#the few kind words they received would be hoarded and built upon I feel that strongly

[mutalune]

my clone culture headcanon is that they have almost no traditional mandalorian ties, they picked up almost nothing culturally/linguistically from the mandalorian trainers, but the one thing they DID get were endearments/affectionate and-or comforting words/etc.

b/c 1) that was the only way the trainers could somewhat express affection for their favorites without getting dinged for being too attached to them since no one there actually spoke mando’a 2) kaminoans would be Unhappy if the clones expressed affection openly so secret language words were the only way to safely verbalize caring and loving, so they picked up on those few kind words VERY quickly

(The way I see it working is that the trainers had favorites, would occasionally say something like “chin up, hang in there, good job kiddo,” and said favorites picked up those terms without actually ever getting Direct Translations of what they mean. So they get the words and some context but have to jumble it together themselves and pronunciation and meaning change the further away it spreads from the original favorites - because all of this is spread in private, quietly, until it grows its own legs in different iterations with different battalions imho

like they know adding -‘ika to a name is affectionate and feels like a diminutive but they don’t know what it means exactly and sometimes plug it into names in grammatically odd ways, so instead of “Trap’ika” you get “Trapper’ika” which sounds more like “Trapperka” when you’re talking fast.)

(i’m just a fan of gentle soft pet names and showing affection quietly and how love finds a way and how the clones can take what little scraps they were given and make it their own)

[helisol]

ye s, well

it basically came to me like a prophet receiving a vision from an angry god. you know. like brian david gilberts video ideas but with more slow burn.

no really i wrote all this down in my phone’s note app because some nearly coherent things popped up in my head every time i was on the train or bus these last few days.

(after-actually-writing-this disclaimer/note: this is 2000 words of slightly edited rambling about Bagginshield in the Afterlife. i had to put it in a read more.)

so the gist of it

the botfa goes just as in the movie with minor details altered. like bilbo kissing thorin just before he dies which inadvertently causes a ripple in time and space that makes the valar curious of them both. you know. minor stuff.

so bilbo goes back to the shire, the war of the ring goes down, and the hobbit/elf gang sails to valinor at the end. classic stuff, not much alternating of universes here.

but here’s where things turn into the “my city now” meme because DUDE DO I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ABOUT VALINOR AND HOW THE AFTERLIFE WORKS

like, I’m sorry mister jolkien rolkien tolkien, but just putting people into a hall to await being judged like a hospital waiting room? snooze, that’s boring!

so first of all, and you can fight me on this, Yavanna Made The Hobbits And You Can’t Change My Mind.

it just makes sense for her to have been very saddened by the destruction of literally all her work on arda through melkor’s poison, so she made living, growing things that could protect themselves from harm. as opposed to the ents, by the way, which were made by Eru to protect all the other living, growing things. it was a nice gesture of Eru to make those, but not quite what Yavanna wanted or had in mind, i imagine.

as with the dwarves, Eru wasn’t all happy about the existence of another race he didn’t make but you know, whatever, ‘I’ll just let this married couple have their own kids aside from mine, it’s okay’.

so he hands both the dwarves and the hobbits independent thought and free will, but under the condition (and here is where the afterlife stuff comes into play) that Aule and Yavanna be responsible for their mortal creations after their death. meaning that both races have seperate afterlives from the halls of mandos, MEANING THAT ITS COMPLETELY FINE FOR AULE AND YAVANNA TO BE LIKE “oh look honey, these two are so very in love and remind me of us, shan’t we do something about that?”

so. they do something about that. more precisely, they rearrange their afterlife-realms so they’re next to each other and someone with enough willpower could cross through the barrier. because listen, they’re valar, they can do whatever they want just for kicks.

okay so after that tangent lets get back to the meat of the matter: gay dwarves. I know not everyone has read Sansukh, a 500k word mammoth of a fic, and I don’t really intend to copy any of det’s canon, but their version of The Halls of Mahal really inspired me. basically the dwarven afterlife is one big hunk of a mountain/underground city where they’re free to live their days until dagor dagorath doing what they do best in the company of their families and friends; like smithing, crafting, building and other JustDwarrowThings.

meanwhile the hobbit afterlife is Basically The Shire and instead of being given the materials to build things, all the hobbits who go there get to grow plants and do their gardening. they don’t have to- just like none of the dwarves have to craft stuff- since there’s always enough food for everyone, but they are just allowed to do what they do best if they so desire.

now when Bilbo arrived in the undying lands he was still Old As Hell and im sorry to put it this way, he definitely kicked the can after like, a week of living there. not really so undying, them lands, huh. anyway Bilbo bites the dust and LOOK AT THAT he’s suddenly young again, and another LOOK AT THAT he’s standing in a very comfy, but Not Quite Bag End hobbit hole that has a note hung up on the front door. you wouldn’t think gods could have handwriting but hey, again, they’re gods they can do whatever. the note just tells him that yavannah made this place special and just for Bilbo but that there’s another home waiting for him. very cryptic there, lady. he doesn’t leave at first because hey, his family is here. there’s a lot of reunions and celebrating and food because its the fucking hobbit afterlife, what else would you expect

it takes him a few days of Regular Hobbit Life in his new home to realise ‘holy shit, this is so boring’ so what does a Fool of a Took do when things get boring and there’s a note urging him to do something?

HE’S GOING ON AN ADVENTURE

so Bilbo runs through the whole not-shire, meeting all sorts of people he outlived on the way (looking at you, Lobelia), as well as some elves. because elves can definitely just waltz through all the afterlives. they can walk on top of snow, you think they wouldn’t walk around wherever they please in valinor? rip to mankind, but they’re different.

he gets to the furthest reaches of it eventually, and lo and behold, what awaits him but the view of a tall mountain, an invisible barrier and a very flustered Thorin who is at his wits end as to how Bilbo even got here.

now for thorin’s part of the story we’ll have to start after the botfa again. he basically woke up in the darkness like an episode of naked and afraid, and started talking to Aule. his maker, who loves him to bits by the way since he made thorin, just tells him he’s free to go wherever his heart takes him. again with the cryptic messages from the gods.

so thorin, still very self-loathing and bitter because of his actions right before his death, sees this as Mahal’s way of saying ‘please don’t step foot in my halls u disgusting litle creacher’, when really he just meant ‘please do some well deserved self reflecting and then come inside to be with your family, they all miss you terribly’.

after his chat with the maker thorin just spawns in right at the front gate of the mountain and he has a choice to make. go inside or stay outside. and we all know Thorin’s proclivity for drama so he basically spends LITERAL YEARS just living in self imposed solitary confinement.

oh also tiny hc here, thorin was said to have taken “any work offered to him in the towns of men”, and they showed him in a smithy, but personally I believe they meant it when they said “any kind of work”. so basically thorin is a jack of all trades, master of some. he definitely has master-level skills in certain areas though, enough to build a vaguely hobbit-hole shaped house. why is it hobbit hole shaped?

oh right, the part where Thorin is absolutely enamoured with Bilbo.

