#who has forsaken him

[amorficzna]

This weird lil Luigi has been my favorite find in Japan so far

[lord-squiggletits]

I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.

I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.

The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...

Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.

I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.

And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?

It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.

To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.

In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.

Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.

So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.

What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.

Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?

[orbdotexe]

They were supposed to be– No. Something’s wrong. 

They’re supposed to be the last hope. The Light’s last argument against the Darkness.

This isn’t supposed to be happening. 

In other words, a Shin Malphur in denial over his "end to last rites and final words" drags Drifter down with him. Drifter really really doesn't want to be here nor interact with the Young Wolf, rather fresh into their exile. Shin says Win-Win, Drifter says Lose-Lose.

Important lore bits (ik its weird to have important Canon Lore to an AU but. well im not sane so): Drifter's hallucinations from the Nine, Shin's lorebook to the Young Wolf. Set a bit before Season of the Drifter.

[ao3]

-

“So… What’s all this about?” The Drifter eyes the Hunter across from him, leaning against the decrepit wall and shielded from the dull light overhead. The air is stale and suffocating, and his usually laid-back tone is tense. “Thought you were retiring.”

“You know what this is about,” came the response from a dead voice, though the Drifter couldn’t place if the tone was irritation or some kind of sorrow. “The Guardian. You know the one.”

He braces as he watches Shin Malphur stalk away from the wall, helmeted head still shadowed by his hood. “Still doesn’t tell me why you’re here,” the Drifter says, terse, keeping his ground as the man stares him down through the solid visor. 

Maybe Shin wasn’t here on any of that business, but there was, nonetheless, an air around the man. Different from the one he was once so familiar with, but overshadowing all the same.

“Something isn’t right.” There’s a finality to the Dredgen Hunter’s voice that forces his eyes away. Even without looking, he knew Shin had not let up, and wouldn’t until he had whatever answer he wanted.

Drifter sighs, realizing where the conversation must’ve been going. “Ain’t the first to tell me that… And what do you want me to do about it? I doubt they’ll have any interest in this operation.”

From everything he’s… overheard, the Guardian had come off as impulsive to him, yes—But if Shin was right, then any assumptions made from their stunt in the Prison couldn’t be trusted. Even without those, though, they were still dangerous and unpredictable. Especially now—

“Talk to them. Tell me what you think. Disguise it as a helping hand—We both know your games; it wouldn’t be a hard sell.” Shin states, almost nonchalantly. He bristles.

“Do you know what yer asking me? If you’re wrong–” 

“I’m not.” The Hunter’s certainty almost forces him to do a double take, and he clenches his jaw.

“–But if you are,” he grits out, “I’m sure you know better than me what they’re capable of. You’ve obviously been watching them, and I’ve only seen what reports I can get my hands on.” Which, in fairness, was a good amount—but there's a difference between watching a video or reading a few paragraphs, and having been there.

He wasn’t going to risk his life for a hunch, least of all one from the Man With The Golden Gun. Drifter trusted that he’d keep his word, and that the man was more than physically capable, but he knew enough unpredictable exiles already to figure it a bad idea.

“Then take some time to watch,” the Hunter insists. Drifter didn’t know what to make of his tone anymore. “You’ll see what I mean when I say there’s something wrong. I thought you’d recognize… some things.”

He opens his mouth to question what that meant, but is cut off by Shin pulling out a data tablet and holding it out to him. Drifter stares at it for a few moments, before gingerly taking it. 

“What games you playing at?” He questions, suspicious, switching between eyeing the man and the video. He recognizes the armor of the Young Wolf, and their dead, exhausted movements. Still, nothing out of the usual, aside from the discarded helmet.

“I don’t play games, Hope.” He doesn’t have the chance to object to the name before Shin continues, stiff. “Look closer.”

“What, finally found something to… to…” Drifter begins to sneer, intending to mock his business partner’s caution, before he registers the Guardian’s face. Something about their expression rings a bell in his mind.

“Fear? Not quite.”

It dawns on him that the tone he couldn’t place earlier was… veiled worry, snapping his eyes up from the video.

Shin fucking Malphur, worried he was wrong about someone. That was already strange enough, but he had decided to put his faith in them, without so much as meeting them. Drifter isn’t sure if he should laugh or try to knock some sense into the man, regardless of the harm that would come to himself in doing so.

