#tried to make his squid half kind of call back to his starting armor

[projectmischa]

It's mermay, so I turned Astarion into a vampire squid XD

[polyboros]

carcinization, babey!

so floating around blaseball spaces have been blink’s lore on how the garden has affected the flowers’ players, and recently, mads’ stuff on how the call got the firefighters, which makes it sound like they got murdered but that’s fine. and i started thinking about carcinization, because becoming a crab is about a lot of things, like gender and crabs and being a Part Of The Team and love, y’know, crab things, but it’s also about what is left in the “absence” where a [mumbles vaguely] killed god was at some point, and it’s also incredibly up to interpretation! 

anyway! crabs players.

so, a basic thing of how i view carcinization: it’s both connected to debbie and not. at some point, it was because of her, and now it’s not, but it is, kind of. it’s about baltimore and it isn’t. it’s about the crabs and it isn’t. what it is about, in no uncertain terms, is the person being carcinized! on some level you have to be willing to be carcinized for it to happen. if you walk into the baltimore crabs and you say fuck this shit i don’t want this, it’s not going to happen. there’s obviously a lot of nuance to this, but the basic foundation of it is that it is voluntary! and it’s reversible. and despite being a very, very physical thing, carcinization is about emotions.

i’m going to do players in order of who i have the most thoughts about! because some crabs are definitely definitely thought about more by others than i do, haha.

so luis acevedo! traded to the crabs in the season 7 elections, from the garages. they’re a hologram, and they’re constantly shifting both their appearance and identity subconsciously or manually to suit them how they see fit. they have a very very very solid sense of identity despite this, and they’ve been around, you know? centuries old. so they get to baltimore and they kind of already know what they’re getting into, except they have no idea at all, really. 

and i think they see carcinization from this outsider’s perspective, like, this is something you get when you’re a part of the team, this is something you get when you’re truly from baltimore and you’re truly a Crab, and they want it! they really do. because the crabs weren’t super important to them at first but they become important, and they want that connection to what becomes their family. but they don’t get it, not from an outside source. it’s because they’re a hologram, kind of, but mostly their identity is malleable by them and not many other things, and that’s the way they’ve crafted it. 

so luis rolls up their sleeves and goes okay, bitch, guess i have to do everything myself around here! and they carcinize themself, essentially, they give themself chitin one day and blue blood the next and claws and legs and every time they want to change they do, and i don’t think they quite realize until late into the Up that this is their carcinization. that this is their connection to the team, because they made it that way. and they run into the place where all the crabs hang out like holy fucking shit is this what it was? and they’re all like yeah?? we figured you knew?? and [luis vc] i fucking did NOT. it ends happily for them, either way.

next is [squints at hand] squid galvanic and jacoby podcast! these two are extremely intertwined for me specifically in relation to their experience with carcinization, because they’re both playoff births, right? they’ve only truly existed on the immaterial plane for a couple years, maybe, squid longer. and i think while the shadows are normal now that the fk apple is up (something i will elaborate on   later), they used to be not so great. and squid and jacoby were born into the shadows and not baltimore, really, and carcinization couldn’t reach them there. and then squid’s out, and it is seeing baltimore for the first time in its life, and the crabs for the first time, too, and finn invites it to go swimming in the extremely toxic bay with her because it can! 

and it does, and it wakes up the next morning with chitin plates interlocking up its spine and patches of it along its jaw, and it maybe freaks the fuck out, a little. because nobody explained this to it, because nobody thought they had to? but once it gets explained and it knows what’s happening, squid is overjoyed. it wasn’t a part of the crabs like the rest were in Up, and now it’s a step closer to that, and it’s happy about it. plus, it makes it look really cool, and i think it likes the feeling of sort of being Distinctly Inhuman in another way than it already is.

jacoby, on the other hand, doesn’t get carcinization. like, they get it on an objective level? and i think they understand it, sort of, in the way that you can understand it when it hasn’t really happened to you yet. i think they’re too unsure for it to happen, and when they’re more confident they get some hermit crab carcinization, but it’s… very slow. one step forward two steps back. i think that being a replacement for a bad pitcher that got foreshadowed has made them a little too anxious in their abilities, and their carcinization reflects that. sometimes squid peels stray bits of chitin that tried to grow on its vampire squid half and sets them on jacoby’s head and they laugh about it, though, and it makes it easier. 