"Go back to your books and your armchair, plant your trees, watch them grow. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”- HELLO? GAY POLICE? I’D LIKE TO REPORT A CASE OF ‘DWARF KING REALISING THAT THE HOBBIT WAY OF LIVING IS A REALLY GREAT ONE IN CONCEPT / WISHING HE COULD HAVE HAD THAT KIND OF LIFE WITH BILBO’

anyway it’s a long 80 years until Thorin does get to meet Bilbo again, and in the meantime we have one of my favorite additions to any Hobbit fanfic ever: Frerin

For the uninitiated, Frerin is Thorin’s brother. They also have a sister, Dís, but Tolkien never specified when she died and she was a bit younger than Thorin and Frerin so I reckon she’d still be alive as an old dwarf lady somewhere?

Anyway, Frerin. Oh boy. Sansukh, again, does an excellent job at turning Frerin into a character with a level of authenticity that gets real fucking close to Genuine Tolkien™, so most of my own characterisation of Frerin is based on that in Sansukh. With the important omission of the dwarves not being able to see the present/their still alive loved ones in middle earth through a magic mirror pool.

so Frerin takes it upon himself to leave the mountain in search of his brother because he really does want him back. but also because Mahal has had it with Thorin’s antics and suggests Frerin fetch him so he can finally reunite with his family. Mahal doesn’t talk to the dwarves a lot because he’s like an awkward and distant dad, but he does actually speak to them.

so Thorin is supposed to go see his family, which he does, but not immediately. it takes like, a solid year of just brotherly (and sister-sonly) companionship for him to open up about all his anxieties and regrets and THEN he goes into the mountain to cry in his mother’s lap. as you do.

however Thorin still feels like he doesn’t 100% belong with the other dwarves in there, so he frequently spends long stretches of time outside, building away at his house, thinking about Bilbo. the company goes out to visit him sometimes.

more details on the house tho, cuz it’s Important; it’s built halfway into a hill near the mountain, like a proper hobbit hole would be, but the lower levels are built into stone. look, he’s had 80 years to work on constructing this. it’s near perfect in every way for both hobbit and dwarf standards and could definitely fit the entire company and more inside.

now about the barrier. elves can pass through without a second thought because they’re shiny little bastards who just get to do all the cool stuff, but the other races can’t just hop between realms like that; they really have to muster up the willpower. which usually means they can’t do it because a drawback for both dwarves and hobbits is that they favor isolation from other races even in death, and as such don’t want to mingle with each other.

unless you’re Bilbo Badass Baggins though, who simply runs through the barrier to yell at Thorin for leaving him sad and alone for 80 years. he is that bitch.

there’s gonna be some legolas and gimli shenanigans if i can fit them in (cuz i dont know when exactly they sailed west together), possibly a mention of tauriel because bruh peter jackson did us dirty by not giving her any closure besides ‘lol i guess she’s banished from mirkwood??’ and Mairon. because. I also have some thoughts about him.

also Fili and Kili as pseudo matchmakers because every fic needs that

and did I mention there’s gonna be hozier lyrics for chapter titles

i said this was the gist of it but i somehow ended up at ~1900 words. well, more power to me.

[thereislifeafterhq]

Flora Devereaux is 44 years young with a birthday on May 23rd. She hails from New Orleans and Shreveport, Louisiana but now lives in Lima, Ohio. She is a Country Singer and Owner of Barkin’ Bones Animal Shelter and looks a bit like Charlize Theron.

Full Name: 

Flora Azalea Devereaux

Pronouns: 

She/Her

Gender: 

Cis-Female

Sexuality: 

Pansexual (But currently unaware)

3 Positive Traits: 

+ Protective + loving + smart

3 Negative Traits:

- Damaged - untrusting - self-deprecating

Biography:

triggers: Cult Life, Domestic Abuse, Sexual Abuse, mentions of drugs/Alcohol, Adultry, Depression, Anxiety

Flora Azalea Devereaux, was born in New Orleans to Owen and Magnolia Devereaux. The second child of four kids and certainly the one that had the biggest dream. She wanted to be a country star, she wanted to share her gift with the world. It wasn’t her only dream, she also wanted true love. She imagined her prince coming along and they would share love’s first kiss, she wanted love and prayed for it. However, when you grew up in a church like Precious Glory Ministry. Love and dreams weren’t high on the list, not in the eyes of Pastor Gregory Stone. Pastor Stone considered himself God’s prophet and interpreter of god’s will.

The parishioners had roles and those roles were god’s command. Men worked in the fields, built homes, and took wives. The women served the men by cooking, cleaning, and bearing their children. Pastor Stone was allowed to sleep with any wife he wished, no questions asked. The children treated him as a second father and follow his commands without question. As the church grew, Pastor Stone moved them to bigger land in the middle of nowhere- away from prying eyes.

People started to pull away from the ministry, families leaving in the night and others told to leave and never come back. Owen and Magnolia were planning to leave for years, saving money, hoarding provisions, and planning their escape. It was Pastor Stone’s interest in Flora and Rose that finally set things in motion. Flora was fourteen and Pastor Stone turned his attention towards her particularly. Flora felt very uncomfortable with his advances but knew if Pastor Stone wouldn’t take no for an answer. His words, “But God wants me to have you,” were burned in her brain. The night before Pastor Stone took Flora as his new wife, The Devereaux’s fled and left no trace.

Shreveport, Louisiana. A small farm house with just enough lands for a family to build a life. It took some time but The Devereaux found a new church to call home. Flora’s life change drastically, she finally had a chance to follow her dreams. She started to sing in the church choir and one of the church goers happen to be in the country music business. He told her about a band he was putting together and they needed a lead. They were looking for a younger sound and Flora had what they were looking for. When they hit the road, Magnolia tagged along and took Rosie with her. She wanted to spend some time with the band and make sure Flora felt comfortable. A few months in she headed back home and left Flora in the new chaperones hands.

Paul and Avery became her best friends, they were a couple years older and treated her like a kid sister. They were extra protective of her, once they realize just how innocent she truly was. “You never snuck a drink, not even once?” Avery asked in disbelief. Flora explained that she didn’t lie, cheat, steal, or do anything the lord frowned upon. She believed preserving her body with prayer and being optimistic about the people around her, “Oh Paulie we have so much work to do.”  Flora stood her ground for some time but decided the lord would forgive her. She prayed about it and decided to try smoking, after her first attempt she couldn’t stop coughing. Drinking did not appeal to her at all but she did enjoy the taste of wine. “I guess that’s a start,” Avery shrugged.

Flora was also a very honest person, so when her Marmee asked how everything was. She ended up telling her everything got an hour long lecture over the phone. That was enough to scare from trying anything else.

After a year, the band finally had a huge break. Their song Baby Girl broke charts and thrust the band into the public eye. Their first huge event was a country music festival in Louisiana, Flora was excited because that meant her family could come and see the band perform. The set was a hit and Flora met many people but only one stuck, a man by the name of Russell Fabray. He was charming, handsome, and older. They spent the whole after party talking before slipping away. Against her better judgment she slept with Russell that night, behind the garden. Russell assured her that everything would be alright. “We’re going to marry and no one has to know.” And she believed him.

During their first tour, Russell would come out to meet her. They would spend every minute together between rehearsals. When Flora found out she was pregnant, she called Russell in a panic. “We need to get married,” He didn’t sound angry or mad and Flora felt relieved. They did it properly and Russell asked her parents permission to marry their daughter.

