#who was unarmed and vulnerable by choice mind you

[awkwardmermaidhair]

[mcl-mia]

//ah, yes. another day, another route completed. slowly getting closer and closer to that goal of completing every route!!

so. rex. oh boy. i think i have a lot to say about rex. spoilers spoilers spoilers!!!

okay. so. hoooooo boy. where do i begin. this is going to be long.

so, as many people know already, rex's route actually begins in the middle of nox's route - the main difference between them at the beginning, of course, is when nox reveals his identity as nightmare to liz. in this version, liz stays with rex.

rex is unrepentantly horny. years of no pussy will do this to a man, i guess. but christ, dude. chill.

he is CONSTANTLY (or, at the very least, it feels like he is) asking liz if he likes him yet, especially before he and liz actually get together. the fact that rex is canonically a rebound guy is fucking hilarious and i will never let him live that down.

i also find it really funny that he has a gun. like, that's insanely funny. i need to know more about the gun lore. they say they are "magical revolvers", but liiiiiiike. i mean, they are. but come on.

so. rex himself. i'll be honest with you, i'm not a fan. it's the self-righteous douchewads that really don't do it for me, and because they really tried making him a diet akechi without the homosexual tension, i personally didn't vibe with him.

for example:

this is a small part of the larger, dramatic conversation rex has with liz after nox escapes for, like, the 6th time. he then goes on to say that all liz knows is that "he has been manipulating her the whole time. that maybe he just used her to get closer to Nightmare, that maybe it was all an act, and he needed liz to be vulnerable to get the proof he needed." he then proceeds to say that liz is also awful, because she "practically did the exact same thing". preceeding this conversation in the previous chapter is that rex asks liz if she thinks nightmare is evil. this is, of course, a trick question for anyone who played nox's route immediately beforehand. you can say yes or no, and obviously, the "correct" answer is yes. i didn't bother looking at the "yes" option, because i could tell immediately where the convo was going. rex, of course, will disagree if you say no.

he also says a very interesting line, iirc, after the choice dialogue: "people who stray from the path of humanity are evil."

this is, i think, a very telling line about how rex REALLY feels. like, christ dude, do you REALLY need to dehumanize nox like that? does it help you sleep at night, buddy? does it make you feel better? like you're above the rest of us?

like, the way he talks about nox is like he murdered someone. and yes, i am specifically saying "nox" and not "nightmare" here because rex has already figured out that nox is nightmare - he just didn't have proof at the time. but seriously, he just steals things? like yeah, stealing bad, we know, but you don't need to make it sound like he killed your entire family.

seriously, dude. what does he think about the orphan that steals a loaf of bread because they can't afford to eat? the person who kills her abusive partner in self-defense, because they were going to be killed otherwise? the family who has to ""illegally"" immigrate to a new country because they have been displaced or fear for their lives in their home country? what do you think of YOURSELF, rex? you have an illegal magical tool, but because the ministry says it's okay, you're allowed to pull it on unarmed citizens*? fucking hell, man. i want to put him in his place. they really could have done something interesting with his character there, but they didn't.

*side note, i am not talking about nox here. nox is very much armed with his rod. he DOES, however, pull his revolver on an unarmed criminal (who is not stated to have any magical abilities, mind you) in a flashback and it's heavily implied that the item he showed to the noble in queensblade to "prove" he's from the ministry is his revolver as well.

i don't think i really like his backstory, either? the reason why he's like this is because he had a mentor die while on the job. in the flashback, the person he is pursuing for a murder case, rex pulls his gun on. the person starts crying and says they are a victim of abuse and killed their abuser on accident, so rex lowers his gun. the person then pushed rex down, and his partner eventually gets shot with his own gun as a result (can i say that this is weird?? if this dude was so ready to kill them, they probably would have killed rex, too. rex's kindness is the reason he is alive, yet he doesn't realize that). so, rex, who clearly didn't go to therapy, decided that it was all his fault and that he needs to stop being kind. he also says that he "realized" that the person was lying to him, and that THEY were the one doing the abusing. i think that if they really wanted me to believe that, they should have been more careful with their word choice. their choice of saying rex "realized it" begs the question: did rex actually discover that during the investigation, or was this a "deduction" he made because this person also killed his partner? this person was never caught, after all.

i also found it really funny because in the same flashback, he says that he joing the intelligence department because it was his way to "rebel". his mom is a pianist and his father is a police officer in maiya, and they both wanted him to follow in their footsteps. like, your idea of rebelling is to get a job that your parents would be proud of, regardless? lol. lmao even. like i get it, but lol.

speaking of his "super secret detective" job, raise ur hand if you were surprised. because i sure wasn't. it was really obvious that he wasn't just a "reference department worker". like wtf even is that. just call him an archivist.

ok, enough side tracking. you know what comes out this big dramatic conversation? res just explains himself and his backstory. he doesn't even APOLOGIZE to liz for being so cold to her and implying that he might have been manipulating her. like, dude?! sure, yes, you could make the argument that liz was "manipulating" rex because she knew nox was nightmare, but tbh considering how nox was kind of forcing her to keep quiet about it all really makes a difference here.

you know what was an EXCELLENT surprise though? PAPA RANDOLPH!!!!!!!!!!

i was smiling the entire time he was here. i'm very glad that we finally got to see what he was up to after THREE!!!!!! seasons. thank god they didn't forget about him. i have my doubts that we'll see him again after this, but it was nice to see him all the same. I MISSED YOU SO MUCH, DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

schuyler being sad, too.... .. ..... man. that got to me a bit.

if you haven't noticed, i haven't actually talked about the plot much. this is because almost the entire plot revolves around rex's character and him trying to catch nox. that's about it. there are some cool story beats, and it barely touched on gray's pranks. it didn't really do much else.

some things i liked were the running gag of some of the other prefects barging into the office and yelling "EMERGENCY!!!" and interrupting liz and rex. i also liked that in the happy end, they did a call back to rex and nox swordfighting (👀) like they did in the night class/towards the beginning of the route. legit, the sword fight had me mentally fist pumping the air. i love it when wizards just settle things with nonmagical objects. fucking incredible.

i think what maybe just bugs me the most is the lack of my other boys. like, sure, they were THERE, but not nearly as much as i would have liked. 90% of them being there was for comedic relief, and that is a very sad use of them.

nox is obviously quite present, and i actually liked him a little more in rex's route. he got just the right amount of mean sometimes, and it was great. liz has some really interesting conversations with him, and the fact that nox actively tells liz that she doesn't have to "choose" him? yeah, that's golden. it's a really refreshing thing to have someone in a love triangle to essentially say "i won't force you to choose me". you're a winner in my book, nox.

something that i do find interesting is how they keep mentioning that nox and rex "know each other best because they are rivals". which! is a cool concept! i just fucking wish they would have actually shown that instead of just saying it's true! :))))))

i'll never get tired of the boys being kind to liz. really and truly.

shit like this just gets to me, man.

also:

MISCHA, I'M SO SORRY THAT THIS UGLY BITCH WOULD EVEN BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS YOU. GET HER OUT OF THERE!!!!!!!!!!

i really, really wish i had better things to say about rex's route, but it's rembrandt all over again. for me, rex was the worst part of his own route. he's just not for me. if you like these kinds of guys, i'm sure you'll love him.

gray's route seems to pick up immediately after rex's happy ending. let's see how that plays out.

[skye-huntress]

Hello! I'm a big fan of your nuanced commentary/analysis, especially in regards to Weiss.

Do you have any spare thoughts in regards to the trajectory of Weiss and Ruby’s character arcs moving forward? Or what the future might look like for the both of them?

Thank you for the kind words. Hope you don’t mind, I’ve taken some time to get my thoughts in order.

Starting with Ruby, it seems she is being set up for an opportunity to make a change within herself. I do agree that a change is necessary for her to start moving forward again, the question is whether that change will be positive or negative, and what part of her old self will be lost in the process.

As far as I am concerned, she doesn’t need some big, dramatic change, because she already has most of the desired qualities of both a Huntress and a leader. The problem is it doesn’t matter what I think, or what happens to be true, this is about what Ruby believes. She believes her choices lead to Atlas’ destruction, and that she got Penny killed. She believes if she continues to be leader, her friends will continue to get hurt and possibly die, because of her. We saw a bit of this side in Ruby during the board game. It’s a good thing that Ruby cares for her team, and for the people she’s charged with protecting, but the reality of being a leader is that not all of your decisions will work out, and that some things will be out of your control. However, she is far more capable than she gives herself credit for, and not just her, her team as well. She should have more faith in herself, and she should trust her team know what the risks are and yet choose to follow her anyway, because they have faith in her.

As for Weiss, although she finally got to arrest her father and reconnect with the rest of her family, her life is now a complete mess. Worst of all, being stuck in the Ever After means she has no choice but to postpone even attempting to sort it all out, which I suspect is why she more than anyone is so openly frustrated with the situation. Who has the time and patience for fairy tales when your home was just destroyed and you don’t know if your family is even alive? The team’s latest predicament certainly won’t help her mood, she’s now too small to be much good for anything and has to rely on her unarmed, emotionally vulnerable best friend to carry her forward.

And then there is that issue. They’re all aware that Ruby is not okay, but none of them know what to say or do for her. It wasn’t that long ago that Blake and Yang tried to talk to her, but I could tell their words weren’t enough to dispel her deepest fears and insecurities. Yang is her sister and practically raised her, while Blake was very similar to Ruby and can relate to her on being disillusioned with the world and their efforts to change it for the better. Weiss brings yet another unique perspective, yet it is one we haven’t heard from yet. We all know what Weiss thought of Ruby when they first met, and it’s probably not too far off from how Ruby thinks of herself now, yet Weiss has chosen to follow her and to go along with even the craziest of her plans. She was the biggest sceptic that turned into the most faithful believer, which is why I think it is Weiss’ perspective that Ruby needs to hear most. However, I don’t think Weiss has figured out what she should say, and Ruby’s probably not ready to listen just yet.

Moving past Volume 9, for Ruby it will depend on what about herself she chooses to change, but Weiss will probably have other issues to deal with. Her family are in Vacuo as refugees, without any of their wealth, or the resources of the SDC. Vacuo is Salem’s next target, with Tyrian and Mercury likely already beginning the prep work for a repeat of what happened to Atlas. While Vacuo had the space to move thousands of refugees to, and the available Huntsmen to protect them from the Grimm, it’s very unlikely they have the spare resources to do much else for them. It would take time to contact Vale and Mistral for aid, and those Kingdoms are still recovering from their own attacks. If Weiss can’t get her family out of Vacuo quickly enough, they’re bound to get caught in another war zone, and without the benefit of hiding in a manor this time. Of particular concern is Winter, whom now has a massive target on her back. Unlike Raven, she’ll continue to directly oppose Salem, and she’ll have to contend with Cinder pulling every dirty trick she can to steal her power.

I bring all this up to say that compared to the other three, Weiss may end up having a lot on her plate to be worried about, and I only mentioned her short-term concerns. She may end up juggling multiple priorities and obligations: on one hand, there is her team and their mission to stop Salem; and on the other, is her family, their safety and their future. Hopefully, she’ll get the support she needs from both her families, so she isn’t too overwhelmed, but I am somewhat concerned.

Because I am such a hopeless White Rose shipper, I close off with what I think of their relationship. Regardless of whether they end up together-together, what I do see is Weiss often standing at Ruby’s side and constantly watching out for her. She is Ruby’s loyal knight in shining spectral armour, or perhaps now we should consider her Ruby’s guardian angel.

[latveriansnailmail]

Justice League in D&D

Today's thought experiment for my idle mind while my hands were doing work. This is in response to those videos I see in my recs along the lines of, How To Play This Jackoff Or Other In D&D5E!!! I never click on them because I usually don't see the point and I know I'll disagree anyway but today I went down a mental rabbit hole because why not? It's whatever, something to think about.

To simulate the Big Seven mainstays of the JLA I think we can all agree that they'd be very high level if not top tier and we'd need a DM who was a pushover and actively trying to facilitate this outcome. A couple of these guys, namely Superman and Martian Manhunter, are going to be outlandish. Here's what I have:

Batman This one's easy. Everyone argues that he's got Monk levels and I could be convinced that he has a couple but I see him as Standard Human for those unrealistic stats, Noble background (quite possibly the Knight), and stack levels of Inquisitive Rogue to the heavens. Use a feat for Improved Unarmed Strike (or whatever they call it nowadays) and boom, you've got a rich human being with skills and expertise out the yin yang who specializes in stealth, surprise attacks, investigation, and foiling villains more powerful than himself.

Green Lantern Another easy one. Variant Human with a Willpower type feat to push those wisdom saves to the heights. Soldier background for Stewart or (yawn) Hal; Guild Artisan background for Kyle. Straight Sorcerer with a focus on force constructs like Bigby's Hand, as well as Flight and anything that'll help survive the void of space.

Wonder Woman Another straightforward one but with an odd choice for race: Goliath. She is made out of earth, after all. Noble Background. Full levels of Oath of Redemption Paladin. Get a feat for deflecting projectiles and some magic gear and skew her spells towards influence, but she won't be using them because for the most part she'll be funneling them into Smites. She is a great advocate for peace but she will annihilate anyone who violates the peace. Rest in peace or rest in pieces.

Aquaman (Arthur Curry) The last straightforward one, I'd say Sea Elf with (again) a Noble background. I don't think Druid because he doesn't wild shape and does use metal. Instead, full levels of Beast Master Ranger.

Flash (Barry Allen) Here's where we have to start getting weird. Standard Human, maybe Folk Hero background? Dude's popular. Then we multiclass him Monk/Wizard. I did say weird. You would think Open Hand but I say Drunken Master with Alchemist's Tools subbed out for Brewer's Supplies. Then perhaps War Mage for the improved initiative. Take spells of Passwall, Lightning Bolt, Planar Shift, it's doable.

Martian Manhunter Now we're going to needle that indulgent DM. The best way I figured out to make him was, get this, race: a friggin' TROLL: strength, reach, regeneration, and a vulnerability to fire. Background Sage or Soldier (Sage suits better). Then, get this, Whispers Bard with the instruments swapped for skill proficiencies. Polymorph, Disguise Self, LOTS of influence spells, Passwall from Magical Secrets, and then mundane social Skills and useful proficiencies. WACKY. I made him a Bard. I am on some bullshit.

Superman And finally there's the Man of Steel. I warned you that bullshit was afoot and we'd need a fool of a DM. The thing is, Supes is not in Player Character Race/Background/Class territory. He doesn't actually have that many powers, just stats that are out of this world. He's not a fighter or a caster or an expert, he's just a power fantasy and his abilities all boil down to his Kryptonian heritage. We're not talking PC but rather a Monster. I say start with the Empyrean as a template (CR 23!!!) and modify size and flight and such from there. Give him disadvantage on saves versus spells from Arcane casters. Pepper the world with two types of magical rocks, one of which weakens and poisons Kryptonians and the other of which messes with his personality.

So yeah, there's today's bullshit. What's your take? I'm genuinely curious but don't call me wrong. Of course I'm wrong. These characters don't belong in D&D.

[glitteryglitter]

hii i have a request for a finnick story. so i was thinking maybe if it was during the quarter quell and the reader is a victor for district 1 or something and her and finnick hate each other but secretly care about each other. the reader ends up leaving her alliance with the careers to join finnicks group forming an alliance at some point in the games. THANKS!!

𝙰𝙽: It's been a while since I read Mockingjay, so I'm sorry if some details are off. Thank you so much for requesting!