i think about tosser’s carcinization in the context of it reflecting self-confidence a lot as well. the general thing about tosser is that after the real bad reverse sweep before the first peanut fight, he lost his carcinized arm! normal arm time. he blames this on debbie, and on carcinization not seeing him as good enough anymore, but carcinization isn’t the one seeing anything, really. tosser, on some level, has taken a hard enough blow from that loss to lose the confidence and motivation that made that arm carcinize to begin with. in the Up the rest of the team helps him build his own arm, artificial, and it’s once again the self-made connection to your team. you don’t need carcinization to be a crab, it’s something you foster yourself, and tosser is an original, and he’s had that connection and only made it stronger. i think once he gets down chitin and muscle begins to interweave with the metal, a bit, but nothing nearly as much as before. he’s okay with that, really. prefers it.

tot fox is a fox. she wears that funny crab hat you know the one. she doesn’t mind carcinization, and carcinization doesn’t mind her, but they’ve never really interacted, i think. she gets some extra legs to scuttle around with after she kills the sun and she’s happy with that.

dreamy and nagomi are both very carcinized, i think. nagomi found strength in the ever-changing nature of it and everything about it, in contrast to the heavy stasis of lady friday, and dreamy’s an original crab! however, i think while nagomi’s carcinization has remained just as heavy and strong as ever, dreamy’s faded and molted off over siesta. not for lack of wanting, but because with the sudden absence of the crabs, it sort of weakened her connection to it, and then over the decade it just sort of retreated back into itself? and she misses it, of course, but she learns how to live without it. and then the crabs come down, and i’m always thinking about sim’s minific where the carcinization comes back all at once. dreamy knows before anyone that the crabs are back because the chitin lining her jaw is back in full force and she can feel it, intrinsically, like something coming home to her. moco is less carcinized to begin with, but i think their armor grows chitin plate to replace rusted and missing pieces.

i’m sleepy now, and i don’t have particularly strong articulated thoughts on the rest of the crabs’/former crabs’ carcinization, so you should come to the crabitat at tillmansucks.com and ask about them! because i do love them very dearly. (pedro davids my beloved)

thank you for reading! love a crab

[thedistantdusk]

Close

For Goods, who requested Jealous!Dean. Also available on AO3. Happy pride!

_________________________ Once upon a time, Dean had naively thought being chucked by Ginny Weasley would be the worst thing he’d experience this year. He’d been miserable when it happened, when she’d finally called it quits… but he can’t say he’d been surprised. Ginny had been increasingly distant since Christmas hols and on more than one occasion, she’d started a fight on purpose — much like the one where she’d chucked him. What had surprised Dean, though, was that being chucked actually wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that a few weeks later, she’d moved on. Very publicly. Very excessively. With him.