“We’ve known each for how long, without any more trust than in shared interests?” He pauses, searching Shin’s visor, speechless. The Hunter does not speak, and only gives a tilt of his head. Drifter can imagine him raising a brow at him.

“You’ve suddenly decided you could trust someone, an’ you–” Despite himself, a single, disbelieving laugh escapes him as he struggles over his words. “–You want me to… play therapist? Is that what this is?”

 “It’s in your interest, too.” If Shin was bothered by his reaction, it doesn’t show, and Drifter throws his hand up at the simplicity of the statement. What the hell is this?

“If you’re right, sure! But you–” 

“You saw their face. I saw the recognition cross yours.” 

His jaw slams shut at the interruption and Drifter grits his teeth, before taking a breath and continuing a bit more painstakingly. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t try to kill him, just means they’ve got… other problems. I can only do so much, and only for one of those.” 

“That’s enough for me,” Shin states, ever level. Insane, were Drifter asked.

“And who’s to say either of us are right?” He throws his hand out in a sweeping motion, vaguely referring to the whole of the problem. “If we’re both wrong about their state, what then?”

Shin doesn’t respond, helmet tilted towards the long-abandoned bar behind the Drifter. Even unable to see his eyes, not being pinned on the spot by that hidden glare was almost relieving—And would’ve been, if not for the reason.

Drifter can’t help the disbelieving, bordering on manic chuckle that escapes him. “You’re too set on this.” 

“Meet them, at least. Tell me what you think after.” 

He glares a moment before, “I’m only agreeing to this because you have a good eye. Don’t expect this to be common.”

“You’ll be making a new friend, you’ll live.” 

“Better hope so,” he grumbles.

Shin only hums in response, apparently satisfied.

Prick.

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

[quiltcas]

*shaking my mother by the shoulders* boundaries are good and identity theft is bad actually!

[maegalkarven]

Nemo was that kind of the leader who acted overly familiar with his subordinates. He knew them all by name, knew their habits and quirks. Helped two of his men move homes and lay low after they got under suspicion of the Flaming Fists. Took several starving orphans off the streets and made them into the unholy assasins.

His subordinates could approach him, talk to him, touch him. For him the cult of Bhaal was a family and he made it feel that way for many initiates to come.

He made it feel like a special club with people who are better than everyone else, where people ascended over the "normal" understanding of things, became better beings.

Is it a crime for a wolf to eat a sheep, for a man to crush a rat under his feet? Is it a crime to get rid of the vermins populating YOUR city? No, it's only the right thing to do; this is not only accepted, but expected.

He accidentially lowered the level of religious worship of the entire cult and made it more self-sustained. Of course all of them were doing it in Bhaal's name, for Bhaal, by the Bhaal's will. But holy assasins rarely hear Bhaal the way bhaalspawn does, so they heavily relied on what their leader, the Prodigal Bhaalspawn, told them.

They trusted him, they followed him.

And one day he disappeared and Orin climbed the ladder.

[spectrum-color]

There was a post going around here a few weeks ago about the EF5 each having a dark Forsaken counterpart, which is a cool idea, but the one with the most obvious Forsaken parallel is actually a secondary character.

Gawyn and Demandred. A man who believes he’s destined for greatness but always ends up trailing behind Lews Therin/Rand al’Thor and grows incredibly bitter about it. This would have been more obvious I think if Robert Jordan had finished the books, as I doubt Gawyn would have had that weird moment where he suddenly becomes super self aware and introspective and gets over his issues with Rand without even speaking to him, but it is definitely there. It would at least give Gawyn something to do toward the climax of the series other than repeatedly fuck up on minor things and annoy Egwene. It would also make Demandred, a villain with a ton of potential who just kind of fizzled out and was only in the last book, more interesting (Justice 4 Taimandred!) So yeah this was def a thing and more should have been done with it.

[shivunin]

For the record, Zevran changes his last name to Tabris at some point, even though they refuse to publicly admit they're married

[tillman]

Idgaf the biggest tragedy of trigun is that legato gets like 3 entire chapters of backstory and development and fleshing out and elendira just shows up is trans and explodes. I dont care about the gay blue twink I care about women get him away from me tell me why you are ignoring the most interesting character in favor of that fucking bootlicking blue UKE!!!!!!!!!!!

[eighthdoctor]

What about Lor'themar? He still talks to her and isn't incompetent. They're practically best friends by Horde standards.