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Mentions of violence

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Finnick X District 1! Fem! Reader

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1286

                                                       ๑*˚🍓˚*๑

The quarter quell had been an absolute nightmare for everyone. even the careers

As they all milled around a clearing in the forest, they all had the exact same worries.

They were all terrified, for themselves, and each other.

Y/n had almost gotten stabbed, and Gloss hadn't been doing too well either.

Even Brutus looked visibly stressed.

Meanwhile, Enobaria had been glancing around the small clearing shiftily. The careers had decided to stay in a part of the arena that didn't look as dangerous, yet the tension was almost unbearable.

The entire experience had been even worse than Y/n's first hunger games, mainly because people very close to her were very likely to be killed,

Also the absolutely insufferably cocky district four boy was in the arena with her.

He'd even had the nerve to recited a love poem he'd written to someone in his interview.

Y/n couldn't imagine anyone actually wanting to spend more than five minutes with him and his overall demeanor.

She truly couldn't stand him, or his deep blue eyes. Why anyone would ever want to date him, she didn't know.

Why he thought he had a chance with someone, she didn't know either. But, she wasn't one to judge, and the topic of him dating someone merely made her feel angry, so she decided to shove all thoughts of Finnick and his love life out of her already racing mind.

What y/n did know for certain, was that she'd do everything in her power to make sure that those in her alliance stayed alive.

At that moment, monkey mutts, hundreds of them appeared and began running towards the group.

Y/n tried to focus, but there were so many of them, and she certainly didn't want any of them to catch up with her.

She couldn't place where they were coming from, but she didn't really need to at the moment.

What she needed, was to keep her allies safe.

The careers scattered.

Their previous attempts at sticking together were not working out as well as they had hoped.

Gloss dashed towards the ocean, meanwhile, Brutus ran through some bushes.

Enobaria had already disappeared, no doubt trying to get away from the horrible little mutts as well.

It was at that moment that Y/n realized something: She was all alone.

She really needed a plan.

However, with the monkey's shrieking playing in her head, practically driving her insane, it was hard to think straight.

She ran in the direction she thought Gloss had gone, but only succeeded in getting lost.

Finally, she found an area that was thankfully, small-primate-free.

Y/n was left with the terrifying feeling of being alone, and very very vulnerable.

She'd dropped her spear and there was no way that the others were unarmed.

She knew some hand-to-hand combat, but not enough to save herself if someone else had a knife.

Or worse, a bow and arrow.

                                              ๑*˚🍓˚*๑

At that moment. she heard voices.

Internally swearing, she crouched behind some vines as Finnick, Mags, Johanna, Katniss, and Peeta came into view.

They looked like they were arguing about something, Y/n only hoped that they would leave as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.

They all sat down and appeared to be setting up a place to stay.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

She had no way of escaping and Finnick, that idiot was with them.

She just couldn't believe how his hair still looked that good!

Wait, what?

She didn't know where that thought had come from, but she didn't particularly care, as long as she never needed to think about it again. ever.

If only there was a way for her to escape...

At that moment, a tree branch cracked and fell to the ground, startling her.

Y/n promptly tipped over and fell into plain view.

Everyone looked up and froze.

"Who is that?" Peeta asked.

Finnick, that idiot, walked over.

"Look who it is" Finnick pulled her up onto her feet with a hard expression on his face.

Y/n cringed slightly.

You two know each other?" Peeta asked, sounding more confused by the minute.

"Of course, they do. Finnick couldn't take his eyes off of her at the interviews. All through the training, I couldn't tell if they wanted to murder or kiss each other, but it was definitely one of the two. Don't act like you didn't see it." Katniss whispered.

That warranted a glare from the two.

"Listen, I don't think you like me very much, but I need to join your alliance."

Y/n was desperate at this point and this seemed to be her best bet if she didn't want to get murdered.

She really didn't want to rely on anyone, especially not Finnick, but she didn't have any other choice at the moment.

He nodded. "We'll make it work."

Finnick sighed, He didn't want to ever talk with the district 1 girl ever again.

He hated to admit it, but Katniss was right.

Y/n seemed to despise him, despite his best attempts at flirting.

He'd even written her a poem and recited it for the entire capitol to hear.

She certainly was special, and it would be better if he didn't have to kill her.

                                              ๑*˚🍓˚*๑

Several hours passed and the group, plus y/n, decided to move on.

They'd been walking for a while when she recognized the area they were in.

There weren't any monkey mutts this time.

Y/n was just beginning to relax when she heard something.

The sound of wings, along with Finnick shrieking.

"Y/n stop screaming You're not helping anyone!" Finnick yelled.

"Me? You're the one screaming! Could you maybe stop it? Just let me think!"

"Just shut up! You two weren't screaming up until now and it's not helping anything." Johanna was standing off to the side, completely calm as the entire group dissolved into chaos.

She did have a point.

Y/n remembered something.

She'd been told that Jabberjays echoed the screams of the person one cared about the most.

Why on earth were they echoing Finnick?

She realized then and there, it was all so obvious.

Maybe she did want to kiss him.

Had she been jealous all this time?

Why hadn't she noticed this earlier?

How on earth would she deal with this?

She was in the Quarter Quell of all things, definitely not the most romantic place to confess your love to someone.

Y/n took a few deep breaths, she knew that the screams weren't real.

It was a bad time to tell Finnick her feelings, but it was better now than never.

"Finnick, I need to tell you something"

Y/n was practically shaking, but she still persisted.

How do I say this...I hated you- I thought I hated you... She paused to take a deep breath.

Finnick hoped this was going the way he thought it was. Did she like him? She couldn't possibly. After all, she'd basically admitted to wanting to murder him. But had she? She'd never said it specifically.

"I like you. I didn't want to admit it, but I like you. A lot. I understand if you don't feel the same, but- she paused again no doubt, thinking she'd said something very wrong.

"Can we kiss?" Finnick asked.

This must be a dream. A fever dream, but still, a very, very good one.

Y/n thought as she melted into the kiss.

"Oh my god. What is it with you two? I can't believe I decided to ally with this group", Johanna hollered over the Jabberjays.

"Because we're better than the careers, of course! Sorry, y/n not you." Finnick yelled back.

She shook her head.

Y/n could still see a hint of a smile on her lips.

                                               ๑*˚🍓˚*๑

[gaytransflint]

Anon asked for trans flint, so here we are! Trans Flint and secret-keeping Silver. [tw for some internalized transphobia]

They don't fear ships. They don't fear guns. They don't fear swords.

Then what do they fear?

Flint knew the question well. What did they fear? There were threats everywhere. To their livelihood, their safety, their loved ones, and constantly their life. But what about their comfort? What about threats to the things they held onto for comfort? The assumptions they could lean against, sturdy and true. The assumptions of who and what the world was made of.

His men didn’t fear ships or guns because they were always true, always as dangerous as when they embarked on their voyage-- pointed at them or not. Swords were only as terrifying as the man wielding it. And any man was only as terrifying as the unknown about him.

And thus, Flint knew he was the most horrifying man amongst them.

If anyone found out-- wandered into his cabin when he was preparing for bed or tore his clothes in a fight just so-- he’d become an entirely figure of terror than the heartless, murderous captain he’d been painted. His lies would become a mural for his own defeat. His own murder. There would be no mercy for him. There would only be a before and after-- the vision held of one Captain Flint, and the new image of the scrambling, begging man before them proving his worth by parameters he’d learned from them-- other men-- all his life.

Flint was always preparing for the day he would be found out. He memorized the proper prayers to mutter just before the blade struck him, or gun was aimed at his head or aching wheezing chest. He was not a religious man, but he figured there would be a God to reckon with when he died, confused and fussing in a new body and image he had not lived with. One he actively rejected.

There was one snag in his plan, a snag common in many plans, actually: John fucking Silver.

It is still light out, and Flint shouldn’t have been so stupid as to adjust his bandages when there were still men awake, but he wants to feel that he belongs in the daylight as well as the sparse life of night.

Silver barges in with news from the deck. Flint can tell it isn’t urgent from the way it drops from Silver’s mind the moment he lays eyes on Flint, sitting at his desk, tying his bandages.

Flint is frozen, sure he could feel his transformation into beast oncoming. It was agonizingly slow.

“How bad is it?” Silver asks, gently closing the door behind him.

Flint grabs his shirt and pulls it back over himself. The question startles him-- he isn’t sure how bad it-- or is it him that’s bad-- Flint feels scattered in a thousand different places as he tucks his shirt in, hoping to look composed.

“How bad?” Silver asks, stepping forward.

“Silver, wait, I can explain,” Flint starts his speech, holding a hand out. It takes him a moment to realize-- remember-- Silver isn’t armed. He hadn’t come with a motive.

“When did it happen?” Silver sounds startled, like he’s worried. “I don’t remember any-- how long have you been hurt?”

Flint pauses. “Hurt?” He’s never been considered hurt before, wounded or in pieces. Maybe he is? Maybe there a part of him somewhere he’d lost along the way from the divinity of heaven to his mother’s arms. And there is hurt, buried deep and tangled in tendons of shame and--

“Has Howell seen you?” Silver presses on.

“Howell?” It never occurred to Flint that bandages men something else to men. “No. No. It’s alright.”

“Do the other men know?”

"Not every man on this ship needs to know my fucking business.” Flint says, his voice breaking. He slams his fists against his desk to try and mask the crack in his put-on, deep tone. “Don’t worry the men with anything. It’s nothing.” It’s the end of Flint’s world, is what it is.

“They will be anyway, when their captain’s dead in his cabin.”

Flint checks Silver again, for weapons or for the pent up rage to begin swinging at him. “Is that a threat.”

“Why would I threaten a wounded man?” Silver is at Flint’s desk, bracing his hands and weight against it. “I have no interest in contributing into a mass hysteria on this ship.”

“Good. Then you can tell me what you came in here for and promptly get out.” Flint snaps, standing from his desk. His shirt flaps in the motion, the top button still not fastened properly. The bandages peak out across his chest. They’re thick and noticeable against his dark shirt, even after days of dirt, seawater, and sweat. The skin under the bandages itches and wishes to feel the light again. The skin is pale and soft, like a new-born that never got to grow. Hidden away with fear and shame.

Silver doesn’t ask again, but instead stands at the desk with his eyes fixed on Flint’s. They don’t dart down to the bandages as Flint can tell they want to. Silver doesn’t gawk, but there is curiosity in him, twisting and turning-- and possibly plotting.

The transformation is slow, but it is not still. Flint can feel the stories about him being spun as Silver’s eyes take him in-- as he avoids looking back at Silver. He is already begging, silently and in a meager plea: don’t ask me. please don’t ask me.

"You aren’t hurt.” Silver echoes, nodding. “But you’re bandaged.” It’s an observation with enough room to become an accusation.

“I’m telling you: do not worry the men with--”

“I’ve seen this before.” Silver says, plainly. It’s like a knife to Flint’s throat; sharply aching and choking him, but not yet dangerous. “I’ve met men with-- like you, before.”

Suddenly Silver’s unknown past becomes a light. The dark tunnel circling behind him and his name becomes a secret world Flint wishes he could see, could meet. Could settle into and maybe meet another man like himself. But instead he has Silver, suddenly and wildly, as an ally. Perhaps.

“And what did you do with this man?”

“Left him where I found him.” Silver laughs. “At a tavern getting himself good and drunk.” Silver considers the memory with a nod. “Deserved it. He’d had a tough life-- even before he had to put up with me.”

“You left him?”

“Well I wasn’t going to bother the man forever.” Silver says. “You on the other hand, I have no choice in the matter. I must continue to bother you. It is my job, as voted.”

Flint holds the edge of his desk, unsure if he still wants to sit back down or flip it over as a barricade. “You do not wish to tell the other men? Tell them I’m not... what they think I am. Parading around as a-- in this--”

“I don’t see the problem.” Silver says sternly. “My life has been in the balance of your will more than enough to recognize when a man is something far beyond just a man, but a force. A power. And I think that’s what you are-- and that’s what I’ll tell them.”

Flint feels the knife fall away. Silver truly had come in unarmed, unthreatening. Just another man taking the fragile secret he found with gentle and kind hands. Silver didn’t need to respect the vulnerability Flint had suddenly shown-- been trapped in, bound in since he was a teenager. Silver could’ve killed him right there, his death graceless to his memory. To the self Flint built in a fit of rage and burning grief from losing Thomas, the first man to respect him, to love him, as he was.

Silver didn’t kill that man. Didn’t unmake him. He left Captain Flint, James Flint, live in his ways another moment-- perhaps a proper lifetime.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

The Ambassador: Part 1/3

Captain Rex x Reader, Female!Reader

Summary: Captain Rex is a man of honor, never losing sight of his code and his duty to the Republic. Well...almost never. Whenever you, the unofficial Ambassador to the GAR, grace the 501st with you presence, the lines between what he wants to do and what he should do become blurry.

A/N: Guess who decided to make another series when they haven’t finished like...five of them! Anyway, at least this one is short and there’s an actual end in sight. Let me know if you want to be tagged. And remeber REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS!!!

Word Count: 1.9K

    Another day, another mission, Rex thought idly as he stared down at the holo map before him.

    Pustin was, on a whole, rather unremarkable; a small desert planet on the edge of the Outer Rim with a small primitive native population. The Republic had kept its distance for the most part in order to avoid disturbing its development.  Unfortunately for the Pustins, the Seperatist had decided to set up shop along the borders of their land. 

    The Republic knew Separatists were shipping raw material in and out of the system, but they had no idea what or how much.  Recon missions had proved inconclusive given the strategic placement of the outpost.  So far, they had only been able to see some of the facility from the air, and even then at a great distance.  A ground team couldn’t sneak in from the front because of the vast desert landscape, giving no room for cover.  The rear was just as dangerous.  While it rested against a mountain side providing easy cover, the mountain itself was treacherous to climb. They had learned enough to know a labyrinth of caverns ran through the mountain which the natives used as a short-cut, but it would be impossible for any trooper to get through without a proper guide. 

    It was a tricky situation.  Luckily, General Skywalker has the foresight to bring in reinforcements. 

    Rex felt his cheeks warm at the thought.  He shook it off as best he could, staring more intently at the map as if expecting to find some brilliant pathway through the mountain he hadn’t noticed to suddenly spring out at him. 

 He was not going to think about the person currently riding the elevator up to the bridge.  He was going to focus on the mission.  That was his duty. That was what he understood, not whatever was making his heart hammer against his chest.

   But, it was all the naught the moment the elevator doors hissed open.

   “Eyes up! Ambassador on the bridge!” General Skywalker called, walking into the command center with you just a step behind. 

   You gave an exasperated, but good natured smile in response as all eyes turned to you. 

   “At ease,” you said.

   The men returned to their duties, but it was clear from the smiles and sudden lightness in the air that they didn’t need the order to be at ease. 

   You weren’t really a representative, at least not in any official capacity.  What you were was a tactical consultant; your expertise being extractions, espionage, or anything which required careful navigation of neutral systems and local treaties. 

   It was a common joke among the ranks that you could talk Master Windu into buying a bridge if you talked long enough.  This skill set, along with your easy comradery with every clone you met, earned you the honorary title of “Ambassador to the Grand Army of the Republic” or “The Ambassador” for short. 

    You took the title with pride, earning some side eyes from Senators, but nothing you couldn’t brush off.  Rex had even heard you claim to, “represent the interests of Kamino’s second population”.  And you did, not just on the battlefield. 

   While many in the Senate wanted to push off the issue to a later date, you were adamant in your fight for Clone rights.  Anytime you weren’t on assignment you were on Coruscant, meeting with Senators and influencers, and speaking out for recognition of Clones' personhood. 