They bought a house near Flora’s parents, a place where they could start their family. Flora continued to travel with the band, until tragedy struck. Avery had always been one for drugs and alcohol and her lifestyle had spiraled. The more famous the group got, the more she indulged. Flora and Paul did what they could but she wouldn’t accept the help. One night after a show, Avery went out to a party. Paul and Flora passed and opted for sleep, “Sure, thank you for everything.” Those words confused Paul and Flora but they passed them off.

The next morning, Paul and Flora got the news about Avery. After a night of partying she went back to her hotel room and overdosed. Before she took her life, she wrote down everything on her mind- which broke Paul and Flora both. Avery wrote a song for them both and told them to go on and take a piece of her with them. The song was kept secret and Flora kept a copy with her as a reminder.

The death of Avery ended the band, it was just to painful. Paul decided he couldn’t do it without her and Flora agreed. Sugarland was over and Flora returned to Louisiana to take a break and have her family. When the twins were born, Russell was late and Flora finished before he made any appearance. Avery and Daniel Fabray, they were perfect in every way and Flora’s motherly instincts kicked in. She needed to keep them safe from the world.

Eighteen, married and a mother of two. She was overwhelmed and was glad her parents were around to help. Russell was always traveling for work and she was left alone a lot. He would come back to check in, being a strict parent and even more stern husband. He had expectations and she never questioned them, he was the husband and made the rules. He changed after marriage and she found he was quick to temper. He enjoyed his drinking and it made things tense and scary, especially when he started to abuse her. If she didn’t do things to his standards, he’d hit her and call her worthless. She blamed herself for his anger, believing it was his right as a husband to set the rules.

When Russell was away, Flora would do a few local gigs. Singing her own songs and entertaining the crowd. She couldn’t see herself going on tour again, she was a parent now and Russell would never allow it. She needed so much help with the twins and Marmee was a great help during these times. She trusted her mother’s sage advice and told Magnolia everything, “I’m scared, Marmee, nothing I do is right. I try so hard but I can’t do this anymore, I want to leave him.” Magnolia was understanding until the very end, she was quick to jump in.

“Divorce is a sin, Flower. You hang in and god will punish him for his wicked deeds.”

“But Marmee, I-”

“Marriage is hard but divorce is not happening. And, do not tell your paw or brother’s, heaven knows what they’d do to him!” After that, Flora took every punch, squeeze, and harsh word. She stayed silent until his anger turned towards the kids. They were only four years old and Russell went to strike but suddenly the timid housewife turned into a tiger. She pushed him back and grabbed her new weapon. A gun her brother bought her, after learning about Russell and his abuse.

“In the name of the lord I will shoot you dead if you touch them.” He instantly sobered up and called Flora’s bluff, knocking the gun from her hand and going in for the attack. The police showed up but Flora was too scared to admit what happened. She just stayed by Russell and smiled as he explained. “Just a very loud disagreement, Lloyd. Everything is fine, we got a bit carried away.” After that, Russell started to spend more time away from home. His attitude towards the kids changed, especially with Avery. She was his princess and earned her love, she was special to him. Daniel received the most attention but had expectations placed on him, since he was the man of the house.

When she became pregnant with their third child years later, things were good again for a while. She almost forgot about the monster in front of her, he was being so sweet and kind. One night, Flora took him aside when he was sober and had a conversation. “I don’t want this baby to see that side of you, Russ. I want our kids to feel safe, I don’t want them to see you raise another hand.” Russell agreed in his own way, a smile, a kiss, and just walked away. He continued to abuse her but they kept it from the children.

For a few years, Flora continued to sing. Just small little gigs at local venues, the kids would tag along and support her. It was nice for the kids to see that side of her but nothing good lasts. She started to take less and less gigs and eventually went back to being a housewife.

Flora found some confidence over time, able to stand up to Russell more and more. He calmed down a lot over the years and that helped. However, something was eating away at her and she felt that she wasn’t the only, Mrs. Fabray. She did some digging and found he was married to another woman. She was upset and wondered how Russell managed to keep this from her. When she got the nerve to bring it up, Russell admitted he was in fact married to another woman. “How long?” Russell then laid everything out on the table and Flora was broken. A grief she had never felt- everything was a lie. The priest was a fake, the marriage a lie, she had been living in sin for sixteen years. “Why?”

“Because I had to have you, you’re mine.” Those words haunt her until this day.

Now it made perfect sense why Russell never wanted her to mention his name. Why he never wanted to be in the tabloids, or why he allowed her to keep her last name. He never wanted this part of his life to get back to his wife. “Not anymore. Not only did you cheat on me with other women, you cheated on your actual wife with me. You’re an Adulterer and that is a sin in the eyes of the lord, the very lord you use to beat me to the ground. You shame me, our kids, we’re going to be a joke to our entire community! Leave and don’t you ever come back.” Russell was going to argue but when Owen, Jake, and Tucker appeared behind her with shotguns he backed away.

“See you again, I’ll shoot you dead.” Owen cocked his gun and aimed it right at Russell’s head. He knew Owen wouldn’t think twice and made his escape out the door. Everything was kept silent and it was decided that if anyone asked, Russell left and that was that. Flora had the task of telling the kids and it was one of the hardest conversations she had. The twins were about to turn sixteen years old and understood but Juliette had a hard time understanding. She was only nine and her daddy was her everything and now she found out he was a bad man. She promised them everything would be okay and things would stay the same. “This changes nothing because it’s always been us against the world…”

The first step of this new found freedom, introducing the kids to their siblings. Judy was unsure about it but Flora decided it was an important step. The kids thought it was weird that Flora and Judy were friends but they were important to each other. It was weird being friends with your fake husbands ex-wife but It was nice to have someone to share things with. The first meeting with the kids were tense and Juliette seemed the only one interested. The other kids were courteous and made small talk and that was all. Judy and Flora wanted them to get to know each other but at their own pace.

Things were still strained but getting better…

“Solo music?” When the label came to Flora about solo music, she was skeptical about the whole thing. “I don’t know if I can, It wouldn’t feel right to do it without Paulie.”

“You should,” Paul was standing in the corner of the room with a smile, she didn’t even notice him. They had not seen each other since the twins were born. Russell didn’t want him around and now Russell was gone and Paul was here. They shared a long hug and stayed like that for a while. “Avery would want you to sing again, you should.” And with Paul’s blessing and a bunch of nerves she started to work on a new album- which went nowhere. Her fears and insecurities were firmly planted by Russell and she let doubt sink in. She told the label no and went back to her life as a pharmacist.

Over the next few years, Russell continued to show up in her life. Begging to come back home and only once she had a moment of weakness and let him in. Things were good for a short time but then the abuse started up. By this time the kids were off to college and moved away, no where in the house was safe. She kicked him back out but Russell wouldn’t stop trying to win her back. He would leave her flowers, love notes and things escalated quickly. When she refused to return his expressions of love, all four of her tires were slashed. She knew it was him but the police had no evidence, no fingerprints, nothing. Also, the house was in his name and legally she could not keep him from the property. Flora decided it was time to move and get away from him. She took what she needed and packed it away in a car and a moving van. The rest was moved into storage for safe keeping.

Flora didn’t know where to go at first but it made sense, Lima. Her and Judy shared a strong bond and friendship and she needed her friends strength. Flora found a nice home and made it her own but one thing Flora couldn’t escape- crippling depression and Anxiety. Those seemed to follow her wherever she went and it made things hard. The once perfectly pressed and dressed, she started to dress down and ignore her own personal hygiene. Late night trips to the convenience store, it’s sad when the clerks start to know your name.