Ehhhhh sort of. I'll pull the relevant Lor'themar quotes:

Sylvanas could command from the rear, but that’s what Lor’themar is for. She’s far too useful in the front lines to seclude herself, and she…trusts…Lor’themar. Mostly. Enough. He can handle command.

“Without you to lead? Who did you leave in command, Lor'themar?” “Who is a competent, if not inspired, general.”

Proudmoore snorts. “Would she listen to Lor’themar if he told her to fall back?” Under her eyes, the Stormwind infantry moves forward and the orcs charge without waiting for orders. To the rear of the Horde a figure just identifiable as Lor’themar begins gesticulating angrily. Geya’rah listens to Sylvanas because she values her own life. Lor’themar doesn’t inspire that sort of fear, and Geya’rah, like so many orcs, suffers from an excess of honor and a remarkable lack of sense. Grudgingly, Sylvanas says, “She would not.”

Will Baine and Lor’themar care enough about the Forsaken to support their position? She can’t say.

So what can we take from this?

Sylvanas is comfortable leaving Lor'themar in command of the Horde army, even though there's no real sin'dorei presence and so he's technically outside his bailiwick. She has faith (borne out in Interlude 1) that he won't get too creative or reckless and will do the best he can, but she also doesn't believe he can keep Geya'rah in line.

Overall: Pretty good confidence in Lor'themar as a military leader.

Unfortunately: Approximately zero confidence in Lor'themar's willingness to go out of his way to help the Forsaken.

In other words, Sylvanas trusts Lor'themar to help her when it's in his own best interest. She does NOT trust him to do anything even moderately inconvenient that would benefit her, which is fair because he wouldn't.

Trust is easy when you're trusting someone to do something that benefits them. It's much, much harder when you're hoping they'll put themselves at risk to help you.

[wibble-wobbegong]

listen i don’t get to drink very often. my tolerance isn’t super high. im by no means over the top drunk but i was not expecting twisted teas to really do anything and i was very wrong

[sollaxum]

.

[orbdotexe]

They’ve been like this for a while now. The Guardian gets hurt, Ghost scolds them, and they feel guilty for burdening him; for dragging him down with them, and being why he can never go home. They won’t listen when he says they’re his home.

bonk bonk bonk. this is my apology for taking so long on... literally everything else. The Cayde short is actually done now, but wasn't at the time of me finishing this one (which has been done for a few days, I'm just. too lazy lmao) so someone bully me into posting Cayde Hug please

Anyway here is a nice Young Wolf and Ghost short! angst with a side of some beloved bickering <3 they are so stubborn but they are soulmates (platonic), your honor.

[ao3 link]

The statues, twice their size, are caught in poses of combat-ready or investigative, some having tried to run farther down the hall. The blizzard swells and dies out farther down the corridor, leaving the blanket of wisp-soft Void swirling around their steps as mist continues bleeding through the cracks in what was once a battalion of Cabal.

Their arm sways at their side, cold blood squeezing out of shrapnel wounds down the side of their body, the other hand tightly gripping Howl. Ghost materializes to their left, but they stumble forward, stepping towards the frosted over parts of their helmet. There’s a shard of a frag launch splitting down through the eye of it; the orange glow dead. 

They plant the tip of the sword on the ground to hold steady as they lower themself over their helmet, Ghost trilling worriedly behind them. The streams of blood begin to reheat, numbness leaving the limb in favor of a boiling pain, and they can feel the soothing chill of Ghost scanning their injuries. 

Shakily setting Howl down beside them, they move to pick up the tattered helmet, to be met with an irritated strumming through the Bond. “Guardian, at least hold still long enough for me to heal that arm before you make the bleeding worse,” Ghost sighs out. The Guardian only grumbles, before holding the arm out for a proper scan.

The movement itself makes them tense, resisting the urge to screw their eyes shut against the pins and needles and the accidental twisting of metal scraps still in some wounds. They hiss at the cold air, partially regretting the choice of Void as they all but pour heat out through the shredded armor and skin.

They trace the broken edges of their helmet with their spare hand, rather than watch Ghost knit the skin back together. The feeling of the metal shards being pushed out from the inside as the torn muscle pulls back together makes them nauseous. 

No matter how many times they’ve felt it, or woken up from a death to their insides still being patched together, or had to pull themself off of spikes for it to even happen—The nausea always comes back. The frustration of never getting used to something so common in their non-life always comes back.