   If getting squadrons out of trouble with local tribal leaders didn’t endear you to the troops, your advocacy certainly did. 

   “Commander,” Rex greeted.

   Your eyes turned to him and a genuine smile slipped onto your lips.  The kind that made his heart clench and his ears warm.  This was a common occurrence whenever he saw you; a mix of uncomfortable and pleasant sensations, making it impossible for him to decide if he liked it or not. 

   “Captain Rex,” you said.  “It’s good to see you again.” 

   You meant it. He knew you did. And that only made it worse.

   You then turned your attention back to General Skywalker.  “So, what’s the situation?  Or did you just miss me?”

   General Skywalker raised an eyebrow.  “Straight to the point then?”

   “Might as well.” You shrugged. “Besides, Senator Burtoni will be headed back to Coruscant soon which is never a good sign.  I’d rather be there to argue the old bat myself. If anything, it’ll just annoy her.” 

   He laughed.  “Don’t worry Ambassador. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have you back pestering senators in no time.”

   “You’d better.  Now, what brilliant scheme have you come up with?”

   “Captain Rex?”

   Rex stepped forward. “Me and a squadron of men will escort you to the village on the other side of the mountain here. With any luck we’ll be able to convince the chief to guide us through the caverns we know link the two sides.  After that, it’s purely reconnaissance.  We need to find out what they’re shipping, the placement of their gun, and approximately how many droids they have stationed there.”

   “And then just pop back out the other side with the Separatist none the wiser,” you finished.  “Is that it?”

   “That’s the idea.”

   You nodded.  “Sounds easy enough.  One objection, no squadron.”

   “Commander--”

   You held up a hand for silence.  “I understand the instinct, but you said I need to persuade the chief to guide us.  If I go down there with a bunch of armored troopers demanding safe passage through the mountain, that’s not persuading, that’s threatening.”

   “And if the natives prove hostile?” 

   “That’s a risk we’ll have to take.  But if I know anything about the Separatists, the Pustins will be jumping at the chance to get them off their world. Provided, we don’t come across as the bad guys.” 

   Rex stayed silent a moment.  He wanted to put up more of a fight.  The idea of you going down there essentially unarmed into a hostile environment made his stomach turn.  But, you were still a Commander and if anyone could talk their way out from under the barrel of a blaster, it was you.

   “What do you suggest, sir?”

   “Just myself and two other troopers as escort,” you said. “This is still a recon mission after all, the fewer the better.  I’d also recommend no armor and concealed blasters.”

   He stiffened. “Sir, with all due respect, we’ll need some protection in case something goes wrong.”

   “Things will go wrong a lot faster if we waltz into their villages armed for battle.”

   “The Pustins have never even seen Republic armor before.”

   “No, but they will recognize it as armor.” 

   He opened his mouth ready to protest, but immediately closed it.  You were right. 

   This entire mission hinged on getting the Pustins to trust you, and them. If you didn’t gain that trust, the entire mission was forfeit. It’s why General Skywalker asked for you. 

   So, that meant following your lead and putting the minds of the natives at ease, even if that ran the risk of leaving yourself vulnerable to attack. 

   He let out a long breath. “I don’t like it.”

   “No one is forcing you to join me, Captain.”

   He shook his head.  “No, I’m going.  I can’t say I’m thrilled with this plan, but I can’t think of a better one.”

   A small smile quirked at the corner of your lips. “Good.  Between you, me and Jesse we should have this wrapped in no time.”

   His brow furrowed. “Jesse?”

   “Did you have someone else in mind?”

   Rex paused.  Fives and Echo were out, having been sent to assist General Kenobi and the 212th. Hardcase had an itchy trigger finger.  Tup didn’t have any recon experience, neither did Kix.  Dogma was still too shiny...

   He ran down the list of available troopers and came to the same conclusion you did. Jesse really was the only logical choice.  

   He felt a small tug at annoyance. Jesse was undoubtedly a good soldier, one of the best.  But he also made no secret about his interest in you.  Whenever you joined them on any kind of mission Jesse just had to open his mouth and share every little flirtatious comment that came into his head.  

   He held back a sigh.  He was liking this mission less and less.  But for the sake of said mission he had to put whatever personal issues he had with his brother aside, because that’s all they were, personal.

   “No, sir,” he said, making a point to keep his tone as free from emotion as possible.

   You nodded in acknowledgement before turning to Skywalker. “Anything else, General?”

   He shook his head. “No, I think that settles it. Captain Rex you inform Jesse about his assignment.  Plan to meet in the hanger bay in one hour.”

   “Yes, sir.” 

   “Dismissed.”

   Both you and Rex saluted before you turned and entered the elevator together. 

   “So, on a scale from one to ten, how much is Jesse going to hate this plan,” you asked, just as the doors hissed shut. 

   “I’d say about a seven,” Rex answered dryly. 

   “That much faith in me, huh?”

   “The men have plenty of faith in you Commander.  I can’t say the same for the Pustins.” 

   You gave a short laugh before playfully nudging him in the side. “Don’t worry Captain, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

   “It’s not me I’m worried about it.” 

   You paused, the teasing expression fading. 

   His gut twisted; had he said that out loud? He didn’t so much as breath as he watched your face for some kind of reaction. 

   To his surprise, your gaze softened and your lips turned into an understanding smile. 

   “I know,” you said.  You placed a hand on his arm.  Even through his armor, he could swear he could feel the heat of your skin. 

   “But, I can take care of myself.  Believe it or no, I’ve been at this for a while.  You don’t have to worry about me.”

   Your look was so earnest, it made what he wanted to say that much easier. 

   “With all do respect sir, I think I will anyway.” 

   Your eyes brightened and he became suddenly aware of how close he was to you. 

   “Well, I can’t argue with that,” you said, the more playful smile returning. “Thank you, Captain.” 

   You kept your hand on his arm and he let you.  The urge to pull you even closer tugged at his insides.  You were so close already it wouldn’t take much to find out if your lips were as soft as they looked. 

   Rex stopped, realizing his own thoughts and flickered his eyes back to yours.

You didn’t meet gaze. Instead your attention appeared fully on his mouth.

   The hiss of the elevator doors broke the spell, opening to the barracks. 

   You dropped your hand quickly.  A flash of something danced across your features as you took a small step back.

   “I’ll see you in the hanger, Captain.”

   He couldn’t trust his voice and nodded before stepping out the doors, only managing to let out a quiet, “Commander” as he did so.

   He took a glance over his shoulder just in time to see the doors fully close and you descend further down into the ship. 

   He let out a long breath. 

   He was just imagining things.  You weren’t looking at him that way.  It was just him projecting his...thoughts about you.  That was all. 

   He ran a hand over his face.  He needed to get a hold of himself.  The sooner this mission got started the better.  At least then he could have something else to focus on.  Honor and duty were what he knew, not this. 

   This is going to be a long mission. 

[dogboy-willgraham]

Villains x Sidekick with so many feelings. They're gay Harold. Sidekick does not get any respect from their team, luckily the cute villains do respect them.

"We have to go back for them Criss-"

"There is no going back for them!" Criss-Cross shouted. "We are not in a place to just impulsively start rescue missions! Snowy's already gone, even if they weren't, we can't afford to lose anyone else for a damn sidekick,"

Brass looked aback, shocked at Criss-Cross's words. "You-they're not any damn sidekick, they're yours,"

"They aren't worth the damn team Brass," Criss-Cross slumped over the table, holding her head in her hands. "You wouldn't understand the tough decisions I have to make,"

"This is Snowy, not whether to retreat or keep fighting-"

"Not a word more Brass!" Criss-Cross shouted. "Or I will send you to get Snowy on your own. Is that clear?"

Brass looked at her, face hardened to a steely glare. "Perfectly,"

"Good, now go on and see if Gecko needs help,"

-

Snowy came to slow. Their head ached, their whole body did in fact. They had been too close when the blast went off, and the ensuing rubble probably hadn't helped either. Their fault anyway.

Snowy sat up, looking around. This wasn't the sickbay, or their bunk. It wasn't anywhere they recognized in fact. It was a bedroom, presumably, the only indication that it was happened to be the bed they were sitting on and the fact it didn't look like a prison cell.

"Hello?" Snowy called out. No answer came. "Hello?" They repeated, standing from the bed and almost collapsing.

"Is anyone here?" Snowy breathed deeply and continued on. They approached the door, and slowly opened it, peaking their head out of it, still no one. But there was the sound of singing, and cooking.

Snowy exited and approached the room where the sound was coming from slowly. Their wings tucked close to their back, making them smaller, less noticeable.

They nearly jumped when they saw who was in the room. The three villains, one cooking, and the other two sat at a table watching and listening.

Snowy's heart rate spiked, as domestic the scene was, it was still Them. And Snowy was unarmed, defenseless.

"Snowy?"

Shit, Drift noticed them. Think think think-

"You're awake!" Drift rushed over and began checking them over. "Are you okay? That was a pretty nasty blast you got caught in. I apologize no one was there when you woke up, we thought you'd need all the sleep you could get-"

Mockingbird walked over from her place at the stove and set a hand down on Drift's shoulder. "Breathe Drift, the poor thing just got up," She looked over to Snowy. "I am glad you're awake though, you looked something awful after all of that,"

"Wha-"

"Yeah, listen to Songbird Drift," Blackout joined the conversation. "The poor helpless thing just woke up, wouldn't want to break their fragile wings,"

Mockingjay flicked Blackout's head. "Hush,"

"I'm just saying, Snowbird here isn't weak or fragile, small as they are,"

"None of us said that," Mockingjay sighed. "Anyway, as Drift was saying, how're you feeling?"

Panicked, confused, vulnerable, weirdly comfortable, all apt words to describe the feeling Snowy was having. Confused was most of it.

"I-uh, alright? I...guess," Snowy said. "I-uhm, why aren't you keeping me prisoner?"

"Prisoner?" Drift asked, confused. "You were hurt, we couldn't keep you in any old cell,"

"But I'm with Criss, they're your sworn enemy," Snowy added, bewildered.

"Yes, but I'm afraid they aren't with you darling," Mockingbird said. "And we don't stoop that low sweetheart,"

"Not...with me?" Snowy said. "She's my friend, my best friend, her and the team will be here to get me in a few days, I know it," Snowy was surprised at their own defiance in the trio's faces, but didn't regret it yet.

The trio looked at each other, a sad look in their eyes. Even Blackout's.

"Honey," Mockingbird began. "It has been days, you were out cold,"

"No," Snowy said. "It can't have been, we were just freeing the hostages yesterday..."

"Look, we aren't messing with you Snowbird," Blackout assured. "Drift's not doing anything, Songbird isn't, and I'm not, it's been days since your team and you attacked,"

"You will stay with us while you heal," Drift said. "Wait and see if-" A look from Mockingbird. "When, your team comes back,"

Snowy knew better, they should have rejected the offer and tried to get out. But they, against all logic, felt safe. And it wasn't like Snowy was going to get out any time soon on their own in their state.

"Fine," Snowy said.

"Great," Mockingbird said, smiling. "I'll get you some food,"

"Oh, Snowbird," Blackout began. "Do you have a name? A real name? Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine,"

For as trusting as they were being, they didn't feel that safe. "Not one you'll be hearing,"

"Alright, alright. Spicybird,"

-

Weeks passed, weeks. Not a sign from the team. Not even the smallest clue that they'd be coming to save them. They even continued fighting on against the villains without them.

"There we are," Drift removed the final bandage from their torso. "That should be if for your chest. It might feel weird without the slight compression, so you should build back that part of your core once you feel well enough,"

"Uh, thank you, Drift," Snowy sighed.

"Hey, are you okay?" Drift asked.

"I'm fine, I'm only being held prisoner by my team's sworn enemies," Snowy lied, they didn't feel like prisoner. Maybe that's what they wanted, make them turn over to their side. But Snowy didn't have much in them to care, it felt nice. The care and attention, physical affection that stopped at the drop of a word, Snowy liked it.

"Is it your team?"

Snowy sighed and nodded. "They still haven't come back for me. They should've found me by now, but they haven't," Confiding in a villain, add that to the things Snowy knew was wrong but didn't have the heart to care anymore.

"I know," Drift sighed. "Truthfully I do wish they came back. You deserve a team who will do that for you,"

"It's...okay, I'm just the sidekick Drift, they have more important fights to win," Snowy sighed.

"Hey," Drift said firmly. "Don't...don't discount yourself like that, just because they can't see how great you are, doesn't mean all of us don't,"

Snowy looked up and blinked. "What do you mean?"

"We think you're amazing, Snowy," Drift smiled. "Even Blackout, xe would kill for you,"

"You...do?"

"Of course," Drift said, taking Snowy's hand. "You're strong and smart and sweet, so small and cute too. Oh, the others would have to agree to it, but I'd love to have you on the team," 'Team' felt like so much more than team, and Snowy didn't mind.

"I-"

"You don't have to say yes, I won't make you," Drift said.

"No, I..." Snowy thought a moment. This would forever separate them from everyone on the good side. They could never go back. Part of them didn't want to. They had left them for dead, didn't even seem to care, but the villains did, ironically. Blackout had gritted teeth watching Criss on the news, acting like nothing happened to Snowy. They cared. And maybe, just maybe, Snowy was tired of acting all rights and no wrongs. "I want to join. If the others allow me too,"

Drift blinked, then grinned. "Oh, really? Well, why don't we go ask then?"

"Now?"

"Yes! Come on!"

Snowy let themselves be dragged off, any reservations left from their choice floating away as they ran.

[buckys-estrella]

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒐

Forge of the Heart

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: The year is 1774 and Sargent James Buchanan Barnes of the British army has been sent to Boston, Massachusetts in the thirteen colonies. The Quartering Act has just been put in place and he along with two other soldiers will be staying in the house of a colonist. He expected resistance but he never thought that he would find the eldest daughter of the household to be so intriguing.

Warnings (for this chapter): implied/attempted sexual assault + (minor-ish) violence/fighting + blood/injury /-/ If anyone is uncomfortable with these topics and chooses not read, that’s fine. Please prioritize your own mental health. If you would like to know what happens in the chapter, feel free to message me and I’ll give a rundown without diving too much into the topics in the warnings <3

   A week has passed since Barnes had arrived in the colonies. The host family was friendly to an extent; it was obvious that they held patriotic views and weren’t all too happy to share their household and resources with British soldiers. However, they were kind-hearted folks that tried their best to avoid being overtly rude. They understood that the redcoats stationed in the colonial homes were simply meant to observe and patrol. Though, that information didn’t stop many colonists from having their suspicions. 

   On the days that Bucky wasn’t on patrol, he spent most of his time in the house. It was generally peaceful and quiet, given that you and Charlotte were the ones who stayed doing chores and kept the household running. Though, about an hour a day after lunch, you two retreated to your room where you would give Charlotte a lesson of some sort, most of it revolved around book learning. It warmed Bucky’s heart to know that you wanted to educate your sister when the option wasn’t available to her in any other way. It reminded him of his own sister and how he would read to her when she was younger. 

   One early Sunday morning, Buck awoke with the feeling of wanting to explore the colonial city. Yet, not as a redcoat on patrol, no. He wanted to explore with freedom, without being under the scrutiny of the colonists around him. He began to get dressed in plain clothes and was out the door before anyone else in the household awoke. 

   Watching the sunrise over the harbor calmed Bucky down and reminded him of simpler times. The streets were mainly empty and peaceful, most people took Sunday as a day to relax. He wandered around for an hour or two before he started to head back to the house. On his way back, he passed an alley where he thought he heard a scream for help. His instincts kicked in faster than a bullet being fired. He rushed into the alley, where he sees a fellow redcoat forcing himself onto a woman. No. Not a fellow redcoat, any “man” who did this was no fellow of any kind to Bucky. The scumbag had his hand clamped down on her mouth, Bucky was seething at this point. He grabbed the perpetrator by his collar and yanked him off of the girl. 