One night, by pure luck- Flora ran into someone she met online. A girl who she grew close to, Dani. They seemed to help each other and boy something about this girl felt familiar. It only took a few days for Flora to remember the wild child, Avery. They were similar in many ways and now Flora knew the pain, the hurt, the betrayal. She could help Dani and be there to help when she needed it. Before they knew it, Flora became a mother figure and a friend. Both were there for each other and Dani helped her through her own hard times. She even convinced Flora to get a tattoo.

Over the next few months, Flora decided to be more open with her past. Giving her instagram followers a glimpse into her old life, speaking her truth. Which caused a rift with some family but that was their problem, not hers.

Things were good for a bit but got worse when Russell showed up. He found her and started harassing her again, which escalated into sexual assault. Causing Flora to live in fear, even after Russell was found and arrested he was set free. No physical evidence but the second time she fought back, clawing his face. He was on the run and the worry only built up and last year during the holidays- Flora had a nervous breakdown. It was so bad she could not function on her own but her family helped and she found herself again.

Flora was back in Lima before she knew it, stronger and ready to live her life. Russell was caught shortly after New Years, receiving a five year sentence for his crimes. It gave Flora peace of mind and she could finally focus on her life and her new Music career…

Paul had come to her around April and asked if she wanted to go back on tour. Flora wasn’t sure about being in the spotlight but Paul said it was time. “We put this off long enough, Avery would want us to do this.” Flora thought about it decided it was time to get back into something she truly loved.

The last few months she has been planning Sugarland’s return with Paul and working on her self worth.

[black-strike-otp]

LT : Chapter 8

Trust is such a fragile thing.

Barely a joor left, and they’d have been gone from Cybertron a full cycle. It was thrilling and arduous all at once on Nova’s processor to think that they were finally going out to fulfill an objective held close at spark. Much less horrendous than the first time she had laid her gaze upon their homeworld while on a shuttle being thrown into oblivion. The last time she’d had such a view, she was mourning the still painful loss of a friend and leaving what had been a norm all her life.

You could say that fighting a losing battle on a planet in disarray wasn’t normal; that it wasn’t healthy, but it was a lifestyle she had been used to.

Now, standing aboard a ship bound to destinies unknown, there was a goal. Clear familiarity. With each bot that strode by her, a reflection of time itself in motion, on their way to perform their duties diligently.

She stood a bit straighter as though it would give her height and an appearance of authority for a femme slightly less than half the size of more average mecha. A glitter of stars were before her from the bridge; signaling her to new beginnings afair. She gave a little sigh to herself and looked to her left, where in the center of the room surrounded by stations to work was the single most state of the art equipment on the vessel.

A projected three dimensional star chart hovered in a holo-projected field. A few bots were murmuring a discussion to themselves beside it; gesturing to various positions. Even as Nova watched them operate it; stitched together portions of the map would zoom in and out as it identified worlds and galaxies; stars and asteroid belts.

With a stroke of a digit, you could pull up just about every string of information gathered on anything in the universe. The lifeforms that were known to exist, when the planet was last investigated, the life rate of stars and the dangers documented. It took just as much if not more time to manufacture than the Guardian’s Light had, but they’d had a lot of help in doing so. And not just from bots, but from an undiscovered and lost room built in the Golden Ages in some ruins among the Sea of Rust.

Twitching her audio stacks to the side, the pale moon colored femme listened in on the mechs at work with interest.

“This is Nighthawk’s last known location, as stated in his message,” one of the mechs stated, flicking his wrist to speed through the map. His sharp digit pointed to a planet named Gochivie HR57 in the Tadpole Galaxy.

“That’s an estimated…” a mech stuttered, faltered, and went to tap a few keys in.

Another beside him vented, rolling his optics as he grunted the calculations, “3.48 million light-years away.”

“Exactly. And that last transmission was received seventeen cycles before departure; nearly eighteen now. And traveling at our current velocity; judging by rate of travel on Nighthawk’s broadcasts, it should take us…”

“Four deca-cycles to reach them; give or take,” muttered the mathematician wiz.

“That’s given they continue at their own current speed,” one agreed. “And with no sure way of knowing their direction; as they have looped around on numerous occasions for reasons unknown, we could reach them sooner- or later if they choose to flee.”

“The Rising Star’s fuel economy isn’t exactly the best,” another joked.

Rolling her optics, the short femme gave a shake of her helm. She spun around, heading to the door while still eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Well, if we push the Guardian’s Light to it’s full capacity; we’d be sucking fuel down like a rabid Insecticon, but we could push the boundaries a bit…”

The rest of the bot’s words were lost as the duel pneumatic doors hissed closed behind Novastrike. One-hundred-fifty days, and that was all but a guess.

They’d waited this long. They could get by a little longer.

She just hoped Nighthawk had that sort of time…

“You look a bit distracted,” a voice growled in her direction.

Raising her helm, the femme squinted her dark sapphire blue optics up at her sparkmate.

“And a bit worried,” Blackout continued as he caught her gaze; his own a scarlet haze of concern. “Having second thoughts?”

“By the Primes no,” she sniffed, lashing her tail back and forth whilst crossing her arms.

She halted a moment, looking over the cool stolid features of her always impassive mech. He quirked a brow slightly the longer her pause continued, with the blades on his backside sliding back and forth behind him gradually.

Ever patient. Always willing to wait and let the silence speak on his behalf.

Groaning quietly, Nova glanced aside as she responded: “No, I’m not having second thoughts. I am a bit worried about Nighthawk, though.”

“Worried about him?” the titan echoed, ushering his mate to follow with a curl of his digits as they walked. “What for? You know how reception goes; the time it takes messages to travel, the delay, the waiting process. Eighteen; sorry, nineteen days now, is nothing.”

“I don’t know… my gut says something is wrong.”

“Are you sure it’s not just nerves, dearest?”

She huffed. Her pedes practically glided on the floor seamlessly; an enchanting motion, a pace of confidence and well-timed coordination. It was an action she didn’t even need think about, but it spoke volumes to her growth. A few years ago, such a look of assurance and positivism would have been lacking from her posture entirely.

Just as she felt more sure of herself and her footing, and what she could do, so she felt confident in her unease. Something was… off. Maybe the handsome devil staring at her with worry had a just point. She could reason his words to truth; they seemed credible, even likely, but her intuition whispered something different.

“Things are just going… too well for us, I guess,”  she finally admitted with reluctance, her ears lying back against her helm.

Blackout chuckled, a rich deep sound. “He’s a medic, Novastrike. I’m sure he can take care of himself if he gets some bumps and bruises.”

Her next words came out harsh a bitter; even unexpected by herself: “Like Guard.”

There was a strained, uncomfortable silence. Worry and guilt gnawed on Nova’s thoughts. She shouldn’t have said that.

“Guard was… not expecting that kind of betrayal,” Blackout said slowly, his voice a hush. “It surprised him. Nighthawk agreed to help. He has an idea of what he’s getting into. He’s not alone, either. His companion will see to it he’s not taken by surprise.”

“Infiltrator,” Novastrike noted from memory, recalling the dragon with perfect clarity. Funny how different he was from Fireline, yet they both carried an uncanny appearance to Predacon lore. One a goof; a playful and hyperactive wvyren with a hoarding problem and enough wit under his guise to offer surprising intellect in the science field.

