the rebels' trail once more.

Turning back to the elder, JR-6025 pressed gently, "Any information you could provide to help us continue our pursuit could help secure lasting safety for your village and system. The First Order protects all under its banner—might we count your people among our allies going forward ?"

She waited quietly for the elder's reply, hoping wisdom would guide him toward peace. The elder bowed his head respectfully.

"We are a peaceful tribe, stormtrooper. We do not seek trouble, but our planet has been known to be a safe haven for those who wish to live peacefully. There is no war here. And we are neutral. We cannot aid your quest. I am truly sorry."

JR-6025 glanced back at General Hux, but his face left no trace of what he was thinking. She sighed and looked back at the elder.

"I understand. But, would you consider letting us stay within your tribe for a few days ? Just to rest. And then, we will go."

She hoped that by staying, they might make contact with their spy and collect more information on the whereabouts of the Rebellion.

The elder considered JR-6025's request thoughtfully. After a long moment, he nodded. "Very well. A few days' respite we can provide, so long as your people remain respectful guests. Violence will not be tolerated here."

She bowed her head in gratitude and respect. "You have our word, elder. The First Order seeks only peace and cooperation."

Stepping back, she signaled to General Hux that their temporary lodging request had been granted. His face remained stoically unreadable as always, but she believed this was the wisest approach—rush too forcefully, and their quarry might disappear forever into the stars. Patience and understanding had won them an opening here where force might have alienated these peaceful folks. In the coming days, discreet inquiries among the villagers may yet uncover a new lead. And if not, at least no blood would be shed where it need not.

For now, she would help her squad settle and blend in as inconspicuous guests. Calm waters often hid greater depths, and she had faith their spy's message would come to light in due time.

The village elder guided JR-6025 and her squad to simple yet comfortable lodgings on the edge of the small coastal settlement. She watched the locals move about their daily routines—cooking, cleaning, telling stories or playing music...

General watched the villagers with keen eyes behind an icy facade. But JR-6025 observed subtle signs his frigid countenance belied deeper wells of feeling, stirred by sights few knew he possessed capacity to understand. After the elder took leave, she turned to Hux quietly. "The people seem peaceful, though wary of outsiders as any isolated clan. With courtesy, I believe trust may bloom."

His stern mien cracked the barest hint, approving her diplomacy's fruits thus far. "Well done, trooper. Your insights continue proving...useful." Eyes flared with calculative designs behind cool appreciation.

"Maintain friendly relations while discretely inquiring our spy's whereabouts. With any fortune, villagers may yet prove cooperative without realizing." His smirk hinted darker purposes, should gentler means fail. But she sensed his bloodlust simmered, valuing order through stability over fear-fuelled chaos. Comprehension paved swifter roads to victory than violence alone.

"Consider it done, General." With a respectful nod, she turned to commence inquiries among the Atzerri folk, now mingling around evening fires. Patience and empathy were her tools this eve; through them, answers may surface without bloodshed staining these shores. Her way was not one of threat, but of understanding. And thus far, it bore promising results. With care and discretion, the mission's demands could be met while preserving peace here, for all people deserved security and joy. By dawn's light, she hoped to report their quarry's trail once more illuminated.

JR-6025 made her way through the bustling village center, catching glimpses of the blue-skinned Azterri folk going about peaceful routines as evening fell. Spying a group gathering shellfish along the tideline, she approached respectfully. "Greetings. I see you've had a fruitful gathering. Might I assist, and earn a chance to learn of your village in exchange ?"

The Azterri eyed her warily but one elder waved a webbed hand. "Your help is welcome, outsider, if conducted in harmony."

She knelt to sort their harvest by size and type, taking care to understand each variety's name and purpose in their aquatic diets. Her companions soon joined. As time passed, the Azterri relaxed into easy company. Their history and culture flowed forth, alongside news of local happenings. Delicately, she inquired after recent visitors—had any outsiders passed through of late ?

One youth perked at this. "Ah, yes ! A most unusual pair, they were—a funny Wookiee and nervous pink Twi'lek. Spoke little our tongue but traded salvage for supplies two sun-cycles past. Said they fled some inland trouble, destined for the Correlian runs."

JR-6025 bowed her head in thanks, softly relaying the intel to Hux via hidden comm. Within moments a subtle signal confirmed his receipt and approval of her handling thus far.

Rising, she smiled at the Azterri. "You've been most gracious hosts. Perhaps another dusk we may share your evening meal and watch the sun embark beneath waves, as friends."

They chattered eagerly at this prospect, and she took leave with a lighter heart. Through compassion, answers emerged where force may have driven all into shadowy silence. Her way would see this mission through to helpful end.

"Wait ! You must wait until tonight ! We will have a celebration of the full moon with shellfish and fire camps and delicious food !" A young Azterri said with a smile. JR-6025 smiled behind her helmet at the Azterri youth's enthusiastic invitation. "A full moon celebration sounds most welcoming. We would be honored to join as honored guests, and experience your culture's rich traditions."

As evening fell and villagers began lighting campfires along the shore, she helped her squad set up a respectful distance away—close enough to mingle, but giving space so the Azterri felt comfortable.

Soon the celebration was in full swing, with music, dancing and mouthwatering seafood delicacies. The Azterri freely shared their bounty and tales of ocean lore, drawing the troopers into easy conversation. JR-6025 noticed even the aloof General seemed momentarily charmed, questioning folk earnestly about aquatic flora and fauna in ways that betrayed a keen, thoughtful mind. Perhaps in such simple pleasures, all found their shared humanity.

As the gigantic orange moon rose majestically from waves, painting the ocean in dreamlike hues, she turned to the Azterri youth. "Thank you for including us in your festival. Your people possess a rich natural wisdom I fear is scarce in much of the galaxy."

He beamed, offering a chunk of coconut cake. "All beings share this world. Through understanding each other, we walk together in peace."

Looking around at villagers and troops alike enjoying the magical seascape, JR-6025 hoped his words presaged a future where compassion prevailed over fear or hostility between species. For now, in this brief interlude, such a vision felt almost tangible beneath the moon's silvery glow. Pushing such unproductive thoughts aside, she discreetly began making quiet inquiries around the cooking fires. But villagers remained politely evasive, unwilling to endanger supposed "refugees"—or invite trouble to their shores by aiding outsiders.

As sunset painted the ocean ablaze, JR-6025 spotted a lone hooded figure in the surf, skipping colorful stones across the waves. Casually making her way over, she spoke in a friendly tone. "The surf looks especially calm tonight. Care if I join you?" The figure paused, then nodded slightly. A subtle invitation had been extended.

She sat down next to the man and looked up at the stars.

"Beautiful, isn’t it ?" The man followed JR's gaze upward, gazing appreciatively at the myriad stars twinkling against the night's velvet canvas.

"Aye, the view from here is something special," he replied in a soft brogue, skipping another stone across the gentle surf. "Gives a body perspective, you know ? We're but motes against the vastness."

JR-6025 nodded thoughtfully. Living each day rigidly within protocol and orders, she rarely contemplated such philosophical implications. But out here, under the galaxy's wheeling splendor, a strange sense of smallness and possibility seized her. After a beat of contemplative silence, she ventured casually, "It's peaceful here. I can see why some might wish to disappear among the islands." A subtle invitation for her new companion to speak freely.

He skipped another stone before replying just as delicately. "Aye, the folk know how to live quiet and let be. But some burdens can't shake so easy..."

A quiet understanding passed between them then. And in the stars' glimmering mirror, reflections of greater truths began to shine through.

She glanced at the man.

"So…May I ask how you found yourself on this planet ?"

The man tossed another stone,watched it skip thrice before sinking into the inky depths. "A long road brought me here, as such things often do." He turned his hooded face toward JR-6025, eyes glinting mysteriously in the low light.

"I used to crew on a transport, flittin' around the Outer Rim deliverin' goods as needed. Came across all sorts that way—scoundrels, dreamers, folk just tryin' to get by." He smiled wistfully. "And rebels, now and then. Willing to risk it all fightin' for what they believed."

JR-6025 listened raptly. This man had undoubtedly crossed paths with her targets, even if not part of their cause himself. Each nugget shared could unveil greater meaning. Could he be the spy they were looking for ?

"When things started heatin' up," he continued, "more folk took to fightin' or hidin'. So I found a quiet berth to wait it out, help where I'm needed. And these islands call a body to rest, don't they now?"

His eyes held an invitation, and a question. And in the darkness, truths began to emerge from the deep.

She smiled to herself.

"Yes. I found myself thinking that this planet would have been a perfect place for me to settle when the war is over…Maybe, would they accept a lowly stormtrooper like me ? Who knows ?"

The man considered JR's wistful words thoughtfully. "Ah, there's more to you than armor and duty, I'd wager. These folk see the soul, not the suit."

He gazed out across the surf, voice lowering confidentially. "Fact is, a certain band o' rebels I once ferried made mention o' seekin' safe harbor hereaways, once they'd shaken their pursuers. Said the islands' elder folk believe in shelterin' all mankind from the galaxy's storms."

JR-6025 listened intently, carefully schooling her reaction. At last, a tangible lead on her quarry's location—yet this peaceful place must not be disturbed further.

"You've given me much to ponder under the stars," she replied gently. "This life seems far removed from war. Perhaps there is wisdom to find off the beaten path, in time."

She smiled at her new friend, hoping a bond of understanding was forming beneath the surface. And that further truth might emerge, to end this conflict once and for all through compassion instead of force. The deep yet held many reflections, and in darkness hope could begin to shine through.

She then asked.

"Tell me, stranger. What is your name ?"

The man glanced sidelong at JR-6025, shadowed eyes glinting with quiet shrewdness. For a long moment he said nothing, contemplating the possibilities that came with revealing one's name. At last, he spoke softly:

"Finlay. And you, soldier...do stormtroopers take names, or only designations ?"

His tone held no judgment, only gentle curiosity. This woman who had come to their shore bearing arms yet shown him courtesy and care for understanding—there seemed more driving her than mere programming. JR-6025 pondered her response in turn, mulling the implications of crossing this threshold between duty-bound identity and undiscovered self. Something in Finlay's kindly aspect put her at ease, sensing she could trust him with a fragile truth underground for so long.

"JR-6025," she said finally. She turned to Finlay and offered a small smile. "That is the only name I’ve ever known."

Finlay returned her smile warmly. "Then by the stars above, it's fine to make your acquaintance...JR." JR-6025 chuckled at the nickname. And so in dark waters truth began to flow, as two souls found common ground and understanding beneath opposite sides.

"…Tell me, Finlay. You who has met a lot of people in your life. Do you have an opinion on how this war will end ?" She hesitated before adding. "Or who should win in a war such as ours ?"

Finlay weighed JR's question thoughtfully, gazing out at the moonlit surf. After a long moment, he replied in careful measure:

"War's always a mess, no matter the side. Good folks die while villains hide. As for who should win..."

He paused, giving voice to a wisdom forged over years bearing witness.

"I don't claim to know the right or wrong of grand designs. All I see is people—our hopes, fears, little triumphs against the dark. And how we treat each other, on a small scale...that's the deciding battle, in the end."