   “What the bloody fuck do you think you were doing?” The soldier, who was a corporal according to his uniform, didn’t respond. Instead, he threw a punch square on Bucky’s jaw. He was pissed off before, but now he was livid. More punches were thrown from the both of them, at one point the corporal pulled out a blade and got Bucky on his side before he was able to unarm him. Shortly after, Buck was able to have him on the ground with his knife to the prick’s throat.

   “Listen closely, I could kill you right here, right now if I wanted to and believe me, I want to.” Bucky practically growled the words, “However, I won’t. Instead, I’ll report you to your superior officer and pray that the punishment you receive is painful enough. Now get up and leave.”

   The corporal didn’t have to be told twice; he knew when to withdraw from a fight. Once he was gone, Bucky turned around to help the girl who was cowered in the corner, frozen in fear. He leaned down to help up, but she flinched away.

   “He’s gone now, you’re okay. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” Buck made sure to be gentle with his words so he wouldn’t scare her. When she looked up at him, his breath was knocked out of his lungs. 

   It was you. 

   You looked up at him with tears in your eyes, and his heart squeezed painfully. You made your way closer to him, seeking some sort of solace. He knew you wanted comfort, but a part of him felt as if he was taking advantage since you were so vulnerable at this moment. Nevertheless, he held you, only until he felt your heart rate calm down to a normal pace. Bucky started to pull away, but you held tighter. He looked down and saw the pain in your eyes, his gut tightened, and suddenly he wanted to be the man who banished all your pain.

   “We need to get you back home.” He whispered softly. You just gave a simple nod and allowed Buck to help you up. Once you two were finally on your feet, he noticed about a meter away, some groceries that had fallen on the floor. He went to go pick them up, but he realized that they had been ruined at some point during his fight. Bucky sent an apologetic look your way, knowing that you would have to go again to get those same supplies at some point. You offered no words, and just kept in step with Bucky as he led the two of you home.  

   About a block from your home, you heard Bucky let out a groan in pain. You had been so caught up in your own mind that it was just up until now that you noticed he was bleeding. 

   “Sergeant,” you gasped, “Oh Lord, you’re bleeding! Why didn’t you tell me?”

   “I needed to make sure you were okay first.”

   “Hurry, get inside, and on the bed, we need to stop the bleeding.” You hastily led him inside the house and towards your room. You quickly passed by Rogers and Wilson as you ushered Barnes to the bed. The two men promptly followed you having noticed that Bucky was bleeding.

   “What the bloody hell happened?” Steve was the first to speak up as he rushed to help Bucky. 

   “Captain, listen to me, I need you to go to the town square and fetch the doctor. Now!” Steve rushed out of the room without question as you turned to Sam. 

   “I need you to go to the kitchen, we have a medicine box in the bottom cupboard. Also, bring me a basin of water from the well outside. Quickly, please!” Once Sam left too, you turned to Bucky, who was now lying on the bed. 

   “You’re going to need to take your shirt off for me to get a better look.” You couldn’t help but feel flustered at your own words. Even in pain, Bucky took notice and couldn’t help but smirk.  

   “By all means,” he grunted, “look all you want.” Bucky gritted his teeth against the pain that spread through him as he stripped out of his shirt. The stretch of muscles pulled at the injured flesh, causing new blood trails to trickle down his midsection and soak into the waistband of his trousers.  

   Your eyes raked his exposed body, concern, and a touch of squeamishness evident in your gaze. Along with something a tad bit warmer. Appreciation? Dare he think…attraction? Bucky straightened, the pain somehow not quite as bad as it had been a moment ago. A beautiful woman’s regard had a wonderful dulling effect on a man’s pain. The cut still stung like the dickens, but not so bad that he couldn’t enjoy a little feminine admiration. 

   “Thank you for what you did.” You murmured the words in an offhand manner as you grabbed a three-legged stool that had been shoved into the corner behind the bed and carried it to where he was. You stopped about an arm’s length away from him, set the stool down, and sat atop it. You finally looked Bucky in the face. 

   “I’m sorry that your bravery caused you so much harm.” Bucky could see that you were genuinely sorry, even though what happened and what he did was in no way your fault. 

   “Any other man worth anything would have down the same.” Your gazes held, and Bucky could swear that something tangible stretched between you two. Something he’d never experienced with a woman before. Almost as if he recognized you. Not your physical appearance, but you. You tore your gaze away as Sam entered the room with the supplies you had asked for. He came forward and asked where she wanted them. You pointed a finger to the floor near your feet. 

   “Place the basin here, and set down the box down there and slide off the lid, please. I’ll need the bandages that are inside.” Sam pulled the box from under his arm, arranged it as instructed, then stood like a soldier awaiting orders. “What else can I do?”

   “You may stay or leave, the choice is up to you, I already have all I need.” Sam didn’t think he’d be much more help in the room with you, so he opted to wait outside and keep an eye out for Steve. As he was leaving, you dipped the cloth into the basin and squeezed out the excess liquid. The trickling water echoed loudly in the quiet room. You lifted the wet cloth to a spot over the wound and tightened your fist until a small stream of water dibbled into the gash. Buck hissed a breath at the cold sting. His abdomen sucked in automatically, but he caught himself and willed his muscles still.  

   You never seemed to hurry. Your movements just sort of flowed. No rough jostling. No nervous shaking. Just gentle, smooth motions. By the time you finished cleaning his wound, his breathing had slowed, and the muscles in his neck and back had relaxed in response to your calm manner. 

   “I’m afraid this next part is going to be rather unpleasant.” Your hands released the cloth to slip silently into the basin on the floor and reached for the medicine box. Your fingers closed around the neck of a tall corked bottle. The lovely lethargy Bucky had been feeling vanished.

   Whiskey.

   He shifted on the bed, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. You looked at him, an apology in your eyes. He flashed you his best cocky grin. “And here I pegged you as the teetotaling type.” He dipped his head toward the bottle. “I’m not a drinking man myself, but if you need a sip for fortification, I won’t judge.”

   “How open-minded of you, sir.” Your tone sounded prissy, but your eyes sparkled with humor. His grin spread wider.  

   You pulled out the cork, the small pop echoing between the two of you. Your nose crinkled at the pungent fumes. “As tempted as I am, I’m afraid this particular spirit has been set aside for medicinal purposes.”

   Bucky shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

   You retrieved the water-soaked rag, squeezed it out, then met his gaze, all humor gone from your eyes. “Are you ready?”

   Bucky braced his arms on the bed behind him to make the torn flesh more accessible. Then he tightened his jaw and gave a quick nod.

   You held the cloth below the gash and dribbled the liquid fire from the mouth of the bottle into his wound. Bucky’s fingers clenched around the edge of the mattress. Every muscle in his body pulled taut. But he didn’t make a sound. Pride intact, he barely even flinched when you dabbled some of the liquor on other minor scrapes. Breathing in through his nose, he forced his body to relax as you finished.

   “All done.” Something in your voice brought his focus to your face. Tears shimmered in your eyes. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you.” And you were. Genuinely. His gut twisted in response, and he hoped to heaven that he didn’t ever end up hurting you.  

   You proceeded to cap the whiskey bottle and returned it to the box at your feet. “I think we should go ahead and bandage you up. It will help stem the bleeding at least until the doctor gets here.”

   Bucky eyed the gash. Most of the alcohol had already evaporated from his skin, but a new wetness oozed from the opening. It had a pinkish hue as new blood mixed with whatever other fluid was leaking from his body. “Seems like a sound notion.”

   You shifted in your stool. “If you’ll just…ah…hold this dressing in place, I’ll…ah…wrap the bandage…”

   Bucky shot a gaze at his nurse. Was the always-serene Y/n actually flustered about something? Your eyes were making a valiant effort to look everywhere except his chest. Which, of course, meant that was precisely where you wanted to look. Was it the anticipation of touching him instead of just his wounds that had you suddenly ill at ease? 

   He straightened a little, ignoring the painful pull of the skin around his injury, and reached for the cotton pad you offered. Biting back a grin, Bucky glanced down to fit the dressing over the center of the large gash. By the time he raised his head, he had his expression fully stoic and under control.

   “Ready when you are.” You startled a bit at his voice then rose off your stool to stand over him. You pressed the end of the bandage against his side, your fingers cool against his overheated skin. Slowly, you unrolled the cotton strip and passed it over the dressing. The back of your hand brushed against his, the touch sending odd little prickles down into his belly. Then you leaned close in order to reach the bandage behind him. Suddenly he was the one trying to look everywhere but at you. He stared at the ceiling as you continued binding his wound. His breaths grew shallower with each pass you made. Even when he didn’t look at you, he could smell you. There was something there, something sweet he couldn’t quite name.

   “There. All done.” You stepped away, and Bucky finally managed a full-sized breath. He mumbled his thanks as you started to leave the room.  

   Some time passed before the doctor finally came in and stitched him up. When the doc was done, Bucky fell asleep to get some much-needed rest. When he awoke in the morning, there was a plate of breakfast on the stool next to the bed. Along with the food, there was a note from you, thanking him again for what he did. His heart constricted, he wishes that he didn’t need to save you from anything, but the world was filled with wicked people, and you had the misfortune of encountering one yesterday. 

   As Buck was eating his food, Steve came in. “How are you feeling, pal?”

   “Pretty good for someone who had a blade slash them.” Bucky sent a cocky grin after the words came out of his mouth. 

   “And why exactly did that happen? What did you get yourself into Buck?” He could hear the concern in Steve’s voice. The two have always looked after each other since they were kids. It wasn’t his place to tell, but he trusted Steve and knew that he’d have the same reaction that he did. So, Bucky told him, not in detail, but enough for him to get the idea of what happened.  

   “Bloody hell.” Steve blew out a frustrated breath, “Do you know the name of this bastard? He needs to pay the consequences for what he did.”

   “I don’t know much, but he’s probably pretty bruised from our fight yesterday. The doctor put me on bed rest, but you could ask the other soldiers if they know anything about a corporal who got pretty beat up yesterday.” Steve gave a nod and headed out with the intent to find the brute that hurt his friend and caused you pain as well. 

   Sometime after Steve left, you came into the room to fetch the plate. Bucky watched you and felt that he should say something; anything. Instead, the two of you shared a look that seemed to say everything.

A/N: !!! I hope you guys are excited as I am about this, and I really hope y’all enjoyed this chapter. I’m also sorry if it made have made anyone uncomfortable in regards to the actions that took place in this chapter. I know it can be very hard to read or see or hear something that reminds you of what happened and it is never my intention to cause anyone pain. Anyways I hope you guys liked it and look forward to the next chapters <333

BTW IF ANYONE WANTS ON OR OFF THE TAGLIST, JUST LET ME KNOW

Taglist: @daffodilsbucky // @seasaurusrrex // @sunmoonandbucky// @professionalreblogs // @fangeekkk// @ravennightingaleandavatempus// @piper-koko-barnes-rogers// @viarogers // @dianadov  // @simplyhemmings// @isabelcrichards // @kakakatey // @kiki5283 // @slytherinyourrpants// @thelostallycat // @spidizzlemizzle // @actualdpshuri // @https-bucky // @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog // @everything-is-awesomesauce // @cap-just-said-language // @deathofmissjackson // @darthseph// @deliciouslyenchantingpenguin // @nerdy-bookworm-1998 // @thirstyghostqueen // @thewackywriter // @binkysteebnpewter // @team-lads-ass // @everything-but-the-not-natural // @ollovae3 // @my-drowning-in-time // @nsfwfangirl // @thefridgeismybestie // @augustdearly // @inez-lannister-stark-martell // @clarinette07 // @oh-hey-janina // @sinner-as-saint // @wiensrsoldier // @iwillmakeyoucraveme  // @mypassionsarenysins // @bvcky-is-my-baby // @bonky-barnes // @jbbarnesgirl // @sexyvixen7 // @peterpandco // @nimrodblackparade // @bellamys  // @asadmarveltrashbag // @elew223  // 

[frumfrumfroo]

I don't know wether it would be better to discuss this privately but I don't want to waste your time.After Adam said that Kylo has done nothing wrong,our fandom is full of such takes as resistance is bad,why does he need the light side,it would be detrimental for him to go back to the light side and like what's the purpose of everything then?I'm not a resistance fan either but they're not f villains!And sometimes I think people don't remember that it's wishful thinking.Sorry for bothering you.

People are ridiculous. Adam didn’t mean it that way, if you read the rest of what he said he’s clearly saying Ben the character isn’t thinking about his own redemption or that he needs one. AKA when he reaches a turning point and chooses the right thing, it’s just because he realised it was the right thing- he’s not thinking ‘I must redeem myself’, he just changes his mind. Redemption isn’t some ritual you perform, it doesn’t need to be this ordeal, you just see the truth about your worldview and start making different choices.

He challenged the interviewer to define terms because the interviewer was being a twat and clearly isn’t thinking about the films as a story and these character elements as metaphors. Also, he can’t actually talk about it more directly because anything he could possibly say of substance is a spoiler.

The Rebels/Resistance are the good guys, flat out. The good guys are not perfect but they are ‘the right side’ of the war. Star Wars isn’t morally grey and was never intended to be, it’s black and white, it has absolute right and wrong. Ben isn’t morally grey. He’s traumatised and misguided and thinks the ends justify the means, he thinks the Dark side is inevitable and he can’t escape it. He’s wrong. Morally grey means there is no right answer and it’s arguable whether your actions can be justified, whether what you did was the ‘most ethical’ option and how acceptable the consequences were. It doesn’t mean ‘a little bad’ or ‘not a perfect cinnamon roll’. It means a character who may or may not be justified depending on your point of view.

There is no argument anyone could possibly make to say Ben murdering Han was justifiable or the ‘best thing’ he could have done in the circumstances. There is no argument that he’s right to use the First Order, a military dictatorship, to gain a sense of control over his own life. The point of redemption isn’t to say ‘don’t worry, your crimes weren’t that bad’ or ‘it wasn’t your fault’. It is his fault, he’s a victim but he also has agency and is responsible for his choices. If he didn’t have agency then sure it wouldn’t be his fault, but he also couldn’t be saved because he couldn’t choose differently. Redemption is choosing differently.

It doesn’t and has never meant ‘become a paragon superman who has no flaws and makes no mistakes and never again has a less than saintly thought’. It means that a person who was on the wrong path, hurting others, hurting themselves, and generally being destructive realises they don’t want this and fully internalises that what they have been doing is wrong. It’s the moment of ‘I don’t want to be the source of suffering any more- whatever cause I thought was worth this, it’s not, the ends don’t justify the means’. It doesn’t mean ‘erasing’ their past and becoming a different person- it means healing to your true self and wanting to do your best to choose good in the future.

There is nothing morally grey about murdering your unarmed father who is doing his best to make up for failing you as a child. That is Bad, he did a Bad Thing. Ben was wrong to do that and did it because he has bought into a twisted worldview where both his normal human frailties and his best qualities (compassion, loyalty, lovingkindness) are unforgivable weaknesses. That’s the Dark Side: selfish pursuit of power and gratification at whatever cost. Snoke has convinced him he needs to destroy everything he loves in order to be free, to stop hurting, and he’s doing his best to follow through. He’s doing his best to ignore his own better nature and he’s hurting a lot of people along the way.