“Guardian.” Their fingers are bleeding, cut on the broken metal. The edges of their vision swims in and out, and they're not sure if it’s blood loss or the hallucinations again. “Guardian? You’re doing it again.”

They blink, and lower the outstretched arm. The burning feels distant, and the skin is stiff with dried blood, but the wounds feel closed, and the repaired parts of their armor are thinner than the parts that hadn’t been damaged.

He sighs, more irritated—exhausted?—this time. “We’ll need to see Drifter again if we want to repair your armor properly. There’s only so much I can do.” It feels as if he’s scanning them, but the blue glow never comes. “Still with me?”

As a soothing pulse pushes through stiff barriers of Light, they feel some sense return to their body and their face soften. Turning their head away from Ghost, the Guardian gives a small nod. A part of them wants to cradle him; say they’re sorry for putting him through this. He should’ve had someone better. 

They settle instead for a soft rippling in the Light; the feeling of tucking a sleeping other’s hair away. He knows what they mean.

Ghost shoves his shell into the side of their head, making them lose the thought and duck away. “We’re not doing this again, Guardian! If the Traveler itself gave me a chance to pick someone else, you know I’d refuse every time.” His voice softens as he speaks, and he must have seen the small wince that crosses their face.

“I mean it, Guardian,” he chimes, firm but soft. Wholly faithful. “When I told you, through Light or Dark, I meant it. Even if it’s just you and me against the world, I wouldn’t change a thing so long as I had you.” 

They know Ghost means it; they’ve never doubted it—But that’s the problem. He deserves so much better than a monster for a partner. The crumbling, now barely recognizable statues of Stasis prove them, if not a monster, a force of chaos. Both unstoppable, and immovable. Even with the explosives and traps, there was never a chance. 

The shared turmoil strains the Bond with impressions of spirals, and Ghost lowers himself to hover just over their shoulder as they hold their other hand up for him. “Monster or not—and I’m not saying you are, but you never believe me—” He rambles, “You’re still my partner. My Guardian.” 

And he’s their Ghost. But it changes nothing. The blood is half dried, dripping sluggishly, as he closes the cuts in the pads of their fingers. They rub them together, the nerves still knitting together feeling like pins and needles. 

Nudging him with their shoulder draws a huff out of Ghost. “Yes, I’m done. But this conversation isn’t over.”

It’s their turn to sulk—The conversation is never over. Who’s the monster, who’s to blame, who should suffer: Ghost’s answer is always the same—They scoop the parts of their helmet up, moving it to one arm, before sheathing Howl on their back. 

They could clean it later. Ghost gives a puff of discontent.

As they stand, the sound of the last remnants of Stasis crackling out of existence drags their eyes up. The remaining wisps of Void smoke are quickly phasing out of the air, and they take a moment to watch the last evidence of their destruction crumble into nothing. Only the damage of weaponry to the building and their spilt blood remain.

“I’d say that’s progress, wouldn’t you?” Ghost murmurs, tone light, and they can’t help but give him a weird look. This quiet destruction– progress? They get a puff of indignity in exchange. “Well, I did get the data Drifter needed, so yes– But not what I’m talking about.” 

The look he gives them is… cheeky. They don’t like it. “What I meant was…” There’s an audible smile creeping into his voice—victoriously smug—as he bumps their head. “Youuu didn’t fight me on healing this time.”

Scars. He’s smug about the scars. 

They give a thin-lipped grimace at his priorities, and he just beams brighter. “It’s not much, but you don’t make personal progress very easy, Guardian.” They huff and turn away from him, walking down the hall to the back exit. 

Ghost rests his shell in the junction of their hood as they pull it back up, both of them knowing the Guardian will walk slower so he won’t fall out.

“I’ll take any win I can get with you,” he chimes to himself, quiet.

[lyfeward]

forever rotating in my head the concept of Amis and the Messenger being friends and traveling companions. the Messenger possibly going home with him when he finally decides to return to Perendale. the whole plotline that exists in my head . . . the ideal outcome being Amis merging with the spirit of the Blasted Hills after giving the people control of their home . . . Amis being reluctant to go only because he will be leaving his friend behind. the spirit understanding and, yes, strengthening the bond that already exists between themself and Amis, but letting him go on the promise that he return when the Messenger has met their end . . .

[magioffire]

thinking about an elder scrolls au where valeriu is a (disgraced) telvanni mage

[fereldenshero]

my mom LOVESSSS to make plans FOR ME and then not tell me about them until like the last minute