Because now, HarryandGinny (one word) are lying beneath a tree on a particularly glorious Saturday — a day that Dean finds particularly shitty. He’d shrugged off revising in the common room because he hadn’t wanted to see them; he knows they’re fond of the couch. And the windowsill. And the rug near the fireplace. And the floor. But Dean should have known better: HarryandGinny (one word) haven’t kept their bloody hands off each other in a week. Why would today (of all days) be any different? Why would today give him any modicum of relief? Dean’s empty stomach churns as he glares at their sprawled forms not twenty meters away. His charcoal pencil is gripped in his fist, but the tip has long since shattered on his sketch pad. He’d been drawing the lake, hoping for a glimpse of the squid, hoping for anything, really to take his fucking mind off of things. But for some sick reason, he can’t stop watching the only thing he’d hoped to avoid. He’d heard them arrive about five minutes ago, each utterly oblivious to the peace they’d been disturbing. HarryandGinny (one word) might’ve been saying actual words as they’d relaxed beneath the tree, but Dean isn’t certain. Their dialogue had consisted of a weirdly flirty cadence punctuated with occasional giggles and snorts. They’re quiet now, though, which is almost worse. Ginny’s lying on her back and Harry’s propped on his elbow. One of his hands is brushing her cheek, the other caressing her hip. That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is the dazed expression on Harry’s face. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes have clouded over. Or the way his lips are curved in a perpetual half-smirk as he gazes at Ginny like he can’t get enough… like he’s trying to savor this, to store it up, to remember everything. Then without coordination, without a single spoken word, they lean towards each other… and just like that, they’re snogging again. Dean groans and clenches the fist not holding the pencil. Didn’t take long, did it? He amends his earlier assumption: Snogging is much worse than silence… much, much worse. Now Harry’s releasing a deep sound somewhere between a moan and a growl as Ginny pulls him closer, as her pale fingers grasp his tie. Harry comes up for air a second later, his chest heaving, his eyes even darker than before, but to Dean’s dismay, Ginny doesn’t seem to need air; it’s like taking a break mid-snog was a necessity unique to their relationship. HarryandGinny (one word) aren’t done, though — and Dean is really starting to doubt they’ll ever be. Harry may not be kissing her, but his hands have wandered. Without breaking eye contact, the fingers caressing her hip are now dipping below her waistband. Then, as if Harry owns her, as if he’s been given permission to do so, the fucking Chosen One pulls the tail of her shirt out, leans in, and starts kissing her again. And his hands don’t stop drifting. Dean seethes as Harry’s fingertips dance over the creamy expanse of her stomach, as Ginny arches into his touch, her head tilted back. He’s not close enough to decipher any sounds she’s making, but Dean can nonetheless infer these aren’t noises she’s ever made with him. All of this would have been bad enough, really... but then Ginny does something that truly takes the biscuit: She wraps her leg around Harry’s waist. While they’re snogging. Horizontally. Dean's eyes narrow in contempt as acid crawls up his throat. They’ve barely been dating a week! When he and Ginny had been dating a week, she’d barely let him hold her hand. When they’d been dating almost a year, she’d flinched when he’d touched her waist — over her clothes. But she has no problem letting Harry’s hands drift up her stomach, does she? No problem pressing herself against him, no problem ignoring the rest of the world and losing herself and— “Mate.” An exasperated voice rips him from Dean from his thoughts — and it’s a voice he’d recognize anywhere. It’s also the voice of a person who’s told him off for doing this more than once; Dean scrambles into a sitting position, trying his hardest to pretend he hasn’t been caught doing exactly this for the past week and a half. He needn’t have bothered pretending, though, because Seamus knows him too well. Dean’s not sure how long he’s been standing there behind him, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a sympathetic look on his face… but he looks rather content back there, so perhaps it’s much longer than Dean’s realized. “Mate,” Seamus repeats, shaking his head. “Why’re you torturing yourself?” Dean heaves a sigh, a vein ticking in his jaw. “She’s a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, fully aware that he sounds like a petulant child. He still can’t bring himself to answer the question, though. Not yet. His head is still swimming with memories of Ginny’s reluctant glances over her shoulder while they’d snogged, her halfhearted protests of wandering eyes and six brothers, her uncomfortable winces if he’d tried more than a peck in public...   Seamus shuffles his feet, but doesn’t say anything. Dean appreciates that too, even though having his friend around is leaving him rather exposed. It's as if Seamus has lifted a sheet, revealed the man behind the curtain. Dean draws a breath that slithers down his throat, one that settles in his stomach, hollow and cold — and he dazedly wonders how it’s possible that burning ire has masked loneliness, all this time. Seamus clears his throat, drawing Dean’s attention from the writhing couple beneath the tree.   “I know how badly you wanted her,” Seamus soothes, his eyes kind and warm. Then he sighs, his posture stiffening, and Dean knows that look anywhere: Seamus is bracing himself to share an uncomfortable truth. And like it or not, Dean also knows he’s going to listen.  