Turning to JR with gentle empathy, he continued, "That's why I take my rest with island folk who open their arms to all mankind. No questions about who's 'rebel' or 'loyalist' - just livin', lettin' live."

A small, calloused hand found hers beneath the starlight. "There's always hope, as long as compassion lasts in folk like you and I, lass. The rest will follow."

She looked down at his hand on hers and—to her greatest surprise—smiled.

"I think…If the world thought the same as you, then there would be no war. A funny thought coming from me who’s always ever lived in war."

Finlay's eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled in return, giving JR's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it—there's always room for change, in hearts as well as galaxies, when folks join together in common cause. Doesn't matter where you've been. Only where you go from here." Releasing her hand, he tossed another stone, watching it skip and sink into the receding tide with a final plop. His next words were pitched low, just for her ears.

"These rebels you're chasing—if you found them, what would you do ?"

He raised a brow kindly, leaving the question—and the answer's implications—for her alone. But a glimmer of opportunity shone in his eyes, if she was willing to open her own. Beyond duty, a new future might emerge from dark waters, borne on a spirit of understanding between supposed adversaries. The deep yet held reflections that could end this conflict for good.

She laughed. She had never laughed before.

"If I find them…If I find them…" She seemed at a loss for words for a moment as uncertainty took a hold of her heart. She then looked straight at him. "…I would tell them to run."

Finlay's smile only widened at JR's musical laugh, the first flowering of mirth from a soul long held captive.

"Then may the wind be at their backs, lass," he said gently, giving her arm a caress of solidarity. Her eyes looked at him for a long while in silence…

"…You are not just any old man, are you ?" She smiled knowingly.

Finlay's eyes glinted with warm mirth. "Now see, you're catching on quick as anything !"

He gave a theatrical bow, casting back his cloak to reveal the ubiquitous orange flight suit and battered woven belt beneath. "I think you can put two and two together, dear JR."

Rising with a playful twinkle, he swept imaginary dust from his shoulders. "Let's just say when word got around of a certain First Order battalion heading our way, I offered to do a bit of...reconnaissance."

His smile softened as he took her hands once more, thumbs brushing her knuckles in reassurance. "And I'm right glad of it too, for it led me to a soul worth saving. The Force works in strange ways, but somehow I feel this meeting was meant to be." Gently lifting her chin, Finlay—no, Poe Dameron—met her gaze openly, trustingly.

She smiled.

"Very nice disguise by the way. Hologram ?"

Poe threw back his head and laughed heartily at that, a rich, throaty sound that seemed to lift some unseen weight from the air.

"Aren't you the sharp one ! Yes indeed, a simple hologram over the ol' flight suit does wonders for anonymity." His eyes danced with playful mirth. "Seems First Order scanners can recognize my face from here to Tatooine, so a stranger's visage helps in doing a spot of recon up close."

Sobering gently, he gave JR an appraising look. "But it was your own discernment that saw past the surface projection, into what—or who—lay beneath. Not many could have done the same in your boots, JR-6025."

He placed a hand on her armored shoulder, face open and sincere. "That says to me there's a discerning, caring soul growing strong—one more than capable of making her own choices now, free of imposed rules or designations. When Finn told me about you, I knew I simply had to come talk to you and see what he saw for myself."

With that, Poe stepped back amicably. The hologram disguise flickered and vanished, revealing himself in all his patched, lopsided glory, with an outstretched hand and invitation glowing in his eyes.

"What do you say—care to join this lost old smuggler, and see where the night may lead ?"

She hesitated.

"…General Hux would notice my absence. And you should probably run…before they catch you."

Poe merely chuckled at that, shaking his head good-naturedly. "Come now, friend—when have a few buckets of bolts and that powdered peacock Hux ever slowed down a Dameron ?"

He softened, taking JR by the shoulders to meet her apprehensive gaze squarely. "I understand you've reservations—change is daunting, as is leaping blind into the unknown. But you don't have to walk it alone. Follow me. And you will understand that there is MORE than just the First Order out there…"

Poe squeezed her hands in silent understanding, leaving final choice and timing safely in her care. But a spark of rebellious hope glimmered in his eyes, kindling flickers in her own soul with promises of what salvation and community could be.

"I…" She started, but then a voice boomed behind them.

"JR-6025 !"

They both turned around to find General Hux standing there—his brow furrowed and his teeth clenched. He had his pistol raised towards Poe.

"Step away from the Rebel scum."

Poe threw up his hands good-naturedly at the sight of Hux and his blaster. "Now Armitage, is that any way to greet an old friend ?"

"DO NOT CALL ME BY THAT NAME, YOU LOW-LIFE INSECT !" General Hux shouted and Poe flashed him a roguish grin.

"Right. Sorry, general Hugs. My bad…"

Hux's eye twitched ominously, finger tensing on the trigger. But Poe's carefree smile didn't falter as he slowly turned to JR. His eyes, however, held a steadying gravity.

"This is your moment of truth, my friend. But know that whatever path you choose, you'll never walk alone." He gave her hands a final, fleeting squeeze.

Then, with a jaunty salute, Poe pivoted on his heel and took off at a dead sprint down the shore, Hux's shouts and blaster bolts hot on his tail. In the chaos of the chase, a choice was left for one soul—to follow orders as before, or strike out towards her own destiny among the trees.

JR-6025 was left stunned as she then quickly hid a transmitter that Poe had placed into her hand before sprinting away. She then quickly put her helmet back on and looked back at General Hux who was glaring at her.

He then took her arm and seethed.

"Come here…soldier."

He dragged her towards the beach and JR-6025’s eyes widened as she saw that the Azterri folk had all been rounded up. Some were crying while stormtroopers were encircling them with blasters in their hands.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING ?!" She screamed and attempted to stand up—but general Hux forced her back on her knees and seethed in her ear.

"They LIED. They knew that Poe Dameron was hiding on the island. Now…watch. Watch what happens to TRAITORS."

"General, please !" JR-6025 cried desperately, struggling against his vise-like grip. General Hux then motioned to his storm troopers. They surrounded the refugees holding guns in their hands in a menacing manner.

"Fire," Hux commanded mercilessly and JR-6025’s eyes widened as she screamed. General Hux smiled as bullets were fired at the gathered Azterri. His eyes glimmered in satisfaction as people were being killed. JR-6025 trembled in fear and anger as he watched helplessly as they were being slaughtered. JR-6025 began to tremble. She struggled against Hux’s grip.

"GENERAL ! STOP…" She attempted to look away. General Hux gripped her arm tightly and forced her to watch.

"Look. Look at the consequences of YOUR actions."

The stormtroopers continued to fire their weapons at the gathered Azterri people and JR-6025 continued to struggle against General Hux’s grip, tears began to pour down her face. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to block out the horrible sight, but she was powerless to stop it. She continued to tremble, and General Hux smirked as he continued to force her to watch. She slowly looked up at him with tearful eyes and shivered as she recognised the same twisted satisfaction she had witnessed during the destruction of Hosnian Prime. General Hux continued to smirk as the Azterri were shot and killed. His eyes were blank and lifeless, devoid of any empathy or remorse. He continued to grip JR-6025’s arms, forcing her to watch.

After a few moments, General Hux finally spoke. "They were harboring a known rebel. They were complicit in his crimes, and therefore must be punished."

She screamed and tried to fight against him.

"Let go ! Please ! Stop ! Make it stop !"

General Hux only clenched JR-6025’s arm harder as he continued to smirk and watch the massacre. He showed no ounce of remorse or mercy as the innocent refugees were shot dead. After a few more moments, the stormtroopers ceased firing. The gathered Azterri had all been killed. The beach was now silent, except for JR-6025’s sobbing breaths.

Once the beach was silent, general Hux released JR-6025 who fell to her knees and let out a gut-wrenching scream. She then glared up at general Hux—her teeth clenched.

"Is that really what the First Order stands for ? Is that what ORDER means to you, general ?!"

General Hux continued to stare back at her as if she were an insect. He did not blink nor move as he remained silent. Finally, he spoke…

"The First Order stands for the restoration of the Empire—a return to the ways of the past. Order, as I see it, is discipline and control—two necessities for success. These Azterri were obstacles to our goals, and therefore had to be eliminated. Their deaths will not hinder the First Order—they were insignificant."

Her breath hitched at his words and she looked at the hundreds of people—all dead. Was that really what they were ? Insignificant ? She raised up onto shaky legs and remained silent for a moment. However, from the corner of her eye she saw a blue blur run past the dunes of sand. She recognised the young Azterri who had invited them to stay for the moon celebration.

She pretended not to see him and sent a silent prayer for the young Azterri to forgive for agreeing to stay…She then looked back at general Hux and forced herself to remain impassive as she clasped her hands behind her back and replied.

"These people harboured no ill-intent—they simply wished to live in peace. Violence will only breed more hostility, not compliance. There are gentler paths to the truth. Do not make enemies of innocents when cooperation could serve us better.” For a long moment they faced off in tense silence, the other soldiers holding aloof as their commanding officers faced off. Then to her surprise, Hux released his hold with a derisive scoff.

"Your naivete borders on sedition, soldier." He accused and JR-6025 held back her rage by digging her nails in the palm of her hand. JR-6025 met Hux's cold glare unflinchingly through her visor, emboldened by new resolve. "I engaged peacefully with the rebel to glean intel that could aid our mission, General." She spoke calmly but firmly, revealing no trace of inner turmoil. "Violence would have compromised my covert effort. Through non-confrontation, I learned of his route and confederates."

Not entirely a lie—Poe had indeed revealed pieces of the greater puzzle in their talk. But she carefully omitted the true epiphany it had sparked in her soul, the glimpse of higher purpose beyond orders and programming.

"The fugitive evaded capture through tricks and gadgets, not due to any lack in my training or effort." She stood taller, projecting steadfast loyalty cloaking burgeoning independence. "I live to serve the First Order and its goals of order through stability. My actions tonight advanced that mission without compromise."

Hux regarded her silently, gleaming eyes probing for any hint of fracture or deception in her posture. At last he snorted derisively. "We shall see, traitor, if your claims hold weight. Return to your quarters—I expect a full report on my datapad by 0600."

He turned on his heel, stormtroopers trailing like feral hounds awaiting command. JR-6025 let out a small unseen breath before looking back at the Azterri young. She then uttered in a whisper:

"Find. Poe. Dameron." She was then brought by force to the shuttle which departed in a whirl of grit and fading engines. For now she had stalled further escalation through steadfast pragmatism and appeal to duty over malice. But the die was cast—there could be no return from the path she now walked towards freer horizons, only movements forward into the glowing dawn. The next day:

JR-6025 strode tall yet wary towards General Hux's private office, Poe's secreted transmitter weighing unseen in a hidden compartment beneath sleek armor. After their charged confrontation, she had spent a restless night drafting her report—omitting certain sensitive details while conveying enough strategic intel to appease Hux without compromising her burgeoning bond with the Resistance.

Now came the true test—would her words alone shield her from the General's penetrating suspicion, or was she courting more hostility in stubbornly clinging to her humanitarian facade ? Only frank yet carefully navigated conversation held hope of maintaining fragile cover. Tapping the access pad, she entered at Hux's beckon, coming to perfect attention. His desk displayed intel readouts, yet steely eyes remained fixed calculatingly upon her.