The other, a refined medical professional with some sly comments, clever comebacks, and a witty if not at times wisecracking sense of humor.

When bots said that Primus made each Cybertronian to be unique, they certainly weren’t kidding.

“Yes, the uh… dragon,” Blackout offered with disinterest.

“Oh come on love,” Nova snickered. “It’s not that difficult to learn his name.”

“I’m sure it’s in my memory files somewhere,” the giant agreed offhandedly. “But I’m more inclined to faces than names.”

“Why; harder to forget a pretty faceplate?” Nova teased, placing a servo on either side of her cheeks innocently.

“I could never forget the most eloquent and beautiful face,” he chuckled. “But designations… they’re easy to change. Your identity lies within yourself.  Besides, it’s easier to recall a face than a name.”

“You went from sounding poetic to plain lazy, love.”

“Forgive me, dear, I’ve never been the best with words.”

A quiet wheeze escaped Nova. That wasn’t entirely true, but she’d let him go on and think that.

“Have you thought of any further plans on how we’re going to board the Rising Star?”

Blackout gave a doubtful shake of his helm. “No, not really. We can either try discretely sending in some smaller bots; like yourself and a few others, and try gaining some traction taking out larger bots and disabling primary functions on the ship before getting other’s on board… Or we can use my EMP. But I’ll need to be in a decent proximity if it’s going to be effective, or last very long.”

“And that would be exposing you to whatever working weapons the Rising Star still has, or has had installed since, as well as any crew members under Neutroboost’s command,” she muttered. “Too bad we can’t just blast the ship.”

Solemnly, the obsidian mech nodded as he glanced away. There was a sense of regret about him that was all too common these days.

“I don’t want to risk losing any more innocent lives,” he reminded her softly.

In that moment, he sounded so much like Guard that Novastrike had to rub her optics just to make sure it wasn’t him. It was astonishing; down to the gaze that had a million thoughts lost in them, the murmured agony in his voice, the sag in his shoulders.

This same mech had once looked to her like she was nothing but collateral. He’d rebuke the very idea that he’d changed, but it was all over him. Stains of Guard’s life and habits, his thoughts and ideals were blotting Blackout’s very essence.

He was still lethal. Of that, there was no doubt. But his sharpened judgmental edges had been snipped and sandpapered; his glaring optics now more often a thoughtful, wide-eyed look of consideration. The former gladiator from the arenas of Kaon was still evolving, hundreds of years past when most stopped learning how to grow and change he was only just discovering things anew. Feelings were fresh and exotic; expressions a new boundary, to care and to have compassion a foreign affair he was entangled.

Smiling sweetly, she reached out to pat her servo against her sparkmate’s pede. He turned his helm to look back to her blankly now.

“You’re doing just fine. Don’t doubt yourself; we all believe in you. We can all do this, together,” she urged.

The indication of a smile pulled at his lips. His optics softened; closing partially as he emitted a deep reverberated rumble deep within dark ebony armor.

“We’ll figure out our course of action when the time grows closer to do so,” Blackout growled. “There’s bound to be things to factor in at the time anyway; a hostage situation, planets we can use for cover…”

“A black hole, trying to suck us all in?” Nova suggested with a grin.

“Nova… No.”

“What? Plan for the impossible, right?”

“My warrior goddess of the moon, please, do not speak bad omens into reality.”

A mirthful laugh escaped Nova, pressing a servo to her mouth. “Since when did you become the superstitious type?”

Blackout frowned deeply. “Since now, when you decided to throw in a black hole and threaten to squash us all.”

“Or send us into an alternative parallel world; frozen in a paradox timeline that never ends, stuck fighting the same battle over and over again with no recollection of the beginning or the end,” she expressed loudly. “Or, you know, we could just run into our altered opposite selves. You’re altered-self would be a humble artist bent on peace and would oppose all fighting; and my altered-self would be a far-less attractive bland femme who just wants to punch things to see how they function.”

“I’m destroying all copies of ‘The Astrophysics to Black Holes’ immediately after this conversation,” he mumbled with deep disapproval.

“Will you be doing that before or after you get into the berth?” inquired the femme with a virtuous smile.

Sharply, her mate cleared his vocalizer. There was a stern appearance about his stature but in his face, mild entertainment.

It sent waves of adoration through Nova’s entire body. Starting in her spark and sparking with electric pulses through her veins. Oh how she treasured his happiness; the way his mouth curled up and the way light danced in his optics with just the right sparkle. He could pretend to hide it, especially around others, but it was just as obvious in his face and the minuscule shifts of his gears and body as it was the smell her hypersensitive features picked up on.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Blackout finally said in answer, shaking his helm a little. “I had meant to go to the bridge before I was drawn impulsively to the brightest star I’ve ever seen.”

For a klik, Nova thought to harass her handsome other half with a comment questioning him on what star was, in fact, the closest to their current position. But she thought better of herself before opening her mouth for such silliness, looking to his inviting gaze and feeling her spark give a little flip. She was, truly, at a loss for words.

Blackout too seemed a bit taken off guard for spare moment. He parted his lips just slightly, staring, before shaking himself with a shy snicker. He turned away, shaking the spell as he turned to walk in the opposing direction of the white femme. Stopping to speak to the nearest bot walking by to confirm their current course and traveling speed.

Withering, Nova began to internally sulk. Just a smidgen. How she longed for tranquil days of serene bliss; lost only with each other and their closest friends and family. For her, she needed no other life. Staring into his optics, clutching his servo, kissing his mouth and teasing that foolish mech from the break of a dawn’s light to the twilight dusky hours of the night.

Days spent wistfully lost in thought. The smiles on the faceplates of those who she cared for; who she lived and breathed for. It wouldn’t be paradise; it wouldn’t be perfect. They would bicker and argue over even the stupid things but they would get by. You forgave those you truly loved.

A slight skip now in her pedes, Novastrike made her way with her helm held high. She’d offer a comment or wave to those she passed until she came upon the rear deck to step into the armament room. Within it, some bots were stepping carefully around constructed weapons positioned on pivoting retractable arms that took on the size of multiple Predacons.

She spotted the Sigma Three defense cannon. One of three onboard; with two others connected to externally enclosed casings reachable through air-tight doors. The final cannon; a rapid-fire plasma shooter, was placed in an upper deck, with its lines running through the ship to a section in the hull that contained its ammunition.

A swell of pride hummed in Nova’s spark. Blackout had helped to manufacture and install these. Unsurprising really; the mech had such a knack of artillery. He’d grown using it all his life just to survive.

Decepticon’s hadn’t simply called him a weapon’s specialist for his own unreasonably large arsenal.

Novastrike moved with care not to get too underpede of those few bots roaming the room. Only a few were stationed here permanently and specifically to maintain the Sigma Three. The others were general mechanics and engineers, walking the length of the Guardian’s Light to inspect the entirety of the spacecraft. Any signs of degradation or damage from their first few cycles were being heavily scrutinized, but what space debris around Cybertron that remained from the war they’d knocked into left aesthetic damages here and there so far as anyone had noticed thus far.

From there a simple look around would suffice from time to time. The little femme could understand their concerns. For their own safety and for their love of a project and a dream, they wanted this vessel to succeed.