“But mate,” Seamus starts again, this time with a hint of a plea. “She’s moved on. Maybe it’s best you do, yeah?” A pause stretches between them — but in the span of a few beats, it’s like Dean’s heard a glass wall shattering, like the world has been colorized, like a missing puzzle piece has slid into place. Dean swallows and turns to his friend with a bewildered look… because for the first time, he realizes that Seamus is wrong. He’s not sad because he’d wanted her: He’s sad because he never had her at all. Perhaps Seamus has jarred him into noticing it. Or perhaps it’s been Harry’s wandering hands or his dazed look or Ginny’s inexplicable allowance of each of these. But now, Dean now accepts — with astonishing clarity — that the intimacy he’d shared with Ginny Weasley had been incredibly brief, even if their relationship hadn’t. In between snogging and smiling and general pleasantries, he’d only gotten fleeting flashes of the chinks in her armor. Dean had gotten soft smiles and flattered flushes and wide-eyed looks of surprise and breathy moans caught in her throat… but in retrospect, all of that had been akin to standing just above a volcano, one that can’t choose between activity and slumber. He’d gotten to feel the rumbling beneath his feet and the warmth glowing from the earth as angry red zigzags splintered and cracked across the barren landscape. Like a fool, he’d just assumed she’d eventually crack. Dean had spent a year telling himself that Ginny would let him in and trust him and confide in him; he’d convinced himself that the near-constant earthquakes were a good sign, that the churning lava under the dirt would bubble over and explode. What he hadn’t counted on, though, was that Ginny'd never had any intention of losing control. Not with him. Dean shudders as a mixture of relief and horror washes over him. He’d gotten undeniably close to her light… but she’d never let him share it. He swallows again and stares back at HarryandGinny (one word). They’re both private people — very private people. Ginny’d emphasized moving slowly from their first bumbling days. She’d been cautious. Reticent. Secretive, even. A delirious laugh slips through Dean’s lips; the whole situation is so fucking ridiculous. Ron had interrupted them in an innocent snog — once! —  but Ginny had spent the next six months hiding in dark corners and double-checking her surroundings before agreeing to do it again. Unbelievably, Harry is even worse. This is the boy who’d spent the last six years ruminating in silence over everything from death to neglect. This is the boy who’d made a habit of quietly slipping out of the common room to fight Death Eaters and have midnight duels and go on some of the grandest, most dangerous adventures Hogwarts has seen. And yet, here the two of them are… wrapped in each other, like they’ve never shared darkness, like there’s no difference between where his heart beats and where her soul stops. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. Really, he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know what he’d had with Ginny… but they’d never had that. They’d never had finishing sentences and staring into the depths of each other’s eyes and not giving a shite about touching in public. Dean’s never been that close with someone... never found himself lost in someone who’d filled in all the gaps, all the time. Well, except for Seamus. Of course. He turns his head to look back at his mate. Seamus is peering at him warily, attempting to asses if he’s hurt his feelings. But he hasn’t… because he’s Seamus. Dean replies with an affable shrug (Nah, mate, you’re probably right) and Seamus shoots him a relieved grin (Good, you needed to hear it), his white teeth glinting against the sun. Seamus hadn’t made the quidditch team, but Dean doesn’t know why. He’s certainly built like a beater; he’s stocky and muscular, he’s lean and agile. The veins on his muscular forearms move in fascinating ways when he’s angry, when his cheeks are rosy and flooded with rage. Dean loves that quality about Seamus: He understands righteous indignation… and he’ll fight anyone for him. Dean also loves when he slips into bouts of Gaelic, his brow furrowed as he fires off unintelligible curses about someone’s mother. Dean sighs and sets his sketch pad down. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not an idiot. He may have been slower on the uptake with the Ginny situation, but with Seamus— Dean bites his lip. Seamus is crossing his arms and staring at HarryandGinny (one word) in sympathetic disapproval — but now Dean realizes that he’s been playing it up this whole time. Seamus doesn’t particularly care that they’re snogging everywhere: He cares that Dean cares. Dean rips his head away, a gentle smile on his lips. Now more than ever, it’s pretty clear there’s been something there. For quite a long time. It’s something Dean really doesn’t want to label, something that scares him to admit, but now that he’s thinking about it — now that he’s thinking about him — his stomach floods with warm reassurance, like he’s swallowed a mouthful of butterbeer. It’s only now, though, that this butterbeer also gives him butterflies. And to be honest, Dean’s not sure what to do with that, either. Luckily Seamus seems to have his wits about him. He gestures towards the castle, and Dean rises to his feet. He brushes off his trousers and picks up his sketch pad, but this time, his eyes don’t go anywhere near HarryandGinny (one word). Instead, he and Seamus head inside, just as they always do — but this time, Dean finds familiarity in the routine. Their arms swing at their sides, but never touch. They flash each other wry smiles and raise their eyebrows and whisper things only meant for the other to hear. They talk about Dean’s dad and Seamus’ mum and lament that they’ve still got so much school left. They reach the entrance hall and Dean pauses, staring at his best friend. For the first time, he’s pleased that he and Ginny have broken up. He’s somehow glad, even, that HarryandGinny (one word) are together... because they’ve shown him the difference. They’ve illuminated the contrast. They’ve proven what’s in the past, given him a reference point for the future.   Seamus turns to him with a soft smile, his sandy hair tousled in the breeze. Dean doesn’t know what intimacy is, really… but he knows, without a doubt, that he shares it with him.