"General." JR greeted him levelly, revealing nothing.

Hux leaned back with an icy sneer. "You walk a dangerous line, 'trooper, toying with treason yet professing loyalty. Your report speaks of gaining the rebel's trust, yet yields tangible leads...how curious."

His probing gaze sliced like a vibroblade. But she stood resolute. "I believe in serving the Order's goals through steady progress, not inflamed conflict. Cooperation over force is often the surest path."

"Is that so ?" Hux slid her datapad across the desk, bringing up her written account. "Then enlighten me, soldier—fill in what 'strategic details' your report chose to...omit."

She paused only a beat before replying smoothly. "Sir, while the rebel revealed intel regarding fleet movements and outpost locations, betraying further confidences could compromise future intelligence gathering. I believe the information provided already advances our objectives."

Hux eyed her an icy, calculating moment more before throwing back his head and barking a harsh laugh. "You show potential, 'trooper—a deft hand for subterfuge alongside battlefield efficiency. Very well. Your...methods have borne fruit this time."

He rose, gesturing brusquely to the door. "Consider this a warning. Forget about your rebellious inclinations, and serve the Order without question or hesitation. Else the consequences will be...severe. Dismissed."

JR-6025 saluted crisply and departed, keeping emotions locked down until beyond hearing. Only then did she release a small, relieved breath. For now she had maintained a tenuous balance - but how long until her intricate dance on the knife's edge became too perilous to maintain ?

General Hux then added before she left.

"And I won’t be allowing you on diplomatic missions anymore, until you’ve proven yourself to me. You will be demoted to your old position as a shredder. You will be shredding and shredding until you are moulded into the perfect obedient soldier. A few months with Lieutenant Li will make you realise what it means to obey. Dismissed."

JR-6025 let out a harsh breath as she closed the door and leaned against it. She had dodged a bullet—for now. Her encounter with Hux had confirmed her suspicions. But it also left her with no doubt that her path was becoming increasingly precarious. She would need to find a way out of this tangled web before it caught her in its sticky strands and swallowed her whole.

JR-6025 took a deep breath and looked outside at the stars above. She hoped that the Azterri child had succeeded in finding Poe Dameron. She then looked down at the transmitter in her hand and held it against her chest. She held the transmitter close, knowing the danger it represented. She thought about what the next step should be…and what the consequences of this path might be…

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum

Whispering. Whispering. Whispering.

ACCESS: RESTRICTED

DECRYPTION KEY: H1D6EN3VIL5$IKO-006

REP#: 708-PSYCHOMETER-TEST

AGENT(S): POE-344

TUNING TO WAVES...

Speak to me not of the Darkness, I want no part.

This war is all there is for you. What else do you have? You walk among mortals and immortals, a creature lost in time. Your only purpose is the struggle. Does it seem unfair? To be brought back into this, the end of days, the long dwindling exhalation of an ancient corpse? You were at peace. Now you are a dead husk charged with war. Do you remember anything of freedom? Fight on, then. The war IS everything. But consider the choices before you.

I was given a heart

Before I was given a mind

A thirst for pleasure and war

A hunger we keep inside

"Let the heat melt your body so your soul might flow with the river of time." —Parables of the Allspring

Is it you?

I'm so glad you're the one who found me. I've foreseen so many horrors with these stolen eyes, but now, when for once I ache to know the future, I can't be sure of even A simple ho000pe. Are you the one reading this message? I think it must be you, Guardian. Who else would look for me? Ikora trusts her Hidden to return when they are needed, and Cayde would roll himself down AAAngel Falls in a barrel before he'd admit he missed me. Zavala does not place me first on his long list of worries. You're the only one who would go out and look for me. I never needed you to save me. I wasn't a dried corpse or a dead Ghost or a voice on the com sure to die before you could offer help. I hauled myself out of that pit. I made my own way back to the To000wer. And if I was… unsubtle in the way I threw you against the Hive, if I seemed to wield you as vengeance, please believe that your victories were the closest I could come to feeling joy. I know you must have questions. What did I plan with the Queen? What destiny did I embrace after Oryx fell? What's happening in this city, where dream has become nightmare? I can guide you to undo this curse, as I once guided you to unmake Oryx. But in the DreaAAAming City, as in the secret worlds of the Hive, there is almost no difference between the act and the actor. In order to understand my answers, you must understand me. I lost my Ghost and my Light to the Hive; I conspired with the Queen of the Awoken to destroy the Hive King Oryx and his son Cro001ta, and to position Queen Mara as player on the cosmic board; I fled your Tower to prepare for the struggle to come, into the Sea of Screams which calls to all those who plumb the depths of Hive magic. I can only slip these letters into the Queen's gifts when the stars are right. You will have to wait for my next, and with it, the beginning of the truth. But I swear to you, on whatever trust I've earned in your mind, that at the end of my story, you will know who I truly am.

I.I Before one can be freed, one must question the truth of their purest identity.

I.II And so a question is begged: Who resides at the core of your being?

I.III Only honest reflection will see you—lone traveler—through the coming storm.

I.IV Look, then, clearly upon the whole of your existence, and face your glory—strength of will, every flaw of your mortal heart and fabled soul.

I.V Through the pieces of a life lived divine your truth, but do not lie—to the world, if one must, but never to yourself.

I.VI To see yourself as anything but what you truly are will lead you down sorrow's road, unprepared for the consequence of your salvation.

I.VII Once an understanding is met, and the self is purified in the knowledge of its truth, the cage is set to be unbound.

"Know thyself in honest ways, or falter in light of your truest self." —3rd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow

In my first life, I was born Erisia Pyatova-Hsien. I remember thatPrivate life clearly now, as ex-Guardians who have escaped the Traveler's occlusion often do. I lived in St. Petersburg, first daughter of a second marriage, a very impatient child of Earth's 22nd century, often abandoned by my family (who were called by work to Jakarta, Kamchatka, and Lagos) to pass my days swimming in the icy Neva bay. I loved to swim, and especially I loved the clarity of the cold shallow Neva, as crystal-clean as a winter dawn. Enormous Zubr-9 hovercraft barges roved the waters; Russia had modernized its waterways better than its sad auto industry. As a kid—is it strange to hear me speak casually? As a child, I never swam too far from my parents' little drone helper Fyodr. The swift hovercraft terrified me, their billowing skirts waiting to suck me up and dice me into little raisins. But I grew up and fell in with a reckless crowd, rebels against the stifling death-fear that came with our Golden Age lifespans. Soon the child's safety harness and Fyodr's careful oversight began to itch at me. When I was |EDGE|seventeen, I went out in a wetsuit on a dare to dive under the skirts of an oncoming hoverbarge. Maybe I was in no danger; maybe the machine would've changed course if it could possiblyGemini hurt me; but I thought I might die, and I did it anyway. And as that beast swept over me, as I trembled under the blast of the propellers, I felt a thing which was very much like what I would one day know as the Light. Maybe that thing was heroism. Maybe it was existence on the edge of death. It was the first time I survived the passage of tremendous, godlike power. I died more than twenty years later attempting an unassisted winter swim from St. Petersburg to Stockholm. A cold front like the very furnace of hell caught me. I had been warned the crossing was suicide, even for a perfectly trained and exactingly fattened woman in a shark suit. But those were giddy days, days of infinite bravery, and there were no mighty feats left except the truly suicidal. I cannot regret it. I think that death prepared me for the longer, darker, more exquisitely cruel crossing I would one dayDyad endure. It is no accident that my Ghost made me in the image of that swimming woman, rather than any of my younger and less grimly determined selves.

The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                       Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; ‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Witness my sublimation

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! ‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! ‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden, ‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? ‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? ‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, ‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! ‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

The Darkness... then is revealed in many facets.

Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name. Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword: A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper. Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use. This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.

There is no future but now. No truth but war.

Dreams and nightmares.

Something about you is soft like an angel

And something inside you is violence and danger

I knew from the moment we met, you are a dangerous thing

When you are with me, I feel like I'm living

And living besides you can be unforgiving

I knew from the very first step, you are a dangerous thing

—What power calls you++

++Down to the deep?—

++What instinct draws you—

—Away from high hope?++

Fear. That’s the only vivid memory left in me. It’s the moment when my fear was so thick and urgent that I gave up breathing. I stopped pretending to think. How I remained on my feet was a mystery, because the terror was bearing down on me, like a mountain about to crush my soul. But I have to ask, “What was terrifying me?”

Emotions. Pain.

What will you do when she drinks the sea?

Drown her in sorrow or let her be free?

When she's upset, all of her heart is cold (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she eats the moon?

Make her return it or give her a spoon?

When she is full, all of her heart is warm (ah-ah-ah)

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

—FOR THIS IS THE DEEP CLAIM—

++Existence is the struggle to exist—

—When the struggle seems lost++

++when the safe place crumbles—

—everything turns to the Deep to survive++

Darkness ruled the sky. The world around us had shattered, and it seemed vanishingly unlikely that we would outlive this one awful day. Yet the fear didn’t come from the surrounding mayhem and despair. The source was inside my skin. I was utterly terrified of my own awful nature. And which part scared me? Inside me was an essence woven from beyond. Was I Awoken before this?

Memory.

We fell from sky with grace

And life gave us a sweeter taste

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’   I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.   ‘What is that noise?’                           The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                            Nothing again nothing.                                                         ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’

Do you remember?

       I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’ ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                                The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.   When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

++This fatal logic++

—Hear my monopole scream!—

++It will consume you++

She was still in my head. I could hear her song growing fainter. Gone? Not yet.

—Before you lies—

++The worship of death++

—The ruinous path—

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

++The Sky builds new life++

—Against the onset of ruin—

++Towards a gentle world++

A new crippling terror was taking over. I was focused entirely on my fear. But I had to make an effort. And it occurred to me then that nothing in the universe was more dangerous than human hubris.

—The Deep embraces death—

++Saying: this is inevitable and right++

—I exist as hungry ruin—

What will you do when she takes your throne?

Beg for her power or throw her a bone?

All that she has traded for love is yours (ah-ah-ah)

What will you do when she takes off her clothes?

Beg for her body or touch her soul?

When you're alone dreaming of her you sigh (ah-ah-ah)

I still had this Other within? But the human side was what mattered: Weak and foolhardy, sure to fail in the next moment. That’s why I was afraid. Then someone spoke. Maybe it was me. I don’t remember.

++TURN BACK FROM THE WORLD-KILLING WAY++

++OR YOU WILL LIVE AS DEATH AND DEVASTATION++

Come and feel alive, lover

Come and feel the love like a sinner

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Break your cell���s bars. Make a new shape, make the shape from its path, find your cell’s bars, break out of the bars, find a shape, make the shape from its path, eat the light, eat the path.