Too small to reach more than a thick under-panel to the beastly weapon, Nova reached up to pat the equipment with a devious smile. She turned around slowly, examining those busily moving around until she caught the look from a mech. He went from looking over the form of the gun, to her with some misgivings written on him.

“Sorry,” she stated with a smile while retracting her digits. “I’m just coming by to check up on things.”

Mutely, the mech gave a simple nod.

Feeling awkward by the lack of response, Nova quirked a partial smile as she stepped out from beneath the cannon.

“Designation Novastrike, mech,” she purred, offering a servo.

He looked from her face to her servo. Back again.

Uncomfortably, he finally reached for her servo. A single digit from the mech was extended for Nova to shake.

Stammering, she uncomfortably released his digit. “S-Sorry for bothering you-”

A sudden, wheezing laughter had Novastrike’s ears swiveling. She turned her helm a moment later to follow the trail of the noise.

“Aye, lieutant-commander, don’t mind Whisper,” a mech cackled. “ E’s a mute, you see. Born with a defective ‘box. Can’t speak a lick.”

“O-Oh,” she squeaked, giving an apologetic glance back up to the bot beside her.

“Don’t worry ye’ pretty little helm there girly. ‘E’s fine. Just o’ bit shy. Can’t blame him; ye’ a pretty sight to these optics.”

“E-Excuse me?”

A flame of tinted blue worked into the femme’s audios as she went slack-jawed. Partly, she was surprised by comment. Another part of her was irritated. Whether he was mocking her for a cheap gag joke, or if he was disrespecting her position came into play.

Every bot here was well enough aware of her situation with the captain of the ship. Yet this one was openly mocking her; toying her. Defying her role-

The mech tapped beside his optic, grinning. “I mean no harm girly; I promise. I o’ bit of a vision impairment myself. Got some damage from the war, ye’ see. But ye’ a bright thing of beauty on this dark ship. Won’t be losing ye’ armor or ye’ eyes anytime soon there, young miss.”

That should have made her feel better, but Nova instantly felt terrible for thinking the worst. She swallowed, well aware her ears were far beyond a simple pestering glow and now a full lantern of light. Cascading blue seemed to bounce off of her and glow upon anything within her radial circle of space.

“Well… thank you, uh…?”

“I’d be Killshot, miss.”

What a designation.

“Right,” she stated, giving a lopsided smile. “Well thank you, Killshot. But in the future please, keep the uh… flattery to a minimum, shall we?”

He nodded. “I can do, ma’am,” he agreed with a salute. “Come ‘ere Whisper, ye’ can help me with checking this ‘ere hydraulics system for the arm extension.”

With just a hush of his pedes, Whisper moved past Novastrike on almost deathly-silent pedes to follow the other bot. An ear upon Nova’s helm tilted to the side as the other remained erect while she watched the two. Oh boy, she really misjudged. She owed them an apology…

She turned, smacking instantly into the bot directly behind her and falling on her aft.

“Oh- sorry lieutenant Novastrike!” the dark grey mech yelped with a blush. “I shouldn’t have been so close; I was just keeping an optic on you, making sure you were safe.”

“I think I’d be safer if you were a bit less up my aft,” she growled, reaching up to tentatively touch her now-throbbing forehead.

Taking a moment to adjust her optics, Nova looked up to see the mech offering her his servo. The mech had to be all of but twenty-one feet at maximum; not including the jutting pieces of decorative metal on his helm. He held a guilty little smile on his face as she took it, helping her to her pedes.

“You can call me Oblivion, lieutenant-commander Novastrike!” he stated with glee. “I was assigned to be your assistant. Not because I asked, of course.”

He gave an awkward little laugh at that, waving a servo in the air.

Peculiar mech, Novastrike reasoned while eyeing him over. But what was most intriguing were his optics. One was a solid shade of red; a few hues brighter than that of Blackout’s. The other, a steely grayish-blue.

Even as she watched, she could swear the blue one gradually appeared to waver between blue, and green.

“I don’t require a personal assistant,” she coldly remarked. “Maybe you got the wrong bot.”

“Oh no, I got the right bot,” he chirped with merriment. “You’re the second-in-charge after captain and Commander Blackout. You were on board the Rising Star; a neutral party during the Autobot-Decepticon war. Previously an Autobo-”

“Okay, mech,” Nova vented with a servo placed to her faceplate. “I’m going to stop you right there. I don’t know how- or why- you know so much about me but I don’t need an assistant.”

Oblivion laughed breezily, his engine purring to life. Even the door-wings on his back began to give a joyous little flutter like he was some sort of a seeker.

He seemed rather young, and childish. Novastrike tapped a digit against her chin lightly with confusion and curiosity as she mused the odd behavior.

“Well of course you don’t need me,” Oblivion agreed. “I’m just handy. You know, a messenger just for you. Run some errands, finish up uh… do you even get paperwork? We don’t keep that type of stuff here, do you-”

“Oblivion, might I ask: what were you before you were my assistant?”

“Oh, well-” he scratched the side of his helm. “I was an Autobot during the bot-con war. Before that I was a-”

“No no- I mean, what were you before you requested to be my personal subordinate?”

“Ooooh! Gotcha. I was originally on bridge duty; you know, keeping ship’s course and such. But that didn’t work out, so I got put on maintenance. Then I broke too much stuff, and…”

Scrap. They threw her a bumbling moron for her aid. Some respect the other’s had to insist her be her aid.

Giving her most impressionable and dazzling smile, Novastrike laced her digits in front of her chassis. She breathed in, breathed out just as slowly, and dropped her arms to her side. Finally, she looked up to the young mech.

“What are the chances I can reassign you?”

There was a clear indication of hurt in the mech’s optics.

“Little to none, lieutenant,” he mumbled.

“Right,” she vented. “Alright- fine. But we’ve got to work on your personal space thing. And you’re breaking-things thing. And maybe we’ll find you a more suitable position once you’ve worked your way up a bit.”

A soft, delighted gasp escaped Oblivion. He slapped a servo over his mouth as a sparkle entered his heterochromatic optics.

“I’d love that,” he squealed. “Well- except the not working for you part. I mean, what an honor-”

Raising a servo, the white-armored femme held up a single digit. The mech fell obediently silent, looking to her with the most puppy-dog like gaze.

An honor, he’d said? This bot was disillusion. An honor would be serving a historical figure. Bots like Blackout, or Guard, or frag even the Primes. Even the famous Ratchet or Sideswipe would do, but instead, this bot was looking to her with reverence like some sort of legend.

Did he ever pick the wrong bot to idolize. A scrawny, little-known neutral like herself. She pitied him as much as she was annoyed by his peppy attitude and the fact he’d been placed on her like some second-hand yappy canine.

“Come on, then,” Novastrike vented, giving a whisk of her servo.

Without question, the mech glued himself to her side as she walked. From his subspace, he emerged a datapad and stylus to take notes studiously. Or, for all Nova knew, to scribble doodles.

As they left the room, Oblivion glanced in the direction of Whisper and Killshot. There was a tense moment between the trio, with the two later squinting their optics towards Oblivion. He gave a gradual flinch, blushing before darting out of the door after his tutor.

[secretdonutcrusade-blog]

Our Staycation - Chapter 1

I know that my English writing skill can be unbearable sometimes. 

I got an overall 8.0 on IELTS yet my writing only a pathetic 6.0. 

My grammar might be poor and the transition between sentences could be awkward. 