[toasttz]

From the Tabletop #1

In recent times, I've been trying to get more into one of my favorite hobbies: tabletop games. Primarily D&D (of course), Exalted, and Shadowrun. Actually, some friends and I have been running an Exalted game for over 2 years now (since 3rd edition dropped) and I wanted to share with the world some of our fun stories and "That Guy" moments we've had forced upon us as well. Going back to the very beginning, I was, unfortunately, "That Guy" of our initial 3rd Edition Exalts. I built a strong, competent battle-ready Solar Exalt built around the Righteous Devil martial arts which, for those who may not be familiar, is essentially flamethrower-fu. Her name was Sunset Shimmer (yes, I snuck an MLP joke into an Exalted game, and only one other player at the table was in on the gag). The biggest issue with Sunset was a general lack of direction of the character. She had a backstory but no real goal to speak of and it didn't help that meatspace conditions made my attention to her spotty at best. She was an active participant, and I had freakishly lucky rolls playing her, but she was just kind of boring. I really should remake her. It really didn't help that I was the "That Guy" of a party of "That Guys". Another in the group was Hrothgar, whose defining intimacy was Ultra-Violence. But another major intimacy was about what a nice guy this bloodthirsty faux-viking was. It made about as much sense in context as it sounds here. Not helped by not really having a backstory or a goal to speak of. Ditto for Drago, affectionately nicknamed "Ivan Drago", also lacked any characterization to speak of. He was the man of 1000 backstories, because he couldn't settle on one. Once from the 100 Kingdoms, then a peninsula, then an island, then about how much of a great pirate his grandfather was. The GM eventually demanded he put up or shut up, essentially fusing together all the ideas, mostly because we never brought it up again and never actually went to his homeland in that game, but would in later ones. Whereupon we set it on fire (more on that later). The only competent Exalt of the circle was Petral. Sol Invictus knows she tried. Essentially Samurai BatMan, complete with high levels of investigation (she never used) and murdering people (that she really should've left alive), the only really meaningful connection this circle managed was that Targon and Drago's players shipped Sunset and Petral, due to a moment where a badly-drunken Petral, while worshipping the porcelain god, was comforted by a sympathetic Sunset. I'll be honest, as I was a frequent truant at these games, I can't accurately account for the flow of the game, but it did lead to moments wherein I'd find myself saying things like "But last time we agreed to murder some nobles! Why are we 200 miles away from them now?!" or declaring that a large, squid-like creature was, in fact, an aquatic horse upon botching an intelligence check. Things at least became more consistent with our second round of characters. Unfortunately, it was consistently God-awful. We had a cult leader, Zen, who barely had any idea why an Exalt would have a cult. He also didn't know what it would take to run one, having a character with zero personality to speak (I frequently confuse him with the next character here because of this), and - quite frankly - acted extremely evil at times. He had terrible conditions for his cult, food was constantly scarce (not helped by our being in Malfaes for this entire game), and draconian laws oftentimes seen in actual real-world deathcults. Calling this character "incompetent" is kind of like calling the ocean "a bit wet". The second one, Targon... ho boy. His backstory pegged him as an arena gladiator, which is fine on its face. The problems cropped up after that, whereupon he was also a successful businessman (resources 5), owned a chain restaurant which he managed himself (despite claiming to have locations all over creation!), and demanded his demonic clients pay in artifacts of all things. Now, in Malfeas, this could work, as a single-location eccentric establishment that catered to the super-rich. But this is Targon. And he ran it like a Pondarosa Steakhouse, except less competent. He would spend 20-minute long scenes (real time), in how exactly he would cook and prepare food. This established a precedent wherein we realized this player just absolutely would not accept flaws of any kind of his character - not real flaws at any rate. Just the informed "type variety" - his words. And, yes, he always attempted to sound smarter than he actually is by speaking in a roundabout and obfuscatory manner. Next was Taiga, and Taiga was a great character. She became the team mascot, punch-monkey, and little sister all in one. There was literally no one who didn't like her, in