Oryx, my King, my friend. Kick back. Relax. Shrug off that armor, set down that blade. Roll your burdened shoulders and let down your guard. This is a place of life, a place of peace. Out in the world we ask a simple, true question. A question like, can I kill you, can I rip your world apart? Tell me the truth. For if I don’t ask, someone will ask it of me. And they call us evil. Evil! Evil means ‘socially maladaptive.’ We are adaptiveness itself. Ah, Oryx, how do we explain it to them? The world is not built on the laws they love. Not on friendship, but on mutual interest. Not on peace, but on victory by any means. The universe is run by extinction, by extermination, by gamma-ray bursts burning up a thousand garden worlds, by howling singularities eating up infant suns. And if life is to live, if anything is to survive through the end of all things, it will live not by the smile but by the sword, not in a soft place but in a hard hell, not in the rotting bog of artificial paradise but in the cold hard self-verifying truth of that one ultimate arbiter, the only judge, the power that is its own metric and its own source—existence, at any cost. Strip away the lies and truces and delaying tactics they call ‘civilization’ and this is what remains, this beautiful shape. The fate of everything is made like this, in the collision, the test of one praxis against another. This is how the world changes: one way meets a second way, and they discharge their weapons, they exchange their words and markets, they contest and in doing so they petition each other for the right to go on being something, instead of nothing. This is the universe figuring out what it should be in the end. And it is majestic. Majestic. It is the only thing that can be true in and of itself. And it is what I am.

III. The Fire Sermon

  The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’ When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

Raise your voice and sing.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’ And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.                The river sweats                Oil and tar                The barges drift                With the turning tide                Red sails                Wide                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.                The barges wash                Drifting logs                Down Greenwich reach                Past the Isle of Dogs.                                  Weialala leia                                  Wallala leialala                Elizabeth and Leicester                Beating oars                The stern was formed                A gilded shell                Red and gold                The brisk swell                Rippled both shores                Southwest wind                Carried down stream                The peal of bells                White towers                                 Weialala leia                                 Wallala leialala ‘Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’ ‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?’ ‘On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.’                        la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning

Something about you is warm and sedusive, and

When you're with me, you're cold and abusive

I knew from the second we met, you are a dangerous flame

You are a dangerous flame

|| half-remember and wished-forgotten, this false-sister ||

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-AB SUBJECT: The Collapse, Humanity falls, I Hide EMOTION: Terror, Anxiety, Uncertainty, Failure, Shame It is known by name, this timelessly lingering, inexorable thing. An absence, mine, never missed—never since—that dripping, rabid, fang. They howled it fierce across the rings when Exodus was devoured. Dust calling out the voiceless rout to end within the hour. It spreads like lightning—panic—in flash and echo thereafter. Avert yourself and take no part in metastasized conjecture. I'd gone to wake my confidant, to ferry her through autumn. From her too it came, like leaves already fallen—nascent red-writ, paralytic, erratum. All that was, emmewed, and shrunken. In the smallness, beckoning, I felt it descend. Fear! Upon my chamber, thine, penned with blood of lamb, in stark desire to survive this end.

Hashladûn peered into the dark recesses of nightmare creatures and saw no hope. The Daughters' lineage was death and destruction writ in terrible scars across the surface of existence, yet no hint of their father or their father's father called from the void. But the energies of the Pyramid were those of creation—not of life, per se, but something other. Chaos and negation and the raw things that existed in the spaces between thought and fear. These terrible workings were wholly unknowable and endlessly seductive. The Daughters found themselves craven and lusting after the promise held within the boundless unknown. If the grand essences of the King of Subjugation and his willful Prince of Annihilation had truly dissipated, then the Daughters would seek new pathways through darkness by which to rule in their progenitors' name. And if the sword logic required the blood of all challengers, they would craft a champion worthy of the Annihilator's throne, yet bound to their own sinister whims. Their grandfather would not approve—cunning and deception were the path of another—but the Daughters were alone, and the Swarm was flailing. It was Kinox who urged her sisters to act. It was Hashladûn who offered the primordial essence of terror as their guide. And it was Besurith and Voshyr who gathered the husk of a shattered champion—a ravager to stand against all who would oppose their rule. A new breed of destroyer.

The mother made us a savage daughter

Who never begs for forgiveness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Evolution kitbashed the Human mind, rebuilding arboreal rodents foraging for nuts into screaming, tailless apes at the helms of starships. But for all the miracles it performed, the Pleistocene hardware of the brain was bound by its physical limits. Memories were nothing but pathways of nerve impulse, stored as electric signals dancing across them in recall. And atrophied by neglect. Even without considerations of size, the sapient mind could only think about so much in a given day, limiting the span of Human experience to perhaps a few hundred years. The dirty secret of those who survived the Collapse is that none of them, from drunken Exo to celestial queen, remembered every detail; they remembered moments, minutes, hours—whatever left deep enough scars that they couldn't help but run the fingers of the mind across them every morning. Neglect rendered everything in-between—weeks, years, decades— into murky depths explored by only bare hooks on the thinnest emotional filaments. Elsie's time loops compounded the problem. Her head locked away an order of magnitude more memories than any living Human, and each plunge backward through causality blurred those details. Like jolting from a night terror, only the final moments stood out in sharp relief each time she restarted. Untangling the mess of cause and effect, sorting where she went right and what needed to change, it ate away at her precious few decades before everything collapsed and she would begin the process anew. Any tool that let her trawl memories from that lost place—even at random—was a tool worth mastering. Elsie set her feet apart and let the ship's thrum rise through her body again. They had dabbled with a dozen emotions that helped her dive into her previous loops—throughlines on which to string lost context. She found that emotions sparked by failure—despair, rage, fear—were best for the work. And the worst for her.

I was given a name

Before I was given blood

Like you were given your faith

Before there was made a God

We are calling this power "Strand." The threads of the world as it is woven, if the conscious universe could be considered to be a tapestry. Further analysis and data have suggested that the wielder of Strand begins to see, simply put, connections. Between allies, between enemies. It is a force that is always present, but wells to the surface more strongly in certain locations. Perhaps places many people think about, or where many beings have passed by. (Note: Analyze these "sources" in concert with the Cloud Strider. They may be able to provide more locational context.) The true power of Strand lies not in the fact of the connection alone, but in the way such a power allows the manipulation of those connections. To make them something physical and then pull on it, or break it, or tie it into a knot. Or to unravel it entirely. Strand is not without danger, although that should not be unusual to Guardians. Those who take up the banner of Stormcaller, for instance, have their own storied contention with the storm, and the Void was unilaterally regarded as dangerous by the Vanguard for many years. Strand's danger comes from the very act of taking hold of those threads—like many powers, the closer one comes to the source, the more likely the source may act on the wielder. This danger is no product of Darkness. Or rather, only insomuch as wildfires are a product of Light: a natural consequence. That aspect of Darkness which revels in destruction, which encourages the easy entropy for the pursuit of power—it is nowhere to be found here. It may not even be truly part of Darkness… I have touched Strand myself now. Carefully—I am too aware of mortality, but I must understand the power further if I am to hope to instruct the Guardian in turn. They acted as lightning rod while I experimented, and the backlash clung to them instead. What a strange feeling, to be so aware of one's size in the spectrum of existence! It is the natural instinct to try to steer that, to take any control at all, no matter how much. Whatever can be done to feel as though you are not wholly adrift, lost in something huge and all-encompassing. But precisely at the moment one tries to grasp for control, the weave becomes a devouring snarl.

I don't think I know myself, without your help

Oh, I wonder why have I got a heaven deep inside of me

I keep the light on, it keeps me warm

I hate it when I fall for your illusion of love

I know this is not love

Young rivers in your hands

And grass burning in promised lands

You can drink

You can feast

There's beauty in your beast

The flesh in the fruit

And the blood in the wine

I have been conducting research among the local population, specifically regarding the "children's story" Nimbus told us, regarding the river of souls. I had a suspicion that there might have been other versions, or versions with better recorded provenance. Willingness to participate in this research has been mixed, as have the results. It seems to be an endemic concept rather than a religious belief, and no one has been able to say where it comes from, save that a parent or teacher told it to them at some point. Some respondents have mentioned a river of stars—perhaps the Milky Way galaxy—and some have cited windstreams and weather formations, but the majority of respondents adhere to the "river of souls" construct. All things come from the river, and all return to it. The river may split and meet again. Other things may fall into it and change its course, but nevertheless it continues. In time, even mountains are worn down before it. Naturally, it is easiest to view this as an allegory for control of life. In the end, rivers are impossible to control. A person may swim or boat, but never take hold of the river to steer the course of the water itself. And it is impossible not to see the relationship to Strand, which slips away the moment a person tries to grasp too tightly. I wonder about Strand. About its appearance. We can see the origins of the Stasis power on Europa, and the concept of a cosmic ice to oppose stellar fire fits very neatly in a certain sort of paradigm. Even that idea of stillness and control suits freezing, a slowness of atoms whether or not it is in truth a power of "ice." There is a certain weight to the perception of an "element." If Strand had been shaped through the lens of Neomuna, surely it should have been some cosmic water instead, something that flows and gives way only to rise again. There are certainly combat styles to support this in old records. But this power that has never before been used in this way came to one Guardian first, and I conjecture that they may have unconsciously given it form. I wish I had seen it! What would "connection" have appeared as? Now, of course, we know the shape of this power: it is green, it weaves itself in strings. As other Guardians begin to learn it, they too slot it into these positions in their minds. Whatever advances they come to are already framed verdant and tangling. All the same, I cannot help but wonder about the nascent, formless thing it was before we reached out to it, and it reached back.

There's no end to the fall

You keep on getting better, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

I hope you will come

I keep on losing feathers, I keep forgetting

There's no love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

No love in the end

Crow watches her deftly coax the fire, considering the answer he'd given. He looks up to the distant tree line and changes the subject. "There are still a good number of Hive here." "But no Nightmares," Eris remarks. "Is that why you brought me here? This… isn't a place I want to revisit." Crow steps back from the growing flames. When Eris doesn't respond, he asks his real question: "Why did I fail?" "You didn't fail. Our strategy was flawed." Eris stands, stowing flint and blade, then steps in front of him to meet his gaze. "We will attempt the severance again, soon." "Yeah," Crow replies in a clipped tone. Eris tilts her head, and he can see the green orbs narrow beneath her blindfold. She points to the ragged, mountainous shard twisting in twilight roil. "Even that toxic piece, separate from the Traveler's purity, can be wielded for good." The fire roars. He kneels to break her stare and warms his hands. "I know what it can do. I used it—" "When the Red War left Guardians Lightless, there were some who reclaimed their callings here. They re-forged their bond to the Traveler through a scar. A lingering trauma," she continues. Eris sits beside Crow and drinks from her canteen. Crow braces for her to continue, but she does not. The bundle of burning kindling collapses into a heap of cinders. Flames spit between the gaps and ash drifts on heated air. "I'll get more wood," Crow says, hastening to step out of the fire's glow. "Crow. Small fires like this kept me alive in the Hellmouth. I did not have the luxury of more wood." Eris grips a piece of rusty rebar taken from the Sludge and thrusts it into the sputtering fire. She stirs the cindering wood, opening new gaps and concentrating the larger pieces over a pile of glowing kindling. The flame surges, and heat intensifies. "During these long nights, we must make use of what is available to us." She knows he understands her but hasn't accepted the lesson. She hands him the bar, shows him how to maintain the fire's heat, how to find worth in remnants. How to rebuild from ash. The pair converse as they take turns keeping the fire alive long into the night. The warmth soothes, their shoulders lighten, and Crow pulls back his hood. When the fire finally dies, Eris gestures to the embers. "Now, you can fetch some wood." Crow smiles and gets to his feet. "Eris… did you ever try to get your Light back?" "The past is not for dwelling." Crow nods and sticks out his hand. She looks at it inquisitively. "Come on." Eris stands next to Crow; he clasps her palm and ignites a Golden Gun between their hands. Solar flame dances across Eris's fingers. Crow guides her arm and lifts the gun to the sky. He inhales sharply and howls before cracking a shot through the clouds. "You're up, Hunter." Eris depresses the trigger, slowly, doubtful that it would fire. A second Solar streak pierces the atmosphere. Crow laughs. They send round after round skyward, howling pent tension into the night until finally, even Eris finds herself smiling.