He needs to be redeemed from that. This is not an okay way for him to view the world and it’s not a worldview which allows for him to ever have a healthy relationship with anyone. He seeks power because he’s afraid, he feels abandoned and vulnerable, and that makes his fall sympathetic- but that doesn’t make it RIGHT or ~equally valid~. It’s not. It’s wrong, he’s wrong, and he can’t go on like this. It’s killing him exactly because this isn’t who he is, he’s a deeply sensitive, compassionate person who wants to give love, he doesn’t belong on the dark side.

He doesn’t need to suffer further, he’s suffered his whole life, but he needs to make the decision to reclaim his identity and agency.

[thebluelemontree]

On this note: “ Another way of saying Littlefinger didn’t bet on Sandor is that he didn’t account for him.” I know people say that Varys was behind the bread riot, but there’s some speculation around that it was actually LF and Mandon Moore was one of his men. Moore abandons Sansa in the riots and I think that was staged. LF didn’t account for Sandor saving her. What he planned on doing to her - maybe an escape? IDK.

People say a lot of things in this fandom, let’s put it that way.  We see in no POV’s account that there is any evidence of attempted kidnapping on Sansa during the riot, let alone a whole conspiracy to commit kidnapping that was thwarted.  Let’s remember, Tyrek Lannister was the one that got snatched here (allegedly, technically he’s only known to be missing).  If anyone was specifically targetted, it was him.

The bread riot was always a powder keg waiting to explode.  No one person orchestrated it.  The Tyrells had cut off food supplies from the Reach when they stood with Renly against Stannis and Joffrey.  Prices are ridiculously high, and basic foodstuffs are scarce.  There’s rampant lawlessness in the streets as well as a bloody flux.  There’s open talk of rebellion among the guilds and merchants. Tyrion is burning down all homes and shops between the water and the city walls in preparation for Stannis’s attack.  This is going to displace hundreds, maybe thousands of poor people.  Joffrey is executing antler men and personally shooting bolts into unarmed, starving citizens.  Begging brothers are preaching damnation of the corrupt nobility, including charging them with incest, birthing monsters, and reveling under demonic influence.  The Lannister-Baratheons could not be more hated than they are at that moment.  We have to remember that at the time of the riot, Littlefinger was well away at Bitterbridge and then went on to High Garden to negotiate with Mace Tyrell for the then widowed Margaery’s hand.  He already has his man Dontos plotting with Sansa in the godswood, gaining her trust, so she leaves willingly when the time is right.  A second kidnapping/escape plot overcomplicates everything is totally unnecessary.  If Moore was supposed to be LF’s man, why wouldn’t he just lead Sansa away to a rendezvous point under the pretense of eluding the mob?  That would have been simple and plausible as her shield.  Just abandoning her in the swarm doesn’t speak to a plan that has to go off without any mishaps.  

On the other hand, Varys is the one official still in the city who was noted by Jaime to be conspicuously absent from seeing Myrcella off to Dorne.  Varys, who claimed to have informants all over the city, yet he never forewarned Cersei of any possible riot.  Again, it’s Tyrek that disappears without a trace.     

Sorry for the long wait.  I actually had to take some time to re-read and reflect on Mandon Moore.  I think it’s a really bad place to start the speculation with the assumption that he must be working for someone at all.  My conclusion is that he’s not working for anyone, and he doesn’t have to be to do what he does.  He is a guy motivated by naked self-interest and personal advancement, and that does not necessarily equate with greed or being in anyone’s pocket.  IMO, I think he has traits similar to a corporate psychopath (though he’s obviously down for murder too) than anything else.  Let’s just focus on how his characterization is described first.

Jaime had once told him that Moore was the most dangerous of the Kingsguard—excepting himself, always—because his face gave no hint as what he might do next. – Tyrion I, ACOK.

He’s described as appearing corpse-like with eyes that are “oddly flat and lifeless.”  He’s cold and emotionless.  Most notably, Ser Mandon has ties to no one.      

Lord Arryn brought him to King’s Landing and Robert gave him his white cloak, but neither loved him much, I fear. Nor was he the sort the smallfolk cheer in tourneys, despite his undoubted prowess. Why, even his brothers of the Kingsguard never warmed to him. Ser Barristan was once heard to say that the man had no friend but his sword and no life but duty … but you know, I do not think Selmy meant it altogether as praise. Which is queer when you consider it, is it not? Those are the very qualities we seek in our Kingsguard, it could be said—men who live not for themselves, but for their king. By those lights, our brave Ser Mandon was the perfect white knight. – Tyrion II, ASOS.

Of all the things said about him, nowhere does anyone suggest it is in Mandon Moore’s character to want anything outside of his career within the kingsguard.  He has a single-minded focus on duty and serving the king in an almost robotic level of obedience.  No one can tell what goes on behind that blank expression.  If a man’s motivations are unknowable, you can’t predict future behavior.  Mandon Moore does not strike me as someone who would fall prey to bribery or blackmail.  He’s not ideologically motivated, nor is he someone a conspirator can confidently rely on to carry out a task without risk of being double-crossed.  If we look at men Littlefinger has taken into his service like Ser Dontos, the Kettleblacks, Janos Slynt, Nestor Royce, Lothor Brune, Lyn Corbray, there’s always a glaring weakness to be exploited, be it greed, excessive/wounded pride, addiction, closeted homosexuality, desperation, debt, estrangement from family, desire to rise from the underclass, lack of better options, etc.  Mandon doesn’t have any of these vulnerabilities.  

So what did I mean by having traits in common with a corporate psychopath, though?  Varys talks about Mandon being “the perfect white knight” and possessing the ideal qualities of a kingsguard.  Certain types of corporate psychopaths can wear a facade of traits that the business world desires and values.  They can seem like the perfect employee that the company leadership can rely on.  They appear to be fearless and unwavering in their drive for success, sometimes even earning praise and recognition for outright ruthlessness.  Their sometimes apparent lack of emotions could be read as having the grit to do what is necessary in times of turmoil.  Most use manipulative tactics to discredit, undermine, or sabotage coworkers and superiors alike just to get ahead, which I will show is relevant in Moore’s case.  Everyone is either a potential pawn, patron, or enemy to be eliminated.  Not all psychopaths have superficial and grandiose charm, and no one would accuse Mandon of being charming, but he does put himself out there to be seen as indispensably valuable to the king.

Let’s go back to the bread riot and why Mandon Moore abandoned Sansa’s side as her shield.

Tyrion pressed blunt fingers into his throbbing temples. If Sansa Stark had come to harm, Jaime was as good as dead. “Ser Mandon, you were her shield.”

Ser Mandon Moore remained untroubled. “When they mobbed the Hound, I thought first of the king.”

“And rightly so,” Cersei put in. “Boros, Meryn, go back and find the girl.“  – Tyrion IX, ACOK.

I see no sign that there’s any duplicity going on here when he’s questioned.  Mandon Moore acted in a way he believed the king and the queen regent (his patrons) would approve of.  The traitor’s daughter’s life doesn’t mean anything to Joffrey, and she is only a secondary thought of the queen’s after they are safe within the castle; therefore, she is not a useful pawn to him.  If Mandon Moore shows any desire for anything at all, it’s this:  Sandor Clegane’s privileged position with the Lannisters.  Joffrey ordered Sandor to go after the peasant that threw the dung.  As Sandor is mobbed (and it would be reasonable to wager he’ll be imminently killed), Ser Mandon seized the opportunity to swoop in as Sandor’s replacement, dropping Sansa like a hot potato.  There is a reason he keeps being ironically regarded as the white knight in shining armor.  He’s a real Johnny on the spot that one.  Even if Sandor somehow isn’t killed, Moore still comes out looking like the kingsguard that did not falter in his duty to protect the king even in all the confusion and chaos.  It’s an opportunistic upstaging of a colleague to discredit his effectiveness at his job.  It proves shortsighted on his part because Sandor not only survives but has Sansa, still a valuable Lannister hostage, alive and in tow.      

This will come up again at the Battle of the Blackwater when Sandor finally breaks from the wildfire.  Tyrion orders Sandor to continue leading sorties outside the city walls, but he refuses.  Guess who chimes in?

Ser Mandon Moore moved to Tyrion’s side, immaculate in his enameled white plate. "The King’s Hand commands you.”  

“Bugger the King’s Hand.” Where the Hound’s face was not sticky with blood, it was pale as milk. “Someone bring me a drink.” A gold cloak officer handed him a cup. Clegane took a swallow, spit it out, flung the cup away. “Water? Fuck your water. Bring me wine.”

He is dead on his feet. Tyrion could see it now. The wound, the fire … he’s done, I need to find someone else, but who? Ser Mandon? He looked at the men and knew it would not do. Clegane’s fear had shaken them. Without a leader, they would refuse as well, and Ser Mandon … a dangerous man, Jaime said, yes, but not a man other men would follow. – Tyrion XIII, ACOK.

Since when has Moore ever shown any deference to Tyrion’s authority before?  Never.  This is a performance for his situational patron, part of Moore’s facade.  What is suggested by vocally taking Tyrion’s side is that Moore wants Tyrion to name him commander.  He would see the opportunity to take Sandor’s place by not only highlighting the latter’s disobedience, but his posturing implies that he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out the Hand’s orders.  It’s also a boon that Sandor’s behavior is quickly tanking any remaining confidence in his courage and leadership ability.  Moore must have thought himself the natural choice to assume command as he is a kingsguard and a capable fighter, but he could not have foreseen Tyrion absorbing Jaime’s counsel.  Instead, Tyrion decides to lead the sorties himself, shaming anyone that doesn’t follow as being less than a dwarf.  Being named the king’s standard-bearer, as Ser Mandon was, is usually considered a high honor.  A corporate psychopath wouldn’t see it that way.  It’s a piss poor consolation to being led around by someone he would consider a lesser man.  Battle is where a knight earns his commendations and honors, which we see in Sansa’s eighth chapter in Clash.  As commander of the sorties and his rival disgraced as a craven, Moore would have been the hero of the day should they emerge victorious.  Tyrion prevented that.  Moore would then be left with only one other option to assume leadership.  Tyrion has to fall on the battlefield.

“MY LORD! TAKE MY HAND! MY LORD TYRION!”

There on the deck of the next ship, across a widening gulf of black water, stood Ser Mandon Moore, a hand extended. Yellow and green fire shone against the white of his armor, and his lobstered gauntlet was sticky with blood, but Tyrion reached for it all the same, wishing his arms were longer. It was only at the very last, as their fingers brushed across the gap, that something niggled at him … Ser Mandon was holding out his left hand, why …  – Tyrion XIV, ACOK.

Ser Mandon’s sword comes down in his right hand and nearly kills Tyrion.  What Moore could not have anticipated was getting iced by Podrick Payne before he could finish Tyrion off.  There’s a simple elegance to Moore’s motivations being strictly his own.  There’s no complicated conspiracy needed to explain any of his actions.  He’s just a shark in a suit of armor.  But what about Varys implying there was a conspiracy to kill Tyrion with Moore as the catspaw?  It seems to validate Tyrion’s suspicions that it was Cersei, or at least someone.                  

Bronn had turned up all he could on Ser Mandon, but no doubt Varys knew a deal more … should he choose to share it. “The man seems to have been quite friendless,” Tyrion said carefully.

“Sadly,” said Varys, “oh, sadly. You might find some kin if you turned over enough stones back in the Vale, but here … Lord Arryn brought him to King’s Landing and Robert gave him his white cloak, but neither loved him much, I fear. Nor was he the sort the smallfolk cheer in tourneys, despite his undoubted prowess. Why, even his brothers of the Kingsguard never warmed to him.

… [the Barristan part already quoted above]

And he died as a knight of the Kingsguard ought, with sword in hand, defending one of the king’s own blood.” The eunuch gave him a slimy smile and watched him sharply.

Trying to murder one of the king’s own blood, you mean. Tyrion wondered if Varys knew rather more than he was saying. Nothing he’d just heard was new to him; Bronn had brought back much the same reports. He needed a link to Cersei, some sign that Ser Mandon had been his sister’s catspaw. 

Let’s not forget Varys benefits by furthering the rifts within the Lannister regime.  He can easily play to Tyrion’s paranoia by suggesting there’s more behind Mandon Moore’s murder attempt than there was.  He smiles and mentions Moore’s origins in the Vale, a gesture at Littlefinger most likely; however, there are no substantial breadcrumbs left behind to connect Moore to anyone.  We’re even reminded twice that Bronn’s investigation turned up nothing except what was already well-known.  There’s just no there there.  Tyrion is doing the same thing as the conspiracy theories by assuming that Moore has to be in someone’s pay, but his reasoning is faulty.

Jaime had always said that Ser Mandon was the most dangerous of the Kingsguard, because his dead empty eyes gave no hint to his intentions. I should never have trusted any of them. He’d known that Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were his sister’s, and Ser Osmund later, but he had let himself believe that the others were not wholly lost to honor. Cersei must have paid him to see that I never came back from the battle. Why else? I never did Ser Mandon any harm that I know of. – Tyrion XV, ACOK.  

He mistook Moore’s commitment to duty and obedience for having honor.  And yes, he did unintentionally cross Ser Mandon. He just didn’t know it because he couldn’t read the guy.  He couldn’t see beneath the surface, and that is why Jaime is correct in calling him the most dangerous.  One can never know for sure if this type of corporate psychopath sees you as their pawn, their patron, or their enemy at any given moment.  There’s no way to mount a defense against that unless you can understand who you are really dealing with.  Tyrion was just very, very lucky that he brought Podrick Payne with him into battle.                            

[ungiftedmusings]

each in his own way, shatters

tw: referenced canon suicide, death

[vulnerable]

wave wished he could honestly say that he had never doubted pang, that he always trusted his friend’s intentions were the best even when his actions were suspect.  in some ways, in the ways that really counted most of the time - namely, when mind control was involved - wave trusted pang completely.  but the truth was, as wave’s feelings towards pang rushed past the line dividing platonic love and romance, that level of trust became harder to maintain.  it was a different level of vulnerability, one which had served to cause wave nothing but pain in the past, and he didn’t know how to get over that.

but then, seeing pang like this… it didn’t matter.  if a chunk of the trust that should have been there was missing, it was irrelevant when pang was sobbing on the floor like he’d had his heart shattered by a four-story fall.

[unarmed]

wave had known that something was wrong when pang didn’t answer the third time he’d tried calling.  far too many voicemail tones later, and wave admitted to himself that things may be even worse than he’d previously thought.

he’d tried to steel himself, tried everything he could think of to prepare.  he refrained from getting into a fistfight with punn.  he took the worm of doubt that wriggled its way into his mind and pushed it aside to deal with another day.  he harnessed his nervous energy to mentally plan a personalized pep talk, should that be what pang needed, and reminded himself of how well his group pep talk had gone just the other day.  padded with confidence and care, wave figured he was ready to face whatever it was that had gone wrong.

no amount of preparation could have readied wave to hear pang’s heart-wrenching shouts.  the way his blood ran cold the second he heard the pain and knew immediately who it belonged to was like nothing wave had experienced before.  wave wasn’t normally one for running, but he found himself sprinting at full speed before he even knew it.  pang’s voice faded out and wave kept running, because he knew the silence didn’t mean things were okay.