terms of player characters, because she was cheerful and cute as a button. She won big in Hell's many arenas and even won herself a few Pokemo-- err-- I mean, pet beasties. Her main concern was patrolling the mean streets of Hell, forming her own police squad - the Justice Buddies. And last, but not least, was my new character, Master of the Eternal Golden Paradise, named from the Exalted Name Generator, in case that weren't obvious. Master was a shrewd businessman (resources 3 to start), who operated as a flashy, guild liaison with some business contacts that helped him ultimately build a theme park in Hell - Super Happy Fun Land. He sort-of adopted Taiga as a little sister, and would go on to help her undermine Zen's cult leadership status, whereupon they would form "Taiga-ism", a rather loose set of morals and ethics as Master devised ways of educating the unwashed masses to make them more productive members of the work force and economy. As I recall, the greatest among these religious prohibitions was against taxadermy - as Taiga kind of thought it was gross. To really drive his themes home, Master as decked out in heavy artifact weapon and armor - his weapon (a reskinned Great Goremaul) was an abicus named "SmithLocke & Keynes" and his armor was a heavy platemail named the "God-Dragon Plate" (or GDP). Among the bizarre things this team did included: Operation Eats & Poops, an attempt to save Zen's hopeless cult by fertilizing fields. This almost got derailed due to a severe drought, but Master had two harthstones that happened to solve the problem. (This itself became an issue later on, due to fukken Zen not signing the proper paperwork while taking up space in the Endless Desert. Master would then go on to petition Cecylene for use of the space, and did so with such an amazing bureacracy roll, that he, and I'm quoting my GM here, "Made the Endless Desert moist".) Zen then begged Taiga into assisting him in getting a magic book - not even getting into his begging for magical martial arts training he ultimately bitched out of (thereby humiliating Taiga in front of her master). This was kind of like trying to explain color to a blind person, because Zen's answer to Taiga's taking him to a book store, was to casually saunter up and begin asking for what amounts to black market wares in the middle of the day. The GM, God bless him, took pity on this faux-pas and Taiga was eventually able to get said book. Not that Zen put it to any meaningful use. Apparently, the 17 year old girl understood the black market better than the man in his 30s. The team would go on to battle many times in the arena, sans Master, who was on the sidelines betting on his comrades's success (when it was Taiga) or their failure (when it was Zen and Targon). Strangely enough, Master's bets were almost always right. At one point we even battled what was essentially a battlemech. The team managed to topple it despite even man-down at the time, and Master sealed it with a linguistics charm essentially reading "DON'T TOUCH. THIS MEANS YOU, ZEN." And the sin that I shall never be forgiven for was Master's casual investment in the entertainment/security measure known as the TaigaBot. These mechanical abominations were fully able to dance, sing, answer simple questions for guests and beat the shit out of anyone who attempted anything funny, be it stealing or attempting to couple with a TaigaBot. Endless innuendos were made, of course, and that's part of the reason I shan't be forgiven for this. Master briefly considered a ZenBot or a TargonBot, but we all know where that would've ended up. Those robots would've killed themselves somehow - likely out of shame for their source material. And the last bit, something Taiga's player really should've reconsidered, was during a battle atop a giant bird-behemoth (Master was absent from this fight), Taiga's Mouse of the Sun, a rather vicious fighter named Fluff Mousington, brandished an anti-warstrider rifle and leveled it on Zen, prompting her for an answer. Taiga relented (her player, less so) and admitted that they should save Zen, causing a battle against a gigantic eagle. In retrospect, probably should've just pulled the trigger. Remember everyone: backstory, intimacies, long-term goal. Not negotiable. So, join me next time as I discuss some D&D (and how I became a half-ork pop star) and a later Exalted campaign involving slutty pirates, a reincarnating old man knight (who happens to be a teenaged girl), and three boneheads no one likes. See you there.

[the-ash0]

surviving paradise chapter 6

He was 7

The biggest practice room on Frieza's ship was packed! It divided in two, and the half meant for spectators had filled up and overflowed unto the fighting area. The excited buzz from them had heightened the moment Vegeta entered.