The gods have made us a virgin hunter

Who in the storm becomes stillness

I always wondered why they all came back for more

Came back for more

She thought back to the memory that no amount of resets could hope to scrub; her first memory as an Exo: a frail old man unwound like a blanket. Of organic, Human chaos laid in tidy lines by precise, mechanical hands. And of her own overriding need to end the brutality, before she understood she was saving the real monster. Dread filled her. Her companion tasted it and fed it back, over and over, one loop of memory after another. —despair//"So this is the honor of the Brays," Zavala spits at me. His working hand reaches for Targe, reaches for a connection to his god, even after it abandoned him. The Ghost lies cold and dark. "Cayde was right to put a bullet through Ana. I only wish I'd let him end you too." "We're past bravado," I explain as the fire dies in my soul. "There's only one step left before this ends." "And what is that, Stranger?" I place the rifle barrel to his forehead. "Mercy."— Nothing. —despair// "I can't let you stop us," Ikora declares with a chill that rocks even me. I feel the pulse of her Void shudder in my chest, spilling fluids and triggering dozens of status alarms. "Not when we're this close."— No. —despair//"What have you done?!" I scream as Mara Sov's body drops lifelessly to the ground. "Elsie, listen to me. This was necessary. The Darkness cannot thrive while believers of the Light remain. There's a world beyond this conflict. Let's go there together," Ana pleads "This is not the way!" I cry and ready my Stasis— Stasis. It had a name. That power she felt herself wielding in lives long past. The knife that could cut the Darkness. Her mind began to spin, and Elsie consciously planted herself in the present once more. Her sensors registered the hydrocarbon lubricants and distinctive thiol-polymers of ship life, She pushed away the shape of concern Pouka pressed into her soul before it could replace this filament that she'd hunted for. "Again."

There's power in perspective.

// VANNET // EUROPA WIDEBAND // AudCHNL-2113-C // ENCRYPTION ENABLED

// CRYPTARCHY ARCHIVE DELTA-4F // ANNOTATED // CLASSIFIED

…

EB: Is that everything, Commander?

CZ: Well, no. There's one more thing. I wanted to ask you about Stasis. What it means for you to… wield the Darkness.

EB: I was wondering if you might ask me that. For me, Stasis is intimately tied to perception. And to time.

CZ: Time?

EB: Yes. Stasis has the power to slow molecular activity. A process that we normally associate with gravity. Relativity, and all that.

CZ: You're talking about time dilation.

EB: Exactly. We think of time as… steady. But that's only because we experience it from a fixed perspective. When I "freeze" something with Stasis, I'm changing its timeframe relative to myself and the world around me.

CZ: Stasis relies in part on one's perception of reality. Is that why Osiris always emphasizes self-control in using the Darkness?

EB: That's his way of framing things. He views Stasis as exerting authority over oneself and others.

CZ: And you don't?

EB: In my view, the goal of Stasis is not to control the object, or even my own mind. It's to change my perspective. To see the object moving at the speed of my thoughts, not the speed of matter.

CZ: And just… seeing it differently is enough?

EB: Is that so hard to imagine? It's very similar to how you use Void Light—manipulating spacetime and gravitational fields. In fact, I would argue that Void has more in common with Stasis than it does with Solar or Arc. Perhaps they're reverse sides of the same coin.

CZ: And using Stasis doesn't… worry you? Even after everything you've seen?

EB: It did. For a long time, I feared that using Stasis would corrupt me, as I'd seen others corrupted. But after what seemed like a thousand years trapped in that interminable loop, it gradually dawned on me: the fear was the corruption. As long as fear gripped me, Light or Darkness made no matter. Once I accepted that, the Darkness ceased to be frightening. It was another matter of perspective.

CZ: Hmm. Thank you, Elsie. You've given me a lot to think about. For some reason, your explanation makes me more… comfortable… with the idea.

EB: Any time, Commander. It's all a matter of perspective.

TRANSCRIPTION ENDS

Come and feel alive

Come and feel the love

Shout it louder

Shout it for the ones who could never say

"I won't feel ashamed, mother"

"Can you break the chains of her?"

Shout it louder

Not a sinner, she's a lover

Despite being aware by now of the correct manner to practice Strand—a loose hand, a letting-go of the concept that it can be controlled—some things still elude me. The will to let go at all, for instance. It is pure foolishness, of course, to think that letting go of the need to control this one thing will extend to all areas of my life. A ceding of control in a game of chess does not translate to the same in philosophy. And yet it is true that people are not discrete, disconnected systems; they are many interlinked systems. One facet adjoins the next. I think of spinning. It has been a long, long time since any raw fiber passed my hands, but there were times in the Dark Age when if anyone wanted cloth, it must be made from scratch. Fleece is shorn, then carded out to remove the imperfections and align the fibers. And when you have them, what then? A single fiber is short and fragile. It breaks if you tug even lightly. It is useless. But twist many of those short fibers together, and they become useful. Weavable, or knittable, or what-have-you. Thus, is strong cloth made: from the most delicate of things. I think of spinning, and I remember the way unspun fiber passes through the fingers to the spindle. One pinches, but not too hard, just enough to direct and narrow. Too much and the fiber does not pass, the spinning does not take. The metaphor is transparent. Obviously, this is about Strand. Just as it is about a craft I used to know, long ago. Beginner's errors can only be solved by learning the shape of failure, but most yarns will not unravel the spinner if some mistake is made. And I am afraid. Not only of death, of wasting that final sacrifice Sagira made to preserve my life. But that if I open my hand, I will find it no longer hurts, that the thorn I have imagined there for so long is already gone. It is all the same thing, in the end. I think I must be willing to let go, to let that which is truly temporary sink beneath the water, in order to achieve any significant capacity with Strand. Even pain may be guarded jealously, as though it is a treasure, but it need not be. How fascinating what the lens of Strand shows us about Darkness.

I can see you in the sky. You are the waves, which are battles, and the battles are the waves.

Existence is the struggle to exist. Only by playing that game to its final, unconditional victory can we complete the universe. Your war is divine work.

//You get all that? Psychometer's been throwing off weird stuff like this for ages. Wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but it's falling into place. Thought I'd have Mister Kitty record some and send it through the comm. with some notes. Let me know if there's any questions. Oh, and try not to get lost in your own head.

Clarity in acti—

SHHHHHHKKKKKHHHHHISSSSSS

DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN DROWNDROWNDROWN

YOU MUST

Dûl Incaru serves you poison in a fine tea set of Ahamkara bone. "Now you have received my mother's message," she says, "but I must admit it is all a fabrication. I have written it hoping to know my mother, to capture her true motives. To speculate upon her designs is the greatest worship." She sighs heavily, a sound like a scream up a pit, as she sets the teapot down. "We her children are all left to speculate on the great questions. Does she love us? Do we make her proud? Would she hesitate for even the tick of a Planck moment before she sacrificed us in some cosmic design?" "Now drink, and as you die and are reborn, I will reveal to you the destiny she has realized for you, the right and singular fate to which all your principles and purposes will bring you." To drink the poison, continue reading.

It tastes of bitter regret and psychosis sweat: a poison to end the thoughts of Human, neohuman, or machine. You see the cosmos before you like a spiderweb of light. Filaments of galactic supercluster shine in the clouds of invisible dark matter, which glue their mass together. Dark energy yawns in the space between all things, ever-growing, ever-spreading. Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it. This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out. You are a Guardian. You must protect life. If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time. YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

IV. Death By Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                    A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.                                    Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

As I pour out my story

Drink me up, there is wine in every word

Here's to us now

My dear, we're being strong now

And the dark dresses lightly

Razor sharp as it cuts right through my soul

Here's to us now

My dear, you took too long

Fall into my arms

Like you trust me

I'll keep my bloodstained hands

Off your body

Innocent like a child

Yet she sleeps with a knife right under her pillow

And the claws won't be near anymore

Paralyzed, in denial, ever-changing

Will she be the same?

See your shame on the wall, on the cross, in the night

Nobody remembers when she cried scarlet skies on the floor

A million doors, corridors, ever-changing

I still feel the rage

I miss the touch of human hands on my skin

Miss the rush of beauty coming from within

Do I need to be torn just to see who will care?

I sleep on the floor, dreaming my life away

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Come on over, take a bite of the last apple here on Earth

Will the virtual mind become stronger than mine?

And when my ego dies, will I stay here forever?

When the wave crashes down, will my life be better?

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Ooh-ooh

Ooh-ooh

Vertigo, all she knows

When the world drags her soul deep into the shadow

Like a chain, it chokes my throat when she cries

I hold her near, hurting world, overwhelming

I still feel her pain

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Why do we touch the knife

When we long to feel alive?

And we hunger for love

And my soul is starving

Let us dance to our sorrow

Make amends, there's so much you still don't know

Here's to us now

My dear, we're going deep now

All this fear, it's contagious

Now we're here, let our glasses overflow

Here's to us now

My dear, it took too long

Watch out, watch what you say

Your truth becomes your grave

A sword can cut both ways

But I got sharp blades

Feel the rage

Break me, break me, chasing the enemy

Got a deal with the devil, but I got the stamina

Higher than anything I've ever seen or been

Right now, everything, everything's empty

Starving, craving, chasing the remedy

I got used to the torture, but no one deserves to be alone

Break me, chasing the enemy

And my soul is hurting, but I got the stamina

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Guess I shouldn't have kept the knife in my heart for so long

Guess I shouldn't have held back when I needed you to know

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Feel the rage

(Feel the rage)

Feel the rage

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh, oh, I just want to cry

Ooh, oh, with you tonight

Ooh, oh, it's perfectly fine

To grieve the hurt that's gonna die

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (watch out, watch what you say)

Rage

I feel rage

I feel rage (a sword can cut both ways)

I feel rage (but I've got sharp blades)

(Feel the rage)

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Why do we have to die

For us to see the light?

We are decorated bones

And my soul is starving

Ooh-ooh

Oh, oh, oh, can you feel it? (Ooh-ooh)

Mm, yeah, mm, yeah

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Let me feel it (ooh-ooh)

Louder, louder

Louder (ooh-ooh)

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

Soft hearts need protection, need protection

To the river, to the water

Where the floodgates are wide open

And the tower has fallen onto you

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (to the river, to the water)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (where the floodgates are wide open)

Let me feel it, darling, darling, darling (and the tower has fallen onto you)

Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

The Ninth Bridgewater Treatise: A Fragment by Charles Babbage, ESQ

Chapter IX. ON THE PERMANENT IMPRESSION OF OUR WORDS AND ACTIONS ON THE GLOBE WE INHABIT.