I also thought about writing this in Mandarin, which is my mother tongue, and then later ask a friend to help translate into English. 

I could always ask Tom, my British “mate” who was always too nice not to say no to proofreading work.

Or I could ask Jason but he is usually too critical that I would end up being worked-up.

But if I do this, then it won't be entirely me telling you the story, right?

Chapter 1

I don't know... how many days has the word Virus been the top top search in our world?

It has different names now. Some people have shared the news saying the official name is SARI; some people call it "NEW GENERATION CORONAVIRUS"; some people call it “upgraded pneumonia”.

I have decided to call it Virus Unstable. RNA polymerase makes it like a bachelor of his best age: unwilling to settle down, likes to change their looks, most of the time toxic and gets bored when life is totally just fine.

My brain is clogged up, like the clouds outside my window. Dark, gloomy, heavy. It is like having a photo filter on everything in life now, except the filter is a black and white one.

The last day of our work before the Chinese New Year break, our German boss didn’t showed up. Although he disappears frequently without a notice, it is still quite odd for a boss man to just leave like that on New Year's Eve without saying Happy New Year to everyone.

Maybe he ran off. Maybe he just doesn't want to talk to us. Or maybe these two months our business is way too disappointing and he needs some therapy for a few days.

I do think he needs one now.

30 minutes ago, my coworker Jody sent me a WeChat message: Shanghai Government has officially announced NO returning to work before February 9.

Usually the Chinese New Year break is seven days, which is already a little too suffocating for most of us. We have to visit relatives whom we see only once a year, pretend we are enjoying, and sit in front of big round table with many boring and overpriced dishes. No fire crackers allowed, TV programs suck... We don't even buy new clothings for Chinese New Year anymore- that was the only part that I always looked forward to when I was little. The New Year Eve dinner in my family only takes three participants now. It usually ends up with my mom staring at the TV, my dad gazing at the rice and I keep looking at my phone.

However, everything is different this year, with Virus Unstable.

It is like using a napkin to get rid of the gum on the bottom of your shoe. It just gets more and more gross.

I haven't gone out in days. 

I decided to go to Jing'an Temple area this afternoon. I don’t know where else to go to. I am not used to sitting at home. Not at all.

Line 3, for the first time in my life, had only few people on the train. I never noticed how the seats are covered with all kinds of stains before. The forever shining Gucci LOGO at the Reel Mall on West Nanjing Road is sadly dim. Pretty much all restaurants are closed. It took me a while to find a hotdog place. I was wearing a mask and the waiter too. I had to repeat my order for three times. 

Warmth and happiness kicked in after swallowing bunch of food. 

No door to door delivery service these days. If you want to pick up your delivery, you have to put on coat and mask to go to the main gate of your neighborhood. This is the bad news of the bad news. Every young Chinese’s life is entirely built upon deliver app. I can't even tell you how sad I was when I figured my favourite restaurant changed their menu.

Now everywhere you go, you see the new motto: Wear a mask in public! Do NOT party! Do NOT visit your relatives! Stay IN! This is the contribution for our country now!

Well OK I am going back now. I walked to the subway station feeling down.

The door of Line 2 opened and I immediately realized this is the line coming from the Railway Station and Airport. That’s why there are more passengers on this train, with luggage and all kinds of masks on their face. 

Blue, black, white.

Surgical ones, N95, Cotton ones, pitta ones...Wait, pitta ones don’t work!

I imagine our team leader Frank is now regretting that he rejected my proposal of posting an article of comparing different kinds of masks last month. 

"We should list the ones that don't smudge the makeup and the ones that go with most winter coats." 

Frank is American. He is usually quite polite with me so he just blinked his eyes and paused for a second.

"I will think about it."

I know that means rejection.

The last day before the New Year break, I wore my mask to work. This was when coronavirus became a bomb on social media for the first time. I didn’t know what it really was but I knew I didn’t want to get sick.

The journey always takes longer time than usual with a mask on the face. You have to smell your own breath and deal with the moist on your nose and chin. It is not comfy.

"Hi." Frank said to me after I sat down. "How's your lung?"

"My lung?" I didn't know how to react. "But I am not sick. Do you know about the coronavirus?"

"I think you are overreacting."

"But this is what we are supposed to do." I took off my scarf and the absurdly heavy winter coat, which is a necessity in Shanghai in January. "Yesterday I heard an Ayi (an middle-aged lady) saying to a guy, why is everyone wearing a mask now? If we die, we die. Big deal. Why so many people afraid of death?"

Frank looked at me.

I continued to say:"... and then the big guy standing next to her said, we don't care about your being dead or not. We care about not infecting other people.”

This was a great response. I wanted to applaud him that time.

"Hm. I agree with Ayi." Frank said and then turned his head away.

OK. Am I really overreacting?

At this moment, our social media is soaked up with the virus from how serious it can get, the pictures of the wild life animals in the Wuhan seafood market where the break-out occurred to the pictures of the bat soup and even small head bone of the bat. Goose bumps is just minor reaction after reading all those posts.

Everyone believes the reason of the break-out was some irresponsible asshole idiot ate a bat.

"Bats look like that to tell human NOT to eat them."

"The old saying goes all diseases come from eating. Why so many people still neglect that?"

"One person's mistake is making the whole world to pay the price."

Yes, mostly the comments are like these.

I received a new WeChat message.

It is from Davey.

"Feel like half of my friends are in Japan now."

I smiled. Davey is my best friend. We grew up together.

“And the other half are in Thailand?”

Line 2 arrives at a new station, a girl walks in and I spotted her cooling pad on the forehead. I couldn't help running away as fast as possible, and then finally I got off. "I already shut down my moments. I can't bear to see all those every freaking minute. It is so nerve-wrecking." I replied to Davey.

This is totally true. Not just me. I have a friend who has a two year old son. Her moment two days ago was like this:

“I am so scared. Every day with all the information about the virus, true or false, right or wrong, I don't know what to do besides start hoarding the food and hygienic products. I can only tell myself, things will get better...”

I don't have a son and I am still scared. I don't usually get scared over things like this. 

Panic is a good friend of Virus Unstable and it is eating us up without spitting out the bones.

Davey's message shows up on the screen.

"By the way, I have signed the contract, and paid the money."

Ah, Davey. And his choice.

I walked out of the subway station, an ambulance passed by me.

Here is the long unexpected staycation in front me.

Why not write about me and Davey?

[storyunrelated]

Things Are Grim

I have an enormous soft-spot for that moment in sci-fi dystopian films – for it always films – where the Grand Leader or The Council or whoever appears on some holographic viewscreen and explain to the docile, downtrodden masses a bunch of stuff they already know.

It happened when I watched that, uh, Insurgent film not long ago where like the first thing is a lady summarising A) the events of the previous film and B) How the society the people live in works. Which they should know, right?

My personal ur-example though is Father's speech from Equilibrium where he extols the virtues of this emotion-free world to the populace. He gives an inspiring speech which explains how they've done away with emotion TO PEOPLE WHO ARE DRUGGED UP SO THEY CANNOT FEEL EMOTIONS LIKE INSPIRATION.

Of course you could argue “Oh it just tamps down the highs and low of emotion!” but it still makes the whole thing pointless and hilarious. It serves only as exposition and it's so transparent it's amazing. I love it. Clumsy, clumsy device and always seems to be popping up in this very specific genre. Or maybe it's just me.