With a confident smirk, he walked to the middle of the empty side of the room, and crossed his arms as he waited. He had chosen a simple piece of armor sans cape or trappings for this, but he projected royal confidence nonetheless. Recklessly he basked in the crowd’s speculative  stares.

It had been a while since the prince had received this kind of attention, and it was not hard to admit there was some charm to it. Far better at least than sitting through tactical lessons or running the same basic drills with the other recruits.

Frieza himself was present, his interest in him returned instantly after it had dulled in these past boring months of schooling. Its round white throne hovered at the edge of the battle area marked with white marble tiles. The tyrant looked small and idle, reclining within the dome with that lazy smirk. It resembled a horned pink iguana chick that had pecked a hole out of its eggshell, but was quite content to stay half hatched.

At its right hand, as always, Zarbon stood with a scowl on his face. It seemed to be his constant expression as of late. Or… perhaps Vegeta just had that effect on the long-braided alien.

Vegeta also saw some Saiyans in the audience, which was a rare occurrence as it seemed they were purposely kept from him. His people did not appear happy to see him here though, but Vegeta supposed that made sense. Even his own kind had a way of underestimating him. His peers however, were ecstatic. Vegeta spotted the wolf-boy, the purple squid, and a few others. Boisterously they catcalled, with that half-mad glint in their eyes he recognized as staring death in the face from up a little too close.

All thought he was committing suicide. Vegeta disagreed.

Evening recruit fights were just about the only entertainment on board, yet usually the fights were of little consequence. The soldiers that came to watch got their jollies by riling up the winner into dragging things out, goading the victor into torturing the loser for their enjoyment, or playing with the unconscious body.

But Vegeta wanted something more than a weakling to torture for fun. He wanted recognition. Vegeta was going places; straight to the top. Or, at least out of the recruit class and into active service as fast as possible… and that meant taking some calculated risks.

So when Dodoria asked who Vegeta wanted to fight- actually asked Vegeta- he’d simply pointed at the creature in front of him. The pink alien had lowered its round face to his, confused at first. Then it had muttered something about crazy monkeys, and accepted.

Why had Vegeta chosen the ball-shaped powerhouse as his opponent ? Well, Dodoria was high enough up in the PTO hierarchy to earn Vegeta some much-needed repute. Yes, everyone on board might well agree Vegeta was a crazy monkey for doing this- perhaps the craziest monkey of all. But they had given him what he had wanted out of this: he had their undivided attention.

After today, no one would ask ‘Say are you Vegeta's son?’ Afterafter today, no one would ask ‘Wwhat is that kid doing here?’ and after today no one would ask ‘aren't you a little small for a Saiyan warrior?’. Because after today they would know of him; win or lose, he would be feared.

As for the risk, Dodoria was actually professional, all things considered. Sure, it poked fun at Vegeta with name calling, but it did that to everyone. Also, its temper was one of short explosions and not of drawn-out pain. And as Dodoria had little to prove by fighting him, Vegeta was pretty sure that if he did lose, he’d go to the med-tanks with his pride and most of his body still intact.

But Vegeta was not counting on losing; no, he was betting on winning this thing.

Dodoria finally entered and it walked straight up to tower over Vegeta like an elephant over a kitten. It held its wide girth over him like that for long seconds, casting a great shadow over the prince. But Vegeta held his position and smiled up casually.

The jeering shushed a little as Dodoria shook its pink head at the boy beneath him, obviously confused, and Vegeta took up a fighting stance. Perhaps it had thought to call the Crown Prince of Saiyan’s bluff by now. But of course, Vegeta never bluffed.

“Well let’s get this over with,” the elite rumbled and tightened its ham-hands to fists.

Vegeta grunted, stepped back. And then, he stepped back again as the hulking creature swung. Dodoria turned and twisted, only slightly annoyed while its small opponent kept his distance. It even grunted in understanding as Vegeta played it safe, swinging easily and full of confidence.

After several minutes of sparring in this manner, the giant warrior was not even winded. Content, perhaps even. But this was not the game the Saiyan prince meant to play. He had something a little wilder in mind. So Vegeta tried a different tactic. “You really are kind of slow.”

The comment didn't seem to anger Dodoria, but it did have the intended effect. “How about we step it up then?” the giant asked, its pockmarked features turning into a wicked grin as it jumped and threw an impressive number of punches. All within a few seconds.