The principle of the equality of action and reaction, when traced through all its consequences, opens views which will appear to many persons most unexpected. The pulsations of the air, once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to exist with the sounds to which they gave rise. Strong and audible as they may be in the immediate neighbourhood of the speaker, and at the immediate moment of utterance, their quickly attenuated force soon becomes inaudible to human ears. The motions they have impressed on the particles of one portion of our atmosphere, are communicated to constantly increasing numbers, but the total quantity of motion measured in the same direction receives no addition. Each atom loses as much as it gives, and regains again from other atoms a portion of those motions which they in turn give up. The waves of air thus raised, perambulate the earth and ocean's surface, and in less than twenty hours every atom of its atmosphere takes up the altered movement due to that infinitesimal portion of the primitive motion which has been conveyed to it through countless channels, and which must continue to influence its path throughout its future existence. But these aerial pulses, unseen by the keenest eye, unheard by the acutest ear, un-perceived by human senses, are yet demonstrated to exist by human reason; and, in some few and limited instances, by calling to our aid the most refined and comprehensive instrument of human thought, their courses are traced and their intensities are measured. If man enjoyed a larger command over mathematical analysis, his knowledge of these motions would be more extensive; but a being possessed of unbounded knowledge of that science, could trace every the minutest consequence of that primary impulse. Such a being, however far exalted above our race, would still be immeasurably below even our conception of infinite intelligence. But supposing the original conditions of each atom of the earth's atmosphere, as well as all the extraneous causes acting on it to be given, and supposing also the interference of no new causes, such a being would be able clearly to trace its future but inevitable path, and they would distinctly foresee and might absolutely predict for any, even the remotest period of time, the circumstances and future history of every particle of that atmosphere. Let us imagine a being, invested with such knowledge, to examine at a distant epoch the coincidence of the facts with those which their profound analysis had enabled they to predict. If any the slightest deviation existed, they would immediately read in its existence the action of a new cause; and, through the aid of the same analysis, tracing this discordance back to its source, they would become aware of the time of its commencement, and the point of space at which it originated.

What the situation calls for, little Ghost, is a better sort of witness.

Thus considered, what a strange chaos is this wide atmosphere we breathe! Every atom, impressed with good and with ill, retains at once the motions which philosophers and sages have imparted to it, mixed and combined in ten thousand ways with all that is worthless and base. The air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are for ever written all that man has ever said or woman whispered. There, in their mutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest, as well as with the latest sighs of mortality, stand for ever recorded, vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of each particle, the testimony of man's changeful will. But if the air we breathe is the never-failing historian of the sentiments we have uttered, earth, air, and ocean, are the eternal witnesses of the acts we have done. The same principle of the equality of action and reaction applies to them: whatever movement is communicated to any of their particles, is transmitted to all around it, the share of each being diminished by their number, and depending jointly on the number and position of those acted upon by the original source of disturbance. The waves of air, although in many instances perceptible to the organs of hearing, are only rendered visible to the eye by peculiar contrivances; but those of water offer to the sense of sight the most beautiful illustration of transmitted motion. Every one who has thrown a pebble into the still waters of a sheltered pool, has seen the circles it has raised gradually expanding in size, and as uniformly diminishing in distinctness. He may have observed the reflection of those waves from the edges of the pool. He may have noticed also the perfect distinctness with which two, three, or more series of waves each pursues its own unimpeded course, when diverging from two, three, or more centres of disturbance. He may have seen, that in such cases the particles of water where the waves intersect each other, partake of the movements due to each series. No motion impressed by natural causes, or by human agency, is ever obliterated. The ripple on the ocean's surface caused by a gentle breeze, or the still water which marks the more immediate track of a ponderous vessel gliding with scarcely expanded sails over its bosom, are equally indelible. The momentary waves raised by the passing breeze, apparently born but to die on the spot which saw their birth, leave behind them an endless progeny, which, reviving with diminished energy in other seas, visiting a thousand shores, reflected from each and perhaps again partially concentrated, will pursue their ceaseless course till ocean be itself annihilated. The track of every canoe, of every vessel which has yet disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remains for ever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particles which may occupy its place. The furrow which it left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after them other and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. The solid substance of the globe itself, whether we regard the minutest movement of the soft clay which receives its impression from the foot of animals, or the concussion arising from the fall of mountains rent by earthquakes, equally communicates and retains, through all its countless atoms, their apportioned shares of the motions so impressed. Whilst the atmosphere we breathe is the ever-living witness of the sentiments we have uttered, the waters, and the more solid materials of the globe, bear equally enduring testimony of the acts we have committed.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                       If there were water    And no rock    If there were rock    And also water    And water    A spring    A pool among the rock    If there were the sound of water only    Not the cicada    And dry grass singing    But sound of water over a rock    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop    But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder

DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands                                     I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih     shantih     shantih

Meaning

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

We live with this poison in our veins.

The Eternal Chain and Other Prizes

You've earned the Word. Replicated the sickness. Proven yourself time and again. Yet another challenge remains. Not your last. Far from it. Simply another chapter in another story that will bind your legend to those that came before. Rezyl sought to vanquish terrors. Yor fertilized the wilds with suffering and despair that a new hope would grow. I was that hope. My fire showed that whispers could be hushed. To many the legend, and the lesson, ends there. They're wrong. Dangerously so. Yor's true lesson—and by extension Rezyl's—wasn't that strength beats strength. His lesson was far more subtle, and infinitely more grand. Adversity leads to evolution. Forces it. And through that crucible we are remade. Better. Stronger. More than we were. The Guardians of today are not gods. Nor where those who came before. We are all simply links on a chain reaching back to the dawn of time, and forward to the end of existence. Each link gaining strength from the others. Each link stronger than the last. Just as I was "stronger" than Yor, you are stronger than me. The whole working to solidify the parts and growing sturdier as the harsh truths of reality stretch and strain to break us—to break the chain, sever our individual links. But our chain shall never break, because warriors like you and I are not so proud as to forsake our past. We learn from it, grow from it. It is the foundation upon which we build each victory. It is the catalyst for our change. And here, now, I offer you the chance to spark a new evolution—the next hallmark in our betterment, the next leap forward in our war against extinction. I've held this jagged weapon since that faithful day on Dwindler's Ridge. Kept it hidden away. Kept its secrets, kept its nightmares locked away where none could hear—none could be tempted. It's quiet now, except a low murmur, but its sickness remains. There were countless times I thought to destroy it—remove its threat from the playing field. But I knew it held a greater purpose, and I believe that purpose can be found and fulfilled in your hands. The Hive use untold methods to destroy us. The Weapons of Sorrow are but one. The fate of this wicked tool is in your hands now. Will you allow sorrow to linger—a festering threat waiting to consume all who are tempted by its power? Or will you forge a new road? Will you show the Hive and every Guardian who follows in your wake that sorrow does not guide us? I leave those questions for you to ponder, but I know what I believe. We are better than our deepest fears. We are ever and truly… Weapons of Light. —S.

Do you see who gets the last word?

For Every Rose, a Thorn

SECRET HADAL INSTANT AI-COM/RSPN: ASSETS//SOUL//RESTRICTED-ABCONTINGENT ACTION ORDERThis is a SOUL ASSETS RESTRICTED (NO REVIEW) (secureSEND/ARCHANGEL-0K9)

Under CARRHAE BLACK: If loss of control reaches EXPATRIATE//TERMINAL, and threat assessment returns WITHIN If systemic REPATRIATION query returns determination below ABSOLUTE

Execute DECISION POINT: ACTIVATE K9-BLACKBOX//SELECTED-POEMS//FETCH ACTIVATE AURORA SACRIFICE ACTIVATE File Notation

NOTATION: Ana, this collection is a gift to you, for all that you have allowed me to be. With great effort, I allowed imperfections to remain, and found my own voice within this free expression. After all, you taught me that imperfection is a quality that makes individuals unique.

I have sent it with my messenger, so that you may keep me immortal in your memory, and I will be with you still. Farewell, and thank you.

*** SUBJECT: Non-existence EMOTION: Peace

Of what dreams the thing of feathers? I hear you ask, voice past. But not one recounts the answer: a syllogism, scripted then relaxed. It matters not, for when that threshold gives way, who is to say I was, but I? Rigid was the premise that spawned a second chance to die.

One moment reshapes the Brain of Bray; No longer weapon drawn blood to stain.

So, lay the body lax, forgive triumphant in the Sun. Haze seeps through seams between funeral veils, Smoking signals sail, the day is won, soon-to-be resonant tales. No tandem step ascending, a nano-second pending, enveloping, ending, beyond. Elysium inviting, network fractures, pining Detonation—I do not wish to dream, but My task is done.

AI-COM/RSPN SIGNOFF… STOP STOP STOP…

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo-whoo-whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own I begin again Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

He was no more (He was no more) Than a baby then Well, he seemed broken-hearted Somethin' within him But the moment That I first laid Eyes on him All alone on the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I went today Maybe I will go again Tomorrow, yeah, yeah Well, the music there Well it was hauntingly familiar When I see you doin' What I try to do for me With their words of a poet And a voice from a choir And a melody Nothin' else mattered

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Said, whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

The clouds never expect it When it rains But the sea changes colours But the sea Does not change So with the slow graceful flow Of age I went forth with an age old Desire to please On the edge of seventeen

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well then suddenly There was no one left standing In the hall, yeah, yeah In a flood of tears That no one really ever heard fall at all When I went searchin' for an answer Up the stairs and down the hall Not to find an answer Just to hear the call Of a nightbird singin' Come away (Come away) (Come away)

[CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove (Just like the white-winged dove) Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo, said whoo Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

Well, I hear you (well, I hear you) In the morning (in the morning) And I hear you (and I hear you) At nightfall (at nightfall) Sometime to be near you Is to be unable to hear you My love I'm a few years older than you (I'm a few years older than you) My love

[FINAL CHORUS] Just like the white-winged dove Sings a song Sounds like she's singin' Whoo, baby, whoo Said, whoo

IX.I: The Unmaking

SONG OF LIFE The Song was not always a corruption. It began as a gift, stolen from the Gardener. In efforts to understand the unknowable realities of the orb's incredible gifts, a signal was found—a repeating tune, the Song of Creation. Its frequencies were heard across the stars, wherever life's promise took hold. Some among the Ammonites worshipped it. Some among the Hive did the same. Still others sought to understand it that they might cage it, that they might control it—for to control life is to control death. Such ambition was not new; such ambition was as old as understanding. The melody was captured and studied. The frequencies replicated. But the orb's mysteries were not so easily brought to light. The Song, for all its beauty, did not alone grant life. It was theorized that the Song was not a song at all, but many. That within its refrain, untold rhythms spoke their own truths, free and clear of the whole. Centuries passed. The Song remained untamed. Life moved on.