[broken]

wave had seen pang cry before.  once, when he’d been let down by every single one of his friends and, as a result, had failed to accomplish the goal he’d spent a year working towards.  again when he’d first realized that korn really had betrayed them all.  wave had seen pang worn out, exhausted, confused, hurt.  that was nothing, nothing at all, compared to this.

pang had always worn his heart on his sleeve and wave had always thought he was strong for doing so.  it was that stubborn sort of kindness that came so naturally to pang, and sometimes wave thought he ought to replace stubborn with stupid.  with his feelings so exposed, there was no way for pang protect himself from the elements, from the pain and the brutality of the world.

wave always wondered how pang had managed to keep his heart whole.  there had always been chips in it, cracks, but pang always seemed to mend them without too much trouble.

wave wondered what would happen if it was too far damaged to repair.  would it remain on display, or would pang relent, and finally hide it away?

now he could see it, a heart broken to pieces, and for a second, he froze, as if his gears had come to a halt.  was his own heart still beating, or had that faltered, too?

[fear]

seeing pang suffering this way, wave was afraid.  afraid to do the wrong thing, afraid to do the right thing, afraid that there is no right thing, but he knew he needed to try.  his throat had gone dry and he forgot how to speak.

could words make a shattered heart break further?

he knelt next to pang, but his hands couldn’t find their way to comforting.  they were shaking and he thought they might do more damage than good.  wave had forgotten how to touch.  hands hovering as if casting a spell, wave wished someone would just tell him what to do.

[fragile]

a word came back and wave croaked out pang’s name.  pang just curled further into himself, so wave tried again, more loudly this time.  “pang!  what happened?”

“go away,” pang’s voice was thin, wavering, choked off by sobs that wouldn’t stop.  “i don’t— i can’t—“  pang broke off with a shuttering, pained cry, and wave realized he was just barely managing to hold all the damaged pieces of himself together.  in a seemingly careless fashion, wave very deliberately began playing with pang’s hair.

“you don’t have to,” wave said quietly.  “you don’t have to explain, but i’m not going to leave you.”

at this, pang cried harder, but he latched on to wave’s free hand as soon as it was offered.

[guilt]

“it’s my fault,” pang whispered, long after wave assumed - hoped - he had fallen asleep.  when he looked, pang’s eyes were red, and wide-open, staring as if wave wasn’t even there.

“what is?”  wave kept his voice mellow, measured.  pang opened his mouth, then closed it, and wave brushed a hand over his forehead.  “pang, can you tell me?”  there were tear streaks staining nearly ever centimeter of pang’s face, but he was no longer crying.  his eyes looked empty, and wave wondered where pang’s heart went.

“i killed them,” pang said, his voice hollow.  “time and korn, i— they’re gone.  and it’s my fault.”

[voids, vacuums]

and suddenly the air rushed out of wave’s lungs all at once, leaving only a hollow and aching vacuum.  fear rung in his ears, along with defiance and hurt, and he pushed what was less relevant for the moment aside, shaking his head.

“no.  no, pang, listen, i don’t know what happened but you can’t blame yourself.”

pang stared at wave, blinking voids completely dry, and smiled as his grip on wave’s hand tightened.  “you don’t know,” he said, aloof, almost condescending.  “nothing - you know nothing.”

“but you can tell me—“

“get out.”  wave’s back straightened of its own accord, as if coming to attention.  “leave me alone.  do not touch me again.”

wave stood up.  it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had no choice.  he felt his feet carry him out the door, and tears began streaming down his own face.  because of what had happened.  because he hadn’t been there to help.  because he couldn’t help now.  because of pang’s words.  because, after a split second of raw hurt, he recognized them for what they were.

do not touch me again - the void where pang’s heart used to be made one last attempt at protecting his friend.

[anger]

and wave was angry.  not because of pang.  because his friends were gone, and because he was shaken, but not surprised.  the realization had his stomach turning.  they were in high school, they were kids, and he was so sick and tired of adults making their lives hell.

with everything they’d been through, with everything they were still going through, something like this was bound to happen.  wave loved pang and his optimism but among the gifted, pang was in the minority of those who would be really, genuinely caught off guard by this.

so yes.  wave was angry.  but not at himself.  not the way pang was angry.  wave knew from experience the way self loathing functioned.  reckless, thoughtless destruction.

[distance]

so, wave took the protection for what it was.  he left pang alone.  he’d had to keep his distance from pang before, after the memory wipe, and it wasn’t any easier the second time around, especially now that he was on his own.  but he didn’t want to be like channon and mr. pom, didn’t want to sacrifice happiness for temporary closeness.

wave had always been able to take a step back and look at problems from a distance - it had served him well in the past, and sometimes poorly, but right now he needed logic.  and really, what more was logic than looking at an issue from the outside in?  he needed that space, that safety, that comes with a particularly guarded heart - a battered and bruised one that was good at little but protecting itself.  at the cost of every sense of being human that he’d obtained in the past few years, wave took a few large steps away from this problem, until he was just at the edge of it.  he was just close enough to be involved,  but far enough away that he could go unnoticed.  close enough to watch as his best friend attempted to regain some semblance of control by stealing it out of his own friends’ hands, but distanced enough to maintain control over himself.

the days were long and lonely, but having control was his only hope, having power - it was his last resort.  he’d bought himself time, time to develop his power, his potential, and wave didn’t know if it would be enough.  but he had to try.

AO3

[imaginepirates]

Prisoner

Alright y'all, I actually did some writing. This was based off a convo I had with @00idontevenknowmate00, and I might have to write a second part. I know I haven't written in a hot minute, sorry. Basically, you're a prisoner on James' ship, but he tries to treat you well and you two get along. The ending is a little weird, not gonna lie.