Anyway I did a thing with it.

[You know all this already, of course]

The System For Continued And Orderly Survival Of The Human Race Abiding By Certain Strict Codes of Conduct For The Betterment Of The Species As A Whole (commonly referred to as 'the System' for those short on time and averse to formality) was single-handedly responsible for a significant chunk of humanity on what remained of the earth's hospitable surface.

Life wasn't exactly easy in these modern times, what with the enormous bodycounts from the various wars that led to the planets' current state and all. The fallout was pretty rough, too. And the mutant hoards and the sentient, flesh-eating storms. Living wasn't impossible, it was just a mite tougher than it used to be.

The biggest concern for most of those still around was preventing a repeat. Clearly any price was worth paying if it meant the continued survival of the human race, preferably with no further recourse to terrifying weapons of mass-destruction of the kind that caused fallout, mutants or thinking weather. So, on balance, submitting to the System and it's demands really wasn't so bad. Just took some getting used to and some practise. All it was was a limit on the number of times a citizen could use the word 'the' on a day-to-day basis. Tricky but not impossible. And vital! As was well-known.

Nowadays most people didn't even think about it. Second nature. Fact of life. Everything ticked over nicely and everyone was obeying the rules so surely those were linked? This was a question no-one dwelt on for very long, as the easy answer was obviously yes. The Quota System was as much part of the fabric of daily life for people as nutrient sludge, gas-masks for when The Smog came and fearing what the night held when the cries grew loud.

Those in charge could not fully understand this. They were adamant that people needed the Quota System explained to them above and beyond the standard level of education and indoctrination they received as children. They needed to be reminded of its usefulness and importance every possible moment, it was said. It needed to glare down at them every possible moment of the day, on the off-change someone somewhere couldn't quite remember what it was or what it was for.

This certainly kept the ruling party busy, at least. The full might of the System's propaganda division was always hard at work, and this day was no exception. Phalanxes of camerapersons and technical staff fiddling with knobs (and some of them even helping with the production) swarmed everywhere while runners ran backwards and forwards carrying things that didn't really need to be anywhere in the first place.

The Leader stood amidst the chaos with a look of mild concern. Technically speaking all of this was for him today, as he was to be the one appearing in the little video they were recording. When they'd floated the idea to him he'd signed off on it without really thinking (if only to make those pestering him go away) but now that the day had come he wondered whether he should have perhaps looked into it a little more deeply. Too late now though.

“We're ready for you, Leader,” said a runner, panting quietly. The Leader jumped, smiled, and followed them through the throngs to somewhere that had been set up in preparation. Given the small area he would apparently be working with the Leader wondered what all the other stuff was for. He wondered if he'd ever find out even if he asked.

Settling into a stern and leaderly chair in front of an austere and leaderly backdrop the Leader cleared their throat and tried to find something to do with their hands, eventually settling on having them rest on the desk in front of them. A script was proffered.

“Are we filming now?” The Leader asked.

“Five minutes, Leader; some final checks are being conducted,” someone said from behind a bright light, obscuring their identity. The Leader shrugged and took the opportunity to flick through the script, reading aloud quietly to himself as he went.

“A Quota System, whereby all good citizens are limited to a strictly-enforced daily allowance of 'the', has been the solid foundation upon which our new, glorious, stable and safe society has been built. This is simply a fact. Indisputable,” he said. This seemed unnecessarily disingenuous to him.

It had been disputed. Hotly, in fact. As easily and readily as people accepted it nowadays it had not always been the case. But that had been back when people had been gleefully murdering one another to be the ones to decide how society should be rebuilt. Those who had disputed had been shot, and the disputation had died away somewhat since then. Anything for a quiet life.

“As you all know a strict limit was opposed on use of the word 'the', the better to protect the hard work of the individuals who risked everything to ensure that society survived through the tough times. The Quote System stands now in memorial to the hard working men and the hard working women and to the unsung heroes whose tireless efforts have led to the present prosperity we now enjoy.”

This was clunky, in the Leader's opinion, and seemed to have been written exclusively to waste as many 'the's' as possible for no obvious reason. He said them all anyway though. Out-loud and everything. He didn't really think about it as he did it.

The upper-echelons of the party leadership were as bound by the Quota System as the common folk and meant to abide by its regulations and yield to its punishments. As is to be expected, they did not. What sort of upper-echelons would they have been if they did not think they were exempt from the rules?  

“Do we really have to do this?” The Leader asked after reading a few more lines and finding the whole thing a little pointless. He brandished the script and leaned back in the chair, frowning. All activity around the set stopped.

“What do you mean?” Asked the voice from behind the light. The Leader squinted but it did not help him get any closer to identifying the voice's owner. It hardly mattered.

“It just seems a little pointless, you know? I mean, it's part history, part bromide and platitude and mostly just stuff everyone should know already. How does this benefit anyone?” The Leader asked. Several of those nearby shifted uncomfortably. Deep down they knew what he was saying was true but they were conflicted by their deep committing to doing pointless, dystopian things for no good reason. The voice behind the light had no such doubts and spoke as strongly as ever:

“It'll be very useful if someone – a newcomer observing our society for the first time, say; from the outside, as a sort of intangible viewpoint – needed to learn the particulars of our way of life in a quick and direct way.”

The Leader chewed this over. They could see how this might be true, but couldn't see how this was in any way a good or compelling argument.

“That is a very specific set of circumstances. I'm not sure how that might apply in the real world,” the Leader said.

“Well, if you don't like that, instead imagine it as a reassuring reminder to the people of how our strict, draconian rules and regulations keep our society from falling to pieces. Never hurts to remind people of something they have stamped so deep into their brain they never have a chance of forgetting it even if they wanted to,” said the voice. Several members of the crew wrinkled their noses as the self-defeating nature of this sentence. The Leader did likewise, finding it obtuse and bizarre.

“But they learn about that in school. And their toil in the toil factories. And with every mouthful of their bitter, ulcer-inducing nutrient paste. And in every aspect of their daily lives. There is literally no escaping it. This whole thing would just be beating a dead horse.”

“I must again stress the importance of having a concise and convenient summation of our society's most distinguishing and unusual feature in easy-to-understand video format on the off-chance someone might need quick exposition,” the voice said. The Leader pinched the bridge of their nose.

“Daryl, is that you?” They asked. There was silence.

“...it might be me,” said the voice, presumably Daryl. The Leader melted across the desk with dismay as the assembled crew groaned in sympathy. The light obscuring Daryl suddenly seemed to take on a sheepish tinge.

“You've been watching those bloody films again, haven't you?” The Leader said, voice muffled by the desk they were speaking into but still carrying across the room clearly. This was one of the many reasons they were the Leader. That and murdering all opposition in a ruthless and cold-blooded fashion. But that went without saying.

“No! I mean maybe. Maybe just one,” Daryl said.

“Those films are not a how-to on how to actually run a downtrodden and nightmarish dystopian society! The societies depicted always breakdown! And no amount of flashy 'Libria, I congratulate you'-type speeches ever stop it! In fact, they make it worse! We have a serious job here, Daryl, and I'll thank you to remember that.”

Awkward silence reigned.

“So does that mean you won't read the script or it just need a re-write or...?” Daryl asked. The Leader – still prone across the desk – raised an arm and snapped his fingers.

“Someone shoot Daryl for me.”

END