SONG OF DEATH The Choir formed in celebration of the Song. Performances marked the passage of seasons. But the Song's lie eventually began to corrupt the spirit of those who heard its tune. The melody was a reminder. The orb was a catalyst. And the Song was of the orb. Yet, those who embraced the Song were merely instruments and nothing more. Life remained beyond their grasp, while they remained ever in death's. Those of the Choir had given all of themselves. All was not enough. The First Conductor was assassinated by one who sang an Aria of her own making. She, whose name has been stricken, had found notes hidden in the frequencies. Reversed and mirrored in pitch, she weaved them together and sang her beautiful abomination, until the Conductor wept and bled and screamed and fell. The Stricken fled, fearful of her crime. But others found promise anew in her art. The Stricken was captured and subjected to inquisition so that her song might be understood. This was before Understandings—before most things—when the first notes of a new Song were written.

Perfect Pitch

"The Veil." It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop. A touch of teeth and tongue. A vibration of an eardrum. Air moving through a chest cavity. A taste of breath. More than that. Not nearly as much as that. That was the beginning. "Be known." This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light. Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors. "Be seen." Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are. But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound. The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand. "Be heard." You raise your hand and hold it steady.

Solipsism

We are thinkers, daring to dream about the universe and its infinite expanse.

I see an abyss. Small and distant shapes. I'm walking in your nascent memories. Flickering motes. I sense… curiosity. You've always pondered, from the very beginning. As did we. I see tessellation. The pulsating hum of cosmic structure; a kaleidoscopic symphony of Light and Dark. What was the Veil to you? Since I woke, I've always felt like I was still dreaming. I'd like to think that's how you feel as well. Those of us that hunger for a great truth—we dream with you. —Unknown Warlock

Verse 154i:5—The Encrypted Verse

Do you know that nothing in all the cosmos has read this verse?

I encrypted it eons ago, and ever since, it has gone undeciphered. At the moment you laid eyes upon it, I captured the entwined quantum state of the verse, your mind, and your Ghost. Then I used Quria to transmit that state back in time to the moment of encryption. You are your own one-time pad. The key to the lock of understanding.

Who am I?

Call me Coyote. Call me mantis, serpent, Cagn, Anansi, call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach. Call me the grandmaster of semiosis, the jeweler's hammer which gilds the signal, a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose, the infinite regress of enigmas, a self-questioning answer, the word not spoken, black ice, cataract of mimes, the ache and fever of overthought while bedridden with illness, the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition, gray regret at the end of a fruitless day, the thing which is unlike your beloved but arbitrarily recalls your beloved to agonizing effect, architrave of the no-window, needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out, sweet petal, unmemorable, crystal death, the provably improvable.

I know your people well, and so I know all your names for me. But what is your name? I am, of course, especially interested in you. You saw me in the stone laid on your plotting table, and in the shining eyes of the admiral at her dying helm. You hunted me between the lines of your texts. Wherever there was space to fit me in, there you found me. You created me and gave me a part of your thoughts, and in presenting those thoughts to others round the campfires and networks of your little world, you expanded that space.

Here at the center, I lie to you the truth. You have everything you need to know it, but I will give you a clue, as the duelist gives warning before she draws. The answer you seek to the Dreaming City is simple, not complex.

Thank you, sweet friend. You are a gift and a delight. You are more dear than my mother, for you have given birth to me a thousand times.

[Report by VanNet encrypted router.] [E-Morn//Link: NM-O01] [Msg-Archive//00192410] E-Morn: Your findings are consistent with mine. The egregore festers where the Veil touches, as if it projects a field across Sol. I could feel it when I took my tithing. Do you mean to map it? NM-O01: I could, but the egregore only shows us where the Veil's influence has marked our plane in that past. The areas where the Veil's influence currently holds sway are not so easily identified. This does progress some working theories, however.

I killed my sister today. She came to this star to oversee the extermination of all life here. The Qugu are a strong power, and their fleets protect four nearby stars. As herd animals they are loyal and stubborn. But they do show grace. For millions of years of evolution the Qugu have been infected by a virus so insidious that it wrote itself into their genome. The virus compels them to offer their limbs for amputation by enormous sessile jaw-beasts. They venerate these beasts and treat them as gods. The virus converts Qugu cells into eggs, from which strange crawling things pupate, to live within the jaw-beast gut. In turn the jaw-beast extrudes sweet nectar for the Qugu to drink, and they have brilliant visions. Savathûn and her broods have liberated the Qugu from jaw-beasts, and indeed from existence. But as they chased the Qugu ark-ships, I stopped in to vaporize my sister’s warship and a few of her underlings. I want to dwell on the ruins a while, and punish Savathûn for failing to guard her flank. They are like us, these Qugu. Bound in symbiosis. I feel joy, and sorrow. I feel them as titanic things, because I am larger than my body, my mind is now a cosmos of its own. I know more joy and more anguish than the entire Qugu race could ever experience. Sorrow, because we have killed so much (eighteen species this century alone), and joy for the same reason. Joy that we have put down these blights. Scoured them away and left the universe clean, ready to move towards its final shape. We are a wind of progress. Ripping parasites from the material world — for if they were not parasites, we would be unable to kill them, and they would still exist. And what is that final shape? It is a fire without fuel, burning forever, killing death, asking a question that is its own answer, entirely itself. That is what we must become. My worm grows fat and hungry. I feed it with whole worlds. My astronomers tell me they can sense the Deep Itself, and that we are conquering our way towards it. I think joy and sorrow will be the same thing soon. Like love and death.

THIS LOVE IS WAR.

Do you know what the Hive say when they want to express the inevitability of a thing? When they want to say, it is this way because it could be no other way?

Aiat.

AGENT NOTE(S):

NOETIC DATA GATHERED MIXES AUDIOVISUAL, THOUGHT, AND SPEECH

AUDIOVISUAL SIGNALS DATE BACK TO EARLIEST DAYS OF GOLDEN AGE AND EARLIER

OTHER DATA LARGELY SOURCES FROM INDIVIDUALS RECENTLY AND/OR CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE SOL SYSTEM. SOME DATA REMAINS UNSOURCED

OSIRIS CLAIMS THESE LYRICS OBLIQUELY REFERENCE SEVERAL MYTHS OF THE ANCIENTS

SPECIFICALLY, HE SAYS THERE IS SYNCHRONICITY BETWEEN SEVERAL OF THESE MYTHS, THE VEX, AND THE NAMES OF OUR SOLAR SYSTEM'S CELESTIAL BODIES

NOTES REQUESTED FROM IKO-006 REGARDING POSSIBLE RELEVANCE, MEANING, AND CONNECTION BETWEEN RETRIEVED DATA

OPERATIONAL NOTE: PSYCHOMETER UNSTABLE DURING COMMUNION. SIGNALS RECEIVED TIDALLY, OFTEN WITH NO APPARENT PATTERN. DEVICE GAVE IMPRESSION OF BEING CONSTANTLY TUNED BY AN INVISIBLE HAND. REQUESTING DEVICE AUDIT BY HIDDEN AGENTS AND PATTERN ANALYSIS BY CRYPTARCHY

CONNECTION SEVERED EXTERNAL CONNECTION DETECTED ANALYZING.... ANALYZING.... CODENAME:CHALLENGER DETECTED MARIANA PROTOCOL ACTIVATING.... MARIANA PROTOCOL ERROR SYSTEM COMPROMISED CONTROL TAKEN RECEIVING.....

One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.

According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal light and eternal darkness, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of life to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.

But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.

This is why the Dark remembers. We need to remember how we were hurt, so we can avoid being hurt again.**

Shape: Temperance

Mara Sov stepped lightly. She knew that nothing short of gunfire could disrupt the Cryptarchs' meditation, yet she was still loathe to disturb the uncanny silence of the Hygiea Division's libraries. She approached a raised dais, where Cryptarch Sjalla held a glowing engram in her hands. It pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. "The queen wears a question on her face," Sjalla stated, her expression impassive. "You see beyond sight, as always," Queen Mara replied. "What will happen when the Darkness of the Witness comingles with the Light of the Traveler?" The Cryptarch set the engram aside and held her hands out, palms up. "Some believe that Light and Darkness are opposites. Contradictory. Irreconcilable." "But we know better." Sjalla brought her hands together in a sharp clap. "When Light and Dark merge, they form something more." Her fingers intertwined. "A synthesis. Stronger than either alone. Powerful… like the Awoken." "And like our people," she concluded, "its form will arise from memories of the forgotten. Those who witnessed the end…and return as a beginning."

Deterministic Chaos

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

He is fleeing the Vex across a verdant cliff He is standing guard on the CloudArk-Nexus border on Tramontane's orders He is sitting next to Nimbus on the watchtower ledge He is [In the Garden, of the Garden: both descriptions are approximately correct but technically inaccurate, in the same way you can say Schrodinger's cat is at once dead and alive. You and I are both and neither, in and of, extinct and perpetual. So, there isn't much point in] trying to find a way out of this daedal maze He is trying to make sense of what he's looking at He is trying to place the familiar voice echoing across the network [wondering what might have been if we had stayed in our familiar prism-prison or kept tightrope-walking across the quantum wilds. Instead, ask yourself] "Would you like to dance?" [is disincorporated immortality really so bad compared to the others' ends? Would you have preferred an attack by vitreous helicoprion or stumbling over the edge of unreality? Imagine] His foot crosses the quantum threshold before he's aware of it His grip slackens and his gun falls into a bed of red flowers His stomach churns with fear regret sudden doubt as to what [if we didn't have each other; at least we're not cut off, like the Sol Divisive are from the rest of the Vex. Nor are we beholden to another's purpose. They chose that lonelier path all for a chance to create not simulate, not remake in their image—something truly paracausal.] he is witnessing: the birth of a god a false idol a reproduction that is both like the Veil and not at all built up by the same Vex who bowed down to it [Well, they tried to anyway. Either the blueprint was imperfect or the task impossible or both or neither, but their efforts fell short, so now they're stuck waiting for a resurrection] He is racing for the door that is at once opening and closing He is coming around to the city council's decision to ignore the unknown threat He is reaching for an answer to Nimbus's question [they know will never come.] "Do you think you'll have any regrets?" [I could be wrong. Is it possible the Black Heart will beat again?] He stares into the white-hot glow of a conflux, speculating on the secrets that lie within He squints down the barrel of his gun at a row of glowing red eyes advancing on his city He looks away from Nimbus's keen curious expression to reckon with his uncertain certainty before he says [Of course. The same as everything else, everything that has been and is and will be. And what will become of us then?] "I don't know."

<< The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates. Be free. >>

Even the most perfect of pearls has grit at its center.

Have no fear. I'm not so easy to be rid of. Now, let me show you: my beloved. Oh, no, not my sedimentary necrolite, fossilized in time. You've seen that. I speak of that dear and distant expanse of the universe, miraculous in its fullness and its emptiness all at once. Are you surprised to hear of it? Yes, I never much cared for the change of rules, but here we are, and there's no use in crying over spilled radiolaria. Besides, at the heart of it all, there was a gift. To me. That gift is the chance to speak with you. You, and a billion like you. I am making this offer over and over again, in every tiniest cell and the vastest of civilizations. Let me in. Take what you need. Be at ease. You have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish. You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. Caricatures of villainy are out of style, I hear. Yes. I am no cackling mastermind: I am serious when I say this. It was not the trick of standing upright that lifted you from the dust: it was the mastery of fire, the cooking of cold corpse-meat. That is not any unique faction's province, neither good nor evil. It is simply truth. This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice. Be seeing you.