@bonjour-frens @tesserphantom @ilikebritsandbands @viper-official

~3325 words

~~~~~~~

           The ship rocked and swayed under you, the only thing interrupting the infernal darkness. You tried to sleep, but found you couldn't. Your heart raced. You didn't know where you were destined; either the gallows, Newgate, or New South Wales awaited you. Stuck in the brig of a naval ship, there was no chance of escape. Being a woman could work in your favor, or so you hoped. There had to be some amount of mercy. You were the gentler sex, after all. 

           You spent your nights in feverish dreams, and your days were much the same. Life was boring, and the navy had taken away anything with which you could strangle yourself. You sorely needed something to do other than worry. The brig hadn't been cleaned in quite a while, but it had definitely been used. The bars were old and rusting, and you kicked at the rats that crawled near your feet. It was the only entertainment you got. 

           Tracing patterns in the dirt with your finger, you heard footsteps on the stairs leading down to your cell. You couldn't possibly be in port already, so you perked up at the sound. Scenarios ran through your head, but you couldn't think of a reason you'd be needed. 

           You hardly had time to think before the door to your cell was opened noisily and you were pulled to your feet. You weren't afraid, necessarily, but an uneasy feeling was blooming in your gut. 

           It amused you to see just how many people came down at once. Did the captain really need so many guards? He stood there in all his finery, his gold brocade and starched shirt, looking disgruntled. There were dark circles under his eyes, too. There should be; he was delivering a poor girl to her probable death. 

           Despite the hands on your arms keeping you in place, you focused your attention on the man in front of you. He was tall and handsome and young, the perfect picture of a naval officer. His eyes flicked to his two men, whose fingers were bruising your wrists. Annoyance flicked across his face. 

           "Have you come down here to let me have a bath? I think I deserve at least one before I die," you taunted. In all honesty, a bath would be more than welcome. 

           "Release her," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His men obeyed, warily staring at you. "I don't think an unarmed, underfed girl is much of a concern," he snapped. 

           The guards stepped back then, leaving you alone with the captain, their footsteps audible until they reached the top of the stairs outside the cells. 

           "What do you want with me?" You asked, defensive. You suddenly felt more vulnerable, left alone with this man. 

           "The brig isn't the best place for a young woman."

           "It's not the best place for anybody, but I'm glad you're taking pity on me. Does it bother you, jailing a girl?"

           "You're a pirate."

           "It's not like I had a better choice. Or would you rather me whore myself away?"

           He ignored you, but couldn't meet your eye. At least you'd gotten the point across. "I've decided that you might be more useful providing the ship with what services you can offer."

           You didn't like where this was going. "You misunderstand what I'm willing to do for you." You shrank back a little into your cell, trying to put some space between you and this man.

           A bright crimson crawled up his face, visible even within the dim light. "That's not- not what I was suggesting. Pardon me for giving you the wrong impression."

           "What would you have me do, then?" 

           "Wash clothes, deliver food to the men on duty, sew up what needs mending. It would be a help to us."

           "Why would I want to help you?" You spat. 

           "In return, I can make your journey to Port Royal more comfortable than the current arrangement."

           You mulled it over. You didn't fancy the idea of being kept in the brig. Truth be told, you'd do nearly anything to get out of the situation. You could hardly tell day from night, and the damp made your bones ache. You hardly had anything to eat. The rats made you afraid of becoming sick. 

           But could you trust this man? He seemed genuine enough, but how could you be sure? He might go back on his word, or take advantage of you. 

           Looking at him in that light, at how tired he was, at how his shirt was more wrinkled than you'd first noticed, at the stony look he was giving you, you didn't think he was a bad sort of man. He was a man who took orders, yes, but you didn't think he always agreed with them. 

           "Alright," you said. "As long as I get somewhere better to sleep and some more to eat, I agree to your terms."

           He nodded. Then, he turned and walked to the door. You were left standing alone with your cell wide open. He opened the door, looking over his shoulder to make sure you were following. You did so, through the door and up multiple flights of stairs until you came to the deck. There, you squinted against the harsh sun. It had been so long since you'd seen daylight, the shock nearly made you fall to your knees. 

           To your surprise, the captain put a hand on your arm, looking at you in concern. He stood so he was blocking out some of the light, making it easier for your eyes to adjust. 

           He took you to his cabin, pulling the curtains over the windows at the back so that only a sliver of light fell through. "I'll let you start by getting some rest." He gestured to a pile of blankets by the foot of the bed. "It's the best I could put together. You can use the bed for now, if you like. I won't be back until evening."

           "Thank you." It came out softly, but truly. You hadn't thought you'd get such kindness, especially not from the navy. 

           He nodded, leaving you alone in the room. You fell into the bed, stretching out on the mattress. Nothing had felt so good in your life. You turned your face into the pillows, inhaling. They smelt like soap. You wondered if that was how the captain smelled, too. As you drifted off, you reminded yourself to ask for his name. 

           You woke sometime later, when the sun was only a soft glow against the floorboards. The light reached only a sliver of the room, bathing the shadows gold where it crept in. A hand rested on your shoulder, rubbing gently up and down your arm. It was that touch that woke you, bringing you back to yourself. 

           The captain sat at the edge of the bed, one hand on your arm, the other holding a bowl of something. "Dinner?" He asked. 

           Eagerly, you sat up. It had been too long since your last hot meal, and you were starving. You tucked in, hoping he wouldn't mind how quickly you were eating. Thankfully, he didn't look at you, instead pouring himself a glass of water. You watched him, his back turned to you. He drained his glass and slumped a little against the small table in front of him. 

           Finished with your meal, you asked, "Is there anything you want me to do?" You hated how meek you sounded. You weren't entirely comfortable with your new arrangement; he was being too kind to you. Still, it made you want to repay him. Not to mention, any task he could give you would keep your mind off your impending doom. 

           "Not this late. Tomorrow." 

           He looked you over, and you realized he probably wanted you out of his bed. You rose hastily, moving to sit in the blankets on the floor. "You never introduced yourself," you pointed out. 

           "Neither did you." He shucked his coat, letting it hang from the back of a chair. "Norrington. A Captain in His Majesty's Navy. And you are?"  

           "Shouldn't you know your own prisoners?" You teased. 

           He snorted, trying not to be amused. "Shouldn't you know your captors?"

           "One naval man is the same as another. You'll all deliver me to my death."

           He grimaced at that, his eyes reflecting some sort of pity. 

           You ended up giving him your name anyway. "A pirate, and a soul damned to eternal judgement." 

           He considered. "Earlier, you said you had no better choice. Was that true?"

           "As true as it gets." Your tone had become more serious. "There's nothing wrong with making a better life for myself. A woman deserves to be treated like a human, and sometimes, she has to find that place for herself."

           Norrington nodded, dropping the subject. He asked if you needed anything else; new clothes, medicine, or another blanket. It was considerate of him, to be sure, leaving you genuinely surprised. There should be more like him, you thought. 

           He laid down after taking off his shoes, not bothering to remove his stockings or shirt. You wondered if it was for your modesty or his. You curled up in your blankets. It wasn't as comfortable as the bed, but you weren't about to complain. 

           The morning brought with it its fair share of work. After a light breakfast, you were set to washing clothes in a large bucket. You were outside on deck, so nobody minded when the suds sloshed over the sides and onto the wood. You were up to your elbows in water, clothes, and soap. You hoped the men knew whose clothes were whose. You certainly didn't. 

           Just as promised, you ended up mending rips in fabric. You didn't do a particularly good job; you weren't too skilled with a needle. Needlework had been the least of your worries before then.

           You were treated much better in the coming days. For the first time, your sleep came easily, and your tired body didn't ache so much. You were given warm food three times a day, and water to match. You were regaining some of the strength you'd lost. You found that your tasks weren't too boring, and that a few of the men could sing well if prompted. The officers frowned at that, but Norrington let you be, allowing the men to sing with you for a while. 

           One night, as the ship rocked and turned, you found yourself sprawled out across the floor. Norrington woke, too. He sat up in bed, his long brown hair sticking up at all angles. 

           "Are you alright?" He asked. "You didn't hit anything, did you?" His voice was still full of sleep. 

           "No." With all the tossing of the ship, it was only a matter of time before your head hit the table across from you.

           Norrington stared at you, as if making up his mind about something. "Come here before you do."

           At first, you didn't think you'd heard him correctly. He moved over to one side of the bed, and only then did you understand. Carefully, you sat on the edge of the bed, curling up on the edge. Norrington laid on the other side, his back to you. It took a long time to fall back asleep with him so close to you. 

           Thankfully, he stayed on his side of the bed until morning. You woke up facing him, but he had his arm wrapped around a pillow, his face buried into it. He looked different in the morning light, more like a man than a monster of the government. His hair covered part of his face, and you found yourself tucking it behind his ear. You wanted nothing more than to return to sleep then, but you figured it best if you didn't. 

           Instead, you snuck out of the room and into the mess hall. It was empty as of yet, the day being too early for breakfast. Soon, little groups would fill it. The naval men stuck to their cliques, you noticed. Officers with officers, midshipmen with midshipmen, and so on. It was always hard to walk in alone and face all the stares. People didn’t trust you yet, and you didn’t blame them. You stood for everything they hated. Still, you weren’t in a position to do harm or attempt escape. Those stares weren’t the worst of it, either. There were men that looked at you like a common whore, like they wanted nothing more than to shuffle you to some storage room and use you as they liked. 

           Alone, you didn’t have to worry about any of it. The cook was just beginning to prepare food. Hardtack, some sort of preserved meat, and water. You knew that officers got tea, but couldn’t see where it was kept. That was for the best, you thought, or people would be stealing it all the time. 

           The cook kept his surprise at seeing you to himself, handing you a plate of surprisingly appetizing food. Ships kept animals on board, and the navy was more organized about theirs than pirates were. Though chicken was a bit hard on the stomach first thing in the morning, it was chicken, and thus better than whatever they’d given you in you cell, which hadn’t been much at all. 

           Returning your plate, he gave you another, this time loaded with nicer foods. On it was a small cup of tea. He gave you a warning look. You didn’t plan on stealing the tea, though. It would be nice, yes, but not worth the trouble. Besides, you were less fond of tea than you were of a cool cup of water. 

           Captain Norrington was awake by the time you got back to the room. He stood at a basin, splashing water on his face. He must’ve bathed in the time you were away, because he was bereft of his usual starch-white shirt. The sight made you turn bright red, but you quickly regained control of yourself. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen a man’s chest before. Though perhaps not one you’d slept so close to. That thought certainly made you blush, and you pointedly looked at your feet when you set the tray of food on his table. 

           When you looked back up, Norrington was equally red, but had the good graces to tug his shirt back over his head. He stood at the mirror, brushing back his hair. It reached just past his shoulders, making it nearly as long as your own. You knew what a pain it could be to deal with. 

           You felt useless, just standing there. You didn’t know what courage possessed you then, but you stepped forward. “Would you like some help with that?” 

           He looked at you questioningly, but handed over the brush all the same. You worked your way through his hair, trying to be gentle. He was taller than you, which made it hard to reach the top of his head properly. He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, and you awkwardly made eye contact in the mirror. 

           “It’s been a long time since anyone’s brushed my hair. My mother was the last to do it, I think.”

    “Do you miss her?” You found yourself asking. 

           “Every day.” He grimaced. “Do you miss yours?”

           “Yes. I could’ve seen her again, you know.”

           He didn’t respond, instead looking at his hands grabbing the sides of the washbasin. He let you tie his hair back in a thick braid. The silence between you was stifling; more so than usual. You felt like something was very wrong, but you didn’t want to think about it. 

           There was a moment, when you were done, that you both stared at each other in the mirror. 

           It was his eyes that betrayed him. He looked over to the table, where his tea had gone cold, but he wasn’t looking at the food. It was a letter, open on the desk. When it got to the ship, you couldn’t know. During your confinement, probably, or sometime before. You could only guess at what was inside. 

           He handed the letter to you, looking down with sad eyes. Yours were pools of tears, you knew, even though you hadn’t read anything yet. You told yourself it wouldn’t be as bad as you expected. They’d hole you up in some prison to rot out the rest of your days, which would likely be few. 

           The scrawling handwriting was blurry before you. The note was so short, so simple, but it held all the weight in the world for you. The captive girl is to be hanged upon arrival in Port Royal, it read. You didn’t know how long it would be before you reached land, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were going to die alone surrounded by strangers, and it would be soon. 

           Wordlessly, Norrington rested a hand on your shoulder. 

           “Will you be there?” You asked. A few tears were slipping past your nose and down your cheeks. 

           “I’d sooner not be,” he admitted.

           “I don’t want to die surrounded by strangers.”

           “You shouldn’t have to die at all. We shouldn’t be hanging young women. Girls. And yet there’s no way around it.”

           You leaned into his touch. “There are. Ways around it.”

           “No.”

           “Yes.” You sucked in a breath. There was a way for a woman to get out of a hanging, you just weren’t sure the captain knew what it was. “They can’t hang pregnant women,” you whispered. “Not even girls they think are pregnant.” You flicked your eyes up to meet his.

           The look on his face was tormented. “What are you asking of me?”

           “Could you forsake your honor to save a girl? All you’d have to say is that I might be pregnant. All you have to say is that you slept with me. Nobody could prove you wrong.” It wasn’t that far from the truth. He had slept with you, a little part of your brain insisted, if not in that way. But he’d never admit to it. He needed his good reputation, and wouldn’t sully it by saying he’d taken you to bed. He wouldn’t. And yet, you dared hope. You needed hope more than anything.

           He stared at you then, his hand still resting on your shoulder. There was an entire battle happening behind his tired eyes. It wasn't a situation he could've expected, and certainly wasn't one you wanted. Finally, he spoke. "Life would be much easier if we didn't have to condemn people that make better lives for themselves." He sucked in a shaky breath. "If I do this thing, there may be hope left for you. There may be life left for you."

           "Yes. But what of you? What will you tell the mother you miss so much?"

          ��"The truth. My reputation isn't worth the end of a life. Not yours."

           Tears fell freely now, and Norrington wiped them away from your face with a gentle finger. "I hope this works," you whispered. 

           "As do I."

           "Thank you. You've been nothing but kind to me. Letting me sleep here, and walk in the sun. I thought they'd be my last days alive, and they might've been spent in a cell, but they weren't."

           "Let's hope that they aren't. Your last days alive, I mean."

           "Let's." You put a hand on his cheek and a kiss on the other, barely brushing your lips to his skin. His hand moved to your back, rubbing soothing circles there. You stood, embracing, breakfast completely forgotten. 

                                 ~~~~~

           A month later, you stood on a ship bound for adventure. Your shipmates had come back for you upon hearing that your trial had been postponed on the basis of a possible pregnancy. After a daring escape, you were back where you belonged. 

You hoped Norrington was where he belonged, too.

[thepetulantpen]

TITLE: A Call To Motion

AUTHOR: thepetulantpen

PROMPT DAY: 8- Free Day

SUMMARY: A witch demands that Geralt attend a court dance in exchange for a rare ingredient. Geralt does not know how to dance. There is only one person who can help with this problem. 

WORD COUNT: 3164

MEDIA: Netflix

WARNINGS: none!

RATING: G

NOTES: I’ve been having a chaotic week but I wanted to get in at least one submission for @geraskierweek ! This was a fun one!

“You’re kidding.”

“Jaskier—“

“No, no wait. Don’t answer that, let me pretend for a few more minutes.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and puts his hands over them, as if doing so will trap whatever image he’s picturing. With a soft growl of warning, Geralt grabs his wrist, trying to pull it away, but Jaskier twists out of his grip. Geralt lets him, allowing a short tug of war, and smiles, broader while Jaskier can’t see him and tease him.

When he thinks he’s given Jaskier ample opportunity to put up a fight, he puts a fraction of his strength into pulling, easily removing Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier pouts dramatically, but the effect is ruined when he doesn’t quite manage to stifle a laugh at Geralt’s face.

“Oh ho, no. That’s one of your serious faces.”

“I don’t kid, Jaskier. You know that.”

“Mm,” Jaskier brings his hands up to frame Geralt’s face- his grimace, rather- and grins, “Is that why you look like you’re about to fight a den full of wyverns?”

“I’d prefer that, actually.”

“Of course you would.” Jaskier shakes his head and his eyes go skyward, praying for strength in the impossible task he’s about to undertake. “And they say I’m the dramatic one of our little duo.”

Geralt frowns- the sort of frown Jaskier identifies as just between annoyed and angry, undecided on whether it’s genuine or not. “I’m starting to regret coming to you for this.”

“Nonsense! For one, I don’t believe you know a single other person who can dance.”

“Yen—“

“The sort of dance appropriate for court, mind you.” Jaskier shudders, like the mere thought of the sorceress is too terrible to bear, though the gesture has lost much of its bite since he and Yennefer have become… used to each other. “Besides, I’m not just your only option, I’m your best.”

“Is that right? Did I miss your classical dancing certification in your list of achievements?”

“Probably. It’s such a long list, you can’t really be blamed for getting a little lost.” Jaskier throws an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and is delighted to find not only that the contact is allowed, but that the witcher follows him as he guides them out of the room. “Now, enough procrastinating. We have a lot of work to do before you’re ready to impress a mage with your footwork.”

Geralt groans, managing to sound more miserable than he had in his near death throes after a battle with an especially stubborn kikimora.

“Oh, hush. I’m an excellent teacher, you’ll be just fine in my capable hands.”

Somehow, Geralt doesn’t seem particularly reassured.

…

“Geralt, if you step on my foot there’s a high probability you’ll break my toes and then neither of us will be dancing.”

Geralt only growls in response, though he does pay more attention to his feet, concentrating completely on copying Jaskier’s movement without overstepping. These steps are unnatural and stilted, nothing like the fluidity of a fight. He has to think about every step, constantly detangling his jumbled memories of the footwork required for rigid royal dances.

“I don’t understand why there has to be so many damn steps- fuck!”

Geralt steps forward at the same Jaskier is meant to and he sees disaster as his boot hovers- either he’ll lose his balance, or Jaskier will get stepped on- but the bard, graceful as always, steps neatly out of the way. Dodging Geralt’s step necessitates a jump backwards, and Jaskier makes it look natural, like it was part of the dance all along. It’s hard to even look past Jaskier’s confidence long enough to scrutinize the steps.

Jaskier’s face doesn’t change from the calm focus he’s maintained throughout all the stumbling up to this point and he doesn’t pause in his dancing as he gently corrects Geralt’s stance, setting him back on course.

“You were supposed to move back, there. Remember? Forward, back—“

“I can’t do this.”

Geralt stops abruptly and Jaskier’s momentum carries him forward, bringing him crashing into Geralt’s chest. The witcher doesn’t move, solid as a stone wall, and Jaskier scowls up at him. It’s an uncharacteristic expression, surprisingly annoyed, with only bare traces of joking.

“You can. You’re just so concerned with being right that you don’t want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t want to be proven wrong and admit that you really are capable of dancing. Because if you are-“

Jaskier pushes forward, sending Geralt backward a step, then uses his hands on Geralt’s waist and shoulder to guide him into a sidestep. There’s not enough strength in it to truly force the movement, but the pressure triggers Geralt’s instincts and leaves him following the suggestions of Jaskier’s hands without knowing what he’s doing. Quickly, before Geralt’s stubborn muscles recover their senses, Jaskier does something complicated with his footing, stepping into Geralt’s space in a way that gives him no choice but to pivot.

Geralt blinks when they stop moving, surmising, from hindsight and Jaskier’s smug smirk, that they’ve managed the turn he’s been missing. Pulled it off quite nicely, actually.

“-then that means the bard was right.”

Jaskier eases his grip on Geralt’s shoulder and relaxes again, getting back into form as comfortably as he slips on his doublet in the morning. He speaks again, softer, “Let’s just try again, ok?”

Geralt frowns down at their feet but obediently shuffles back into place, lining up with Jaskier. He tries, best as he can, to relax his hands as well, releasing some of the tension that’s found a home there.

“We’ve already tried ten times. I’m not getting any better.”

It’s odd to hear Geralt almost…insecure. Sure, he’s masked it with a healthy amount of frustration, but Jaskier knows a vulnerability when he sees it. Geralt must too- with how accustomed he is to finding gaps in armor and old scars hiding weak spots- but he’s not accustomed to someone being there to help him with his vulnerabilities, to guard where his armor cannot reach.

“Think of it as a new monster to learn. Did you fell your first selkiemore in one slash?”

Geralt scoffs, too loud to overcompensate for the smile creeping onto his face. “I haven’t felled any selkiemores in one slash, it takes a few hacks at least—“