A few blows grazed Vegeta, but when he dropped to all fours and unravelled his tail, no more came close. This way, Vegeta traded defense for maneuverability and danced out of the way of every strike. Blocking was useless here anyway, Vegeta realised as he watched another tile broken to bits by a missed punch; if he took one of these hits, it would down him.

Running backward out from a particular nasty hook, Vegeta kept backing up until his elbow hit the moving wall of spectators. He was sweating, mostly from the thrill. And so he smiled. “Is that all you can do? Shadow boxing?”

Dodoria’s skin darkened from its usual pink.  Without warning, it reached an arm out and shot ki at Vegeta. The crowd shrieked as both Vegeta and the spectators scrambled out of the way frantically. But Dodoria was not distracted, and its blasts followed Vegeta across the room and up the walls.  

Dust rained down, the blast rang in his ears as he flew higher, then ran across the ceiling on all fours.  At the next explosion, Vegeta dropped down, turned quick, and took his chance.

The slight Saiyan doubled back and closed in, hidden by the flying rocks and dust. He reached the giant’s foot and ran up, using his tail to cut sharp corners. Finally, he scaled Dodoria’s back until he reached the neck of the giant's armor. Once there, he grabbed on and flattened himself down behind the round alien’s armored shoulder blades.

After a few tense seconds, Vegeta realised that things had turned out better than he could have hoped. Thought he could see little of the pink creature’s face, the way Dodoria turned his head to the left and right as he searched the area made it obvious: Dodoria had no idea where the Saiyan had disappeared to.

As the crowd started to jeer, Vegeta could not help himself. He pulled himself up by the hem, placed a hand over his eyes, and pretended to look around as well. Then he gave a mocking shrug and blasted his best ki attack down the neck of Dodoria’s armor.

The giant screamed. The crowd whooped. He was nearly thrown as Dodoria turned, around and again, like some oversized rodeo horse. Vegeta took another shot as Dodoria’s thick arms flailed about uselessly. The monster was simply too fat to reach him.

Emboldened, the prince shot another blast, this time in the creature’s ear, and with another scream Dodoria dropped. For a moment, Vegeta nearly crowed in victory.

Then Dodoria rolled and Vegeta lost his perch on top of its back. He ran like a dog on a treadmill, taking a good kick at the monster’s face in passing as he evaded the grabbing fingers. On the next rotation he managed a pin-prick ki-blast, but soon he was too busy evading and running to attack further.

Then it happened; he lost traction and was raised up in the air as the round elite got back to his feet. Vegeta found himself dangling upside down with his tail in a vice-like grip. Yes, this was - of course-  the risk from the start.

“Ah, damn! You got me,” he told Dodoria as the elite’s dark-red face came into view. “No hard feelings, right?”

Yet the twitch of Dodoria’s puckered eyebrow phased Vegeta; “No hard feelings,” the giant echoed, somehow bringing home that there definitely were a lot of hard feelings. Hard, painful ones.

Well, if he was fucked anyway, he might as well make it count. Vegeta brought his arms together and released the biggest blast he could muster. It managed him a drop of at least a foot before the fist closed on his tail again.

Then the giant turned in a pitching motion, and Vegeta sailed in an arch, following through until he made impact with the ground. The bright pain had not even died down before he moved backwards, out from the rubble and started to fly once more. His last thought was he must look like a puppet getting smacked around by an angry toddler.

When he woke up, he was floating and not hurting anymore, drifting slowly and comfortably in healing fluids. Time went by unmeasured as he bobbed, slow current moving through his hair. Sometimes his mind brushed at questions like how he had gotten here, or how the fight had ended. But then his consciousness shied away, content to stay inside this quiet isolation.

Suddenly he was jerked awake by a muffled knock on the glass. With some effort Vegeta focused his eyes on the shape outside of the med-tank; it was Dodoria. Vegeta almost misjudged the look on Dodoria’s face as a grin.

“Congratulations. Frieza was much impressed. You’ve made it into active duty.” Then Dodoria punched the glass, a little too hard; hairline cracks appeared and the giant’s features twisted into an ugly sneer. “And all you had to do was make me look the fool. But mark my words. You will pay me back in full for this.”