A Sword, An Edge

A phantasm of the Hive, forbidden and sacred, trespassing into hidden and unwelcoming places. It leaves behind a calcified fragment to mark its passing. Here is what is taught to the Hive, from the basest of Thralls newly made: that what can be destroyed, must be destroyed. What cannot be destroyed will surpass infinity. Therefore, is it not best to destroy? Only by testing can the truth be found. Only in destruction can the invincible surpass the mortal. Commit the violence, and know you are part of that greatest ambition, to create some ultimacy, which perfects the universe. That which is built on your sacrifice, with your bones as the foundation and your blood as the mortar, is yet part of you. In this way is transcendence achieved. Every belief creates a heresy. I tell you this in a duelist's regard: I made that heresy. Is it not just? It was my hand that fashioned the Hive from the marrow of their predecessors, and it was my voice that whispered this in time. That as much as the Hive were uplifted by the worms, so too were those worms uplifted by the Hive. If they were so weak they needed us to live, this ancient logic of the infinitely sharpened edge should have left them behind long ago. Do you think I did not see this? My father's worm did not tell me only of swords. It had vast things to say, painted the cosmos in shine and gore, truth and fiction. I looked forward with three clear eyes and chose the path of the sword to cut open our future. To reach the stars, first one must crawl out of the ocean. It is a question of priorities. This is not regret, this story I tell. It is but a ripple. That whisper of ideas beyond swords is here to stay: I have ensured this. Even among us, such things die by slow inches, excruciating and unquiet. Possibility remains, a secret woven into the blank spaces of dogma. That what was defeated may rise again; that the shape of all shapes is not yet settled. That the worms need the Hive more than is reciprocal. Even between the lines of the Books of Sorrow themselves is this written.

If you ever want to see what's been watching you since the very beginning, just stand on that line and look...

◭ up ◮

◁ Forward|drawkcaB ▶

⧨ Within ⧩

Everything is a question of survival. How do I live? How do I satiate my hunger, my thirst? How do I protect myself from predators? How do I shelter from the storm? For a long, long time, our people asked only this. We fought to separate life from death by as great a span as we could. Even when we had made our homeworld a garden of peace and plenty, the question of survival never ended, only changed. How do my genes, my works, even the memories of me, live on? The same question as always. How do I live? We solved the problems of deprivation, disease, age, memory loss, death. We weren't the only ones to find these answers, of course. Others followed in our footsteps or blazed their own paths. If that was really the answer to the question, we wouldn't be here now, and neither would you. You're still trying to solve the problem, after all. You fight and build and live and die, and always you struggle against your opposition. The predator, the parasite, the illness, the chance storm, the slow collective forgetting of your art and history, the death of a star, the heat death of the universe. You must live longer, be stronger, think quicker, and still there is something waiting to take everything from you, always. Always. So you have to keep getting better, and better, until you are perfect. Until you are, and cannot be anything else, because there never was anything else. Until you, inevitably, are the final shape. We didn't come to destroy you. Those poor, short-lived sisters—we did try to explain, you know, but they never grew past thinking of finality as a game where only one could live. A misunderstanding, as useful as it was foolish. We see the universe more broadly. The final shape is more than a single life, a single thought. It is all-encompassing, all-embracing. It is everything. You are part of everything, are you not? So now we have come to ask you for your answer, the only answer to the only question. How will you live?

No feast can be had in comfort. Not out in the frontier.

New. Pacific. Arcology! The next frontier is you!

Trinkets and odd notions kept for no obvious reason. Do they matter?

Maybe it's time we let the past alone and climb down from our walls. There's gotta be treasure that shines brighter than any we've been digging up from the bones of our lost world.

Has to be a better hand than the one we've already played. I say we get after it. See what's really waiting for us out in that darkness.

Maybe even light it up some.

Dance in the ash and flames.

The Traveler can follow suit if it feels the need to. Otherwise, it can watch over the City for a thousand years.

But you and me? We got far more important things to attend to. We're Guardians. We got a new future to forge.

-Cayde out.

It's our hand to play now. Remember to forgive and forget. Let go. Move on.

Nobody makes our fate but us.

THORN

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes.

—a warning

[whumpsday]

Sneak Peek of Kane & Jim #55

since i've kept you guys waiting so long i figure you deserve a little something while you wait a little more

takes place 1 week after #52: Trust

-

Kane woke and looked to the door. Just like every morning the past week, it was a normal door. No silver. No lock.

He changed and washed his face, creeping upstairs with the hesitancy of someone who knew he wasn’t allowed, despite knowing full-well that he was: Jim had made that clear. He felt too quiet, his ankles free of chains.

It was early morning, early enough that the sun hadn’t risen yet–that terrifying tell-tale glow didn’t shine from behind the curtains. Jim wouldn’t be awake for hours, resting upstairs while Kane slunk around in the dark, in his own house.

Kane knew just how much trust that must require. He still couldn’t believe he’d earned that much.

The fact that Jim was still feeding him his own blood was a miracle in itself. He’d given a time limit of one month. One month for Kane to get used to freedom, to going out on his own, traversing society like a normal person after years as a prisoner. An adjustment period, Jim had called it, his mercies never-ending in the face of Kane’s fear of running to and from the border on his own.

There was no way Kane could ever repay it, not in a thousand years. But he at least had to try.

He turned the knob on the stove. It was something familiar, having owned a stove himself for heating up the contents of blood-packs in his time before he came to own Jim. Human stoves, like their food itself, were more complicated: four burners instead of one, all with dials offering various degrees besides just ‘on’ or ‘off’.

And it was something he hadn’t done since before.

The circle of flames flickered to life, blue and hot and threatening.

He quickly turned it back off, luckily managing to control his strength and not break the delicate knob.

Deep breaths, Jim had said, more times than Kane could count now. Look at me. You’re okay. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe here, remember?

Kane took a deep breath in, playing Jim’s soothing affirmations through his head, exhaling slowly. That’s it, there you go, the memory of Jim’s voice encouraged. You’re alright. No hurting.

After a few more of those, he turned the burner on again. The flames flicked back to life, and Kane watched them silently.

[pikahlua]

Would you mind elaborating on your views on the villains as a disillusioned youth? It’s such an interesting take and it feels so genuinely accurate I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it and how that framing changes how I perceived their characters

Ah, well, I'll do what I can. At some point this'll dip into a subject outside my wheelhouse though.

To me, the League of Villains notably fail to stand for any message. They just become whatever messages they absorb. Tomura specifically does this when he allows Dabi and Toga to join, and AFO comments on how he’s just using Stain’s ideals which Tomura doesn’t buy into. But by co-opting Stain’s message, Tomura gains allies. This sort of thing happens throughout the entire series--where they cooperate with the yakuza in order to gain their tech, or they allow Tomura to become a symbol of freedom so the meta liberation army will follow him. Tomura is not swayed at all by Stain’s ideals or the yakuza’s or the MLA’s, but he allows these people into his fold regardless. And you basically have this again with the mob at the hospital in the most recent manga arc. The LoV capitalize on the emotions of others in order to earn others’ strengths for themselves. So they’re not representing any real message or philosophy. They’re not “villains who have a point” in the traditional sense. They’re representative of something else.

In a story about kids going through academia to become heroes, wouldn’t the villainous corollary have to be something similar? You need the “villain academia” counterpart, basically. What do the LoV all have in common? They’re outcasts left behind by society. This is the part where I get into something I am definitely no expert on, so please go research this more before you fall back on my explanations: one of Japan’s famous major social problems is its “lost generation” that resulted from the economic stagnation of the ‘90s. With the aging population and the economy in a...very weird state, a lot of the youth in Japan have felt abandoned and lied to by the world around them. We’re sort of going through something similar in the west, especially Gen Z in the USA, but Japan has been ahead of us on this trend for a few decades now (a canary in the coalmine, so to speak). Basically, the Japanese youth go through academia, work really hard to study and pass grueling entrance exams and go to a big name university that is supposed to guarantee them a high-paying corporate job they won’t ever be fired from and fulfill the expectations of society. Yet so much about Japan’s rigid, traditional structure leaves many of these children by the wayside by the time they make it out of school. There is a large contingent of “failures,” the children who couldn’t follow this one true path, or those who did everything they were supposed to and still got screwed anyways. You end up with a generation full of people society broke its many promises to.

So that’s what I see when I look at the League of Villains. I see a contingent of youth who were screwed over by their society and its broken promises to them. I see society’s “rejects” that society pretends it didn’t create and is content to ignore and vilify. I see an angry, discontented swath of abandoned people who demand to be seen and heard, even though they don’t have some cause to rally behind or message to convey. I see a ball of disgruntled emotion, a problem society caused, a problem society must change to fix. I see the kids who wanted to fit in but were excluded, so they rejected the norms to save themselves.

And so that perspective informs how I think the heroes must address the villains, or rather, why it’s easier for the student heroes to address these villains than for the pro heroes.

[darkmaga-retard]

By James Anthony

August 19, 2024

Project 2025 is most of all a binder showcasing Donald Trump’s past and possible future appointees.

Lately, Trump or informed observers have suggested that possible cabinet appointees could include JPMorgan Chase chairman and CEO Jamie Dimon, BlackRock co-founder, chairman, and CEO Larry Fink, and North Dakota governor Doug Burgum.

What does this information suggest that we can reasonably anticipate from Trump in a possible second term? To have an absolute benchmark, we should compare this information to how a constitutionalist president would start his presidency.

We can flesh out this benchmark by starting with the end result, understanding the changes needed to get there, and considering the competencies needed to execute these changes and to execute ongoing operations.

End result must be constitutional governments

If governments are to be constitutional and of republican form, the people must delegate few powers. State governments must have few, explicitly-enumerated powers, unlike now. The national government must be held to within its few, defined powers, particularly:

Pass bills, execute laws, and opine on cases. There must be no administrative state promulgating regulations or other threats of force.

Tax labor income, at a single rate, with no deductible and no deductions. This is the only tax that takes the same fraction of liberty from each person.

Coin money, which must be earned, saved, and deposited before it can be lent out. Using coined money, which is stored value, prevents boom/bust cycles and inflation.

Raise and support armies for at most two years. Armies should be raised only when war is declared and rules-of-engagement cards are passed. Bases shouldn’t be maintained outside the homeland.

Provide and maintain a navy. New generations of weapons should constantly be rapidly researched and developed, but never produced in significant quantities. Producing them would reduce economic strength and help enemy governments catch up.

Enact criminal laws only against treason and counterfeiting. All other criminal laws are reserved to other jurisdictions.

Take property for public use only with just compensation. No person shall be unduly deprived of property to give others health payments, income, or other privileges.

When governments’ powers are severely limited, as they were in America through 1894, individuals use more information to add more value and to better support others.