“Exactly. We just have to keep hacking at this until you get it down.” Point proven, Jaskier starts the dance up again, slow on the opening steps. “Would it be easier to remember the steps if I put them to song?”

At the lack of immediate response, Jaskier looks up to find Geralt’s standard frown, but no open refusal. In fact, there’s a sort of grudging acceptance written across the concentration in his furrowed brow. Jaskier takes that as explicit permission and starts composing.

…

“This one is worse.”

Geralt picks at the front of the jacket Jaskier has given him, working the embroidered silk between his fingers. It matches the pants, creating a sophisticated but modest silver-grey color palette.

It’s not worse in quality, not like the ill-fitting sad silk trader of Cintra, but it’s worse to look in a mirror and see something nice. Too nice, not like anything Geralt should be allowed to wear, a lie to cover the scars and distract from the fangs.

“You don’t mean that!” Jaskier looks hurt, genuine as if Geralt had insulted his singing. “Do you know how much extra the tailor charged for the ‘challenging proportions’? You’re a very difficult man to fit, and I had to find fabric that wasn’t too gaudy—“

“I was kidding. It’s nice, Jaskier.”

“Kidding,” Jaskier scoffs and lowers his voice into an imitation of Geralt’s, “I don’t kid, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks sideways at him, presumably to voice more complaints, but his face breaks into a grin at the sight of Geralt’s smirk.

“There. That’s the face you’ll need; just keep that up for the rest of the night.”

Reflexively, Geralt frowns at the prospect, but Jaskier catches his face before he can and uses his fingers to push it back into a smile. Jaskier is lucky is Geralt so focused on remaining calm tonight; any other day such antics would be too much.

As it is now, Geralt limits himself to batting away Jaskier’s hands, and the smile returns, without force.

Jaskier takes his hand and squeezes once, the gesture small but meaningful. It says I’ve got you and you’ve got this in no words at all, a different medium than Jaskier usually prefers to communicate with, though he’s just as skilled in silence.

Then, he lets go and tilts his head in the direction of the entrance, where others in formal dress are lining up. He’d never admit it, but Geralt’s stomach sinks in anticipation; he hasn’t felt so much dread since the striga.

“Let’s get this over with, yes? When we get back, I’ll pay for ale- the good stuff, I hear they serve Temarian in one of the local taverns.”

Jaskier and his layers of mindless conversation (the words form around them almost like an armor of normalcy that keeps Geralt from direction contact with the unknown) lead the way, as he marches confidently into the castle. It’s akin to having a guide in an unfamiliar town- though, Geralt has never had any sort of guide that could be called kind, like Jaskier.

With Jaskier as his buffer, Geralt is almost comfortable diving into the crowd of noisy, smelly strangers.

Strangers who quiet as they enter the room, all eyes suddenly on them.

Geralt is no stranger to stares, but he’s rarely had to face them like this: unarmed and unarmored, with no allies but a bard. Some animal- or witcher- instinct is insisting on flight, and a voice in his mind is telling him that a few stones to the back would hurt without any leather to deflect them.

Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely unphased. He even waves, cheerfully, to a few people he recognizes- likely from their bedrooms.

“Smile, Geralt,” Jaskier elbows him lightly, “You’re about to show these people something they have never and will never see again in their lives.”

“Terrible dancing?”

“No, they’ve probably seen themselves in a mirror,” Jaskier laughs at his own joke, the sort of laugh he reserves for parties like this where he needs to be heard and perform, in every sound he makes, “I meant a dancing witcher. That’s a first, and honestly I’m thrilled that I’ll be here to see history in the making.”

Geralt glances around at the clusters of fine silks and too many sparkles. There are, indeed, quite a few staring with open curiosity. They almost outnumber the disgusted sneers.

“This I have to see.”

“Who even let it in?”

“Haven’t you heard? The mage has some sort of business.”

Whispering around a witcher is never wise, but Geralt supposes not even monsters are exempt from the gossip of the courts. Really, it’s less nasty than he expected, though it makes sense that not many are willing to openly question the mage, one of the only things scarier than a witcher to any man with sense.

His attention flickers between conversations and jumps over various uninteresting characters. A few stand out with their glares directed at Jaskier, rather than Geralt, but no one more interesting than the woman that the crowds part for.

She’s dressed far more elaborately than everyone else, wearing a red dress that betrays sentimentality for a long lost time and hints at her true age hidden by the unchanging beauty of a mage. Nobody dares approach her with pleasantries or question her choice of starting spot on the dance floor. The man she’s hooked arms with, chosen as her first dancing partner, looks beyond dazed, almost too out of it to walk, let alone dance.

“That’s her, right?” Jaskier huffs something between a laugh and a sigh, “You’ll be here all night if she’s planning on starting over there.”

Geralt must look horrified at the idea because Jaskier is quick to placate, waving his hands. “But you’ll be fine, of course. Just like we practiced.”

“Only now I’ll have to do it with dozens of strangers.”

“Dozens of strangers who are too terrified of you to critique your dancing. Come on, let’s find partners before we wind up getting pushed off the floor.”

Jaskier must have some supernatural sense of these things because as soon as they approach the forming lines, the music takes a turn toward serious and people gravitate toward their first dancing partners. He pulls them in the direction of two unpartnered ladies, pushing Geralt into the more disoriented of the two. It takes her much longer than appreciated to take his offered hand.

With their position, Geralt can tell he’ll be dancing beside Jaskier for a while and that he’ll switch with him first. After that, he’ll be on his own in a spinning mass of dancers. The thought makes him dizzy before they even start moving.

The mage is starting in the opposite corner, purposefully far away from the witcher. It’ll take quite a few switches before he dances with her and can claim his reward.

“Sick sense of humor, that one. Though, that’s not particularly uncommon in sorceresses,” Jaskier snorts, “At least she’s not asking for your liver, or something.”

“That’s be easier. Less painful.”

“And it’d make it pretty hard to have an ale, I imagine.” Jaskier’s lady nudges him, unhappy with the amount of attention she’s getting. He turns, an apology on his lips, but stops halfway through, looking back once more at Geralt, “Relax, witcher. You’ll do great.”

Jaskier’s gaze leaving him feels like armor falling away, a blanket being ripped off, a safety net snipped. He’s alone, with no one to check his footwork and tell him he’s doing it right.

The music starts and he doesn’t have any more time to lament the traditions of court that keep him a few steps away from Jaskier, or his own poor decisions that landed them here in the first place.

It does turn out to be pretty similar to a den of monsters- if a den of monsters had more variety than the deadliest menagerie. Every partner seems to have a different rhythm and just as soon as he’s used to it, he’s moving onto the next. There’s spinning and switching and footwork that nearly gets away from him more than once.

Soon, he falls into a dead focus he usually reserves for life and death struggles, mind running too fast for him to think. He lets the muscle memory Jaskier helped him build- and, yes, the song he composed to help him remember the pattern of steps- to guide him almost mindlessly across the floor and into the waiting arms of the sorceress.

She smiles against him chest, closer than she’s supposed to be for a polite, formal dance. They rock back and forth, steps unfaltering.

“Very good show, witcher.” A hand leaves his waist and returns with a small, glittering vial produced from gods only know where. “It’s a shame it was over so soon, but here are the ingredients, as promised. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you at the next dance?”

At the look on Geralt’s face, she laughs and leans in, too close again. “Next time you run out, then?”

“Hm.”

Another thin laugh and she’s releasing him for the final bow. He hadn’t realized before, with the blood roaring in his ears, but the orchestra has been winding down and plays its final flourish now, welcomed by thunderous applause.

Geralt removes himself from the floor quicker than humanly possible, pausing only once to make sure his bard is following.  

…

“It wasn’t all bad,” at Geralt’s expression, Jaskier amends, “It could’ve been worse.”

“Sure,” Geralt sits down on the bed next to Jaskier, silently distributing the food he’d brought up, ”We could’ve been swarmed by vampires.”

“That would’ve been an interesting story.”

“Thought you’d be satisfied with the once in a lifetime opportunity of seeing a witcher dance?”

Jaskier hums, a sound he’s subconsciously adopted from Geralt. His is less a grunt and more a soft note, nearly musical, but it serves the same loosely affirmative purpose.

“Lucky for you, I can spin anything into an epic ballad.”

Geralt knows. He’s heard seven drafts of a song that seems to be entirely about his eyes.

“Lucky me.”

Jaskier ignores his comment, keeping his eyes on his notebook. There’re lyrics scribbled there, crossed out and written over in fresh ink, though Geralt has no idea when he’d found the time to start a song.

Lute in hand, Jaskier starts a… familiar tune. It’s a new song, definitely, and yet—

It reminds him of the steps of the dance. Back and forth, then switch, turn- the same tune Jaskier put the steps to, except the lyrics have been transformed from directions to the story of a dancing witcher.

The words themselves aren’t especially important, too filled with metaphor and embellishment to bother with, so Geralt’s attention sticks more closely to Jaskier’s face as he composes, nose scrunching slightly when he has to revise the lyrics while he sings. It’s a similar expression to his concentration as he worked with Geralt’s clumsy dancing.

“Did you know it’s incredibly hard to rhyme your name? For someone so favored by Destiny, she sure made you difficult to sing about.”

“Maybe she’s not a fan of music.”

“That would definitely explain a few things.”

Jaskier stands, crossing the room to the window, and looks back at Geralt, who follows before he can think of a reason why. Standing next to each other in dim moonlight, Jaskier studies Geralt’s face, searching for something Geralt couldn’t guess at.

“Nonetheless, I’m not as easily satisfied as the general masses.” Jaskier takes a step forward into Geralt’s space, testing the waters, and Geralt doesn’t move, watching curiously. “I won’t settle for just the song. I’ll be wanting another dance- for research purposes, of course. Can’t quite capture the imagery with just one showing.”

“Are you going to give me some wyvern heartstrings in exchange?”

“No, but if you don’t dance with me, then I’ll be demanding other forms of payment for the lessons.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but shifts a half step forward, moving from his usual stiff stance into something looser for dancing. “Dare I ask?”

“Best not to, honestly.” Jaskier lifts a hand, presenting it as he would at a dance. At court, it would be a formality, not really a question, but here it is an invitation with weight. “The longer you leave me hanging, the longer I have to think of a nastier favor to ask.”

Geralt hums, takes offered Jaskier’s offered hand, and puts a hand on his waist. Jaskier smiles up at him and takes the lead, as he did in their practice.

“Not a hard choice, then.”

“Not a hard choice at all, witcher.”

[sky-scribbles]

So… that Retribution update left me with a few emotions. And my Sidestep with some character development. Massive Retribution spoilers, nb!Sidestep, ~1100 words. 

‘Work with me,’ says Hollow Ground, and smiles.

They keep talking, but you don’t keep listening. There’s a bitter laugh echoing through your mind, drowning out their voice – because oh, this is familiar. So very familiar.

This is no invitation, it’s an order, and it’s spoken in the same tone people have always used to give orders to you. Confident, almost lazy, completely certain that they’ll be obeyed. Unit CCT-525, infiltrate this party, read this person’s mind. CCT-525, keep this crowd under control. 525, report for reconditioning. Unlearn your emotions, forget everything that makes you an individual.

525, understand that the Rangers never cared. Realise that you never belonged.

Do not ever try to be a person again.

The room is suddenly quiet. Hollow Ground has stopped talking, and they’re leaning back in their chair, limbs dangling loose over the sides. Calm. At ease. You dig your fingers into the sleeves of your suit jacket, because you need to remember that you are not in a Farm uniform. The cool voice that has just fallen silent is not your handler’s, even though Hollow Ground is wearing the same smile Regina always wore.The smile of someone who knows they own you, body and soul. Someone who knows you can’t say no.

But you caught that hungry little thread, teased it out of your mind.

You could say no.

You could say no, and then what? They would never let you leave here alive. Even if you survived – unarmed, unarmoured, against three of them – the full might of the underworld would rise against you. They know your face. They could find your name. You have enough enemies in the light already; you cannot afford to make more in the shadows.

But you could still say no.

‘So.’ Hollow Ground folds their arms, one pierced eyebrow quirking upwards. ‘What do you say?’

You have never said no before, not to anyone. Even running from the Farm wasn’t saying no, it was saying no comment. Running instead of planting your feet firm. Sidestepping instead of standing your ground.

Shit, even the name you chose was half a surrender. Wren. You always saw yourself in small birds – free, but always vulnerable. Never strong.

This person could destroy you. You can’t pull the truth into the open, can’t free your people, your siblings, if one reckless act of defiance gets you killed. Hollow Ground thinks you’re bound, so you should let them keep thinking that, work their system from the inside. You’re not strong enough to say no. Your armour is strong, your abilities are strong, but you? Never.

‘I’m waiting, Myriad.’

You could say no.

But why would you? Why do you want to? Because saying yes would betray Hood, a man you never met? Because it would betray Ortega, a man you’ve already betrayed in every possible way?

Ortega –

The memory flashes into your mind, crystallises: you curled up on his couch, him kneeling before you, your hands in his. A grin on his face as he asks you – asks if you’re willing to do more than just make out – and his grip is loose, easy to twist out of if you wanted to. Letting you say no.

But you said yes.

You trusted him. You trusted yourself with that choice, and with its consequences. Whatever they are – and oh, they’ll happen – you made a deal with yourself that you’d face them.

And then another memory: Herald. Daniel. Asking you to train him, so bright, so full of potential – and you, saying yes. And then Dr Mortum, asking you to retrieve her gun. Chen, never quite saying aloud but silently indicating, again and again, that he wanted the bickering to end. You said yes.

Now, you could say no.

You’ve spent your whole life following your training. Stay quiet, observe. Watch and respond, act only once the dice land. But Hollow Ground sits here thinking that you are theirs, and you are not, and you are not the Farm’s, and you could reach out and catch the die as it rolls. Choose the number it lands on. Cheat the system. Make your own luck.

You could do it. You could trust yourself to act. You’ve already been doing it, all those times you said yes to the people you love.

You could say it.

You could say –

‘No.’

Everything is very quiet. You register the adrenaline pumping through you, your body one long silent scream of protest at what your lips just did. Hollow Ground is staring. Jake stands frozen. Nocturne’s eyes are wide. And you –

You, sitting there with no armour except your suit, no weapon except your mind… you have silenced all three of them with a single word. With your defiance. With potential you never quite realised you owned. There’s shock and confusion in Hollow Ground’s eyes, those eyes that so resemble your own – and a spark of realisation. The same realisation that’s hitting you.

You are dangerous. Not Myriad, you. Five-foot-nothing, husky-voiced little Wren Serrano.

And Hollow Ground’s mind is open, unsuspecting, and you breathe in deep and dive in with all the strength you have, because they will let you go, and as you slip through their shields and tear into their memories there’s a roar sounding in your mind. Like you’re standing firm at last, screaming at Hollow Ground and at the Farm and at this world that’s tried so hard to chain you and break you and take away your wings - I said, no!

Everything happens very fast after that, and the memories you see are sharp and deep and dangerous. But when you resurface, Hollow Ground is pale and shaking in their seat before you. And you’re still standing.

Is it arrogance, that you feel oddly powerful, underneath the adrenaline? You don’t think it is. It’s not pride in your strength, it’s trust in your strength. And in your conviction, too, because Hollow Ground is part of this city’s corruption as much as the Farm, and maybe one day you will drag them into the light along with all the rest.

For now, you walk away. Intact. You said no, and you survived it, and you will live with the consequences.

Once you’re home, you splash water over your face and look for a long time at your reflection. At the wide-eyed little Re-Gene who stares back at you, silently accusing you of recklessness and madness. Telling you that you’re an idiot to trust your own judgement, to act without knowing the consequences. That you’re not strong, or bold, or clever, that you’re fumbling with things you don’t understand, you’ve just signed your own death warrant, you’ve failed your people –

You breathe in. Look yourself in the eyes, like you did with Hollow Ground.

‘No,’ you say.

(Later, once you’re huddled under a blanket with a mug of coffee that you very desperately need, you remember an old legend you read, back when you were choosing your name. A folk tale, where the wren hid on the back of the eagle, and so – despite its quietness, despite its weakness – flew higher and farther than any other bird.)

[detective-with-one-arm]

So, I ended up writing some more Rachel meta/analysis, but it’s a bit heavier than some of the other ones I’ve done, so just a warning. Discussions of police brutality and systemic racism are just underneath and this is an analysis of Rachel and her mindset as a character and what her goal is and her actual relationship with the precinct. So if you don’t wanna read any of that, no shame in not doing it. I won’t take it personally.

tl;dr: I accidentally wrote an essay because I have ADHD and I cannot stop myself from writing so many walls of text and I am so sorry.

While Rachel has lost respect for Captain Fowler after the revolution and doesn’t think that Chris should be allowed to be back in the field (she somewhat thinks the same about Connor, but her thoughts on that are a lot more complicated, but I digress), it’s not personal. It’s not even because she thinks that Chris is a horrible person, now.

Hell, even though she and Gavin don’t like each other at all, Rachel’s at least willing to hear him out and give her own two cents in the hopes that she’ll get him to be more open to things. She knows that people aren’t just “racist” for no reason. She knows the reasons! It’s easier to blame a minority you don’t understand for an unjust circumstance you’re in than acknowledge that the system that seems so much larger than you and so untouchable is the reason for your poor circumstances.

Hell, Jewish people still got blamed for economic inequality caused by unregulated capitalism long after WWII. Classic antisemitism never went away. 

Although, there are definitely people that no matter how hard you try, you just...cannot teach them basic fucking compassion because they refuse to learn, and she has no patience for those types of people.

But it’s not a whole “well, now you’re just a shitty person forever” sort of deal. It’s never personal with her. She thinks a lot about the big picture and about everyone it affects. It’s not even about “is killing people justified?” In her mind, most of the time it isn’t, but that isn’t even the point.

The point is that they are working in an institution that is sanctioned by the state. Their position gives them physical and legal power over the average citizen, more so than any other emergency service. But the fact that cops who murder innocent civilians are insulated from consequences almost every single time it happens doesn’t cast the system in a good light for good reason.

It’s not about the morality. It’s about the power imbalance. Regardless of if they make amends, regardless of if they learn their lesson and become better people, regardless of if deep down they’re a good person/bad person, none of that matters when there’s a power imbalance at play.

It’s not about individual people or precincts. It’s about the system as a whole and how much is fair to ask the citizens to put their trust in an officer who has taken a life during active duty. Regardless of if that officer has learned from that choice and become a better person, they cannot take that back. That is not something that they can walk back on. They’ve crossed a threshold that they can’t step back over.

They can’t undo that choice that they’ve made. They can’t bring someone back from the dead.

So is it fair to ask the average citizen to trust an officer who has taken a life and was insulated from the consequences of that choice to protect them and their rights? Is it fair to put an average unarmed citizen in that position? Is it fair to act as though that officer is entitled to forgiveness because “they got better?” Even if that’s true, is it really fair to ask that community that they’ve taken lives away from to forgive that officer for that decision? You can move forward and become a better person and make a better life without being forgiven for the things that you’ve done. That’s just life.

And even more to the point, is it really fair to put that officer in that sort of position of power again? Is it fair to put them in a position where they’d have to relive that choice again? Is it really fair to potentially put them in a position where they could make that choice again, and this time find it easier to do so and then justify that choice? Because once you take a life, it changes you. It changes you in a way mentally and physically that you can’t undo. Once you take a life, the next time you’re asked to do it again, it’s easier to do. And it’s easier to justify doing. And there is proof of this that has been studied by psychologists.

Rachel’s goal isn’t to hurt people. It’s to protect people. But that also includes her fellow officers. However, she doesn’t want to protect them from the consequences of their actions like the system does. She wants to protect them from the unjust system that hurts them as well. The system that rewards the heinous actions of the police and punishes the few good cops that try to make the system better. The system that punishes whistleblowers and shames and even fires good cops for actively refusing to uphold the unjust system that they’re a part of. The system that has been built from the ground up as a slave patrol to target minorities and engage in state sanctioned genocide and violence against its own people.

She wants to bring the system down and build a new one in its place that’s built by the community. Not by the state. And she wants it built on the foundations of ideals that are actually worth upholding. Ideals that have those that are the most vulnerable and the most targeted in mind that benefits the community as a whole. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever get there. She doesn’t even know if she’ll be alive to see it happen.

But that doesn’t matter. All she has to do is get to the top and make her intentions loud and clear to all of Detroit and the whole of the United States of America. Once she gets there, live or die, no matter what happens to her, the butterfly affect will carry the rest of her mission for her. If it happens in Detroit, other cities will follow suit, and large scale changes will take place.

So long as there’s a catalyst, all the dominoes will fall into place.

Either she lives to change things for the better and work with the community to create a better system to replace the current unjust one, or she dies and there’s a public outcry that will carry until the system is dismantled. At least, that’s what she hopes will happen if she gets taken out.

Either way, her life will have finally meant something...