#you can't narrow down the results for a specific ship?

[tamelee]

i gotta say that wattpad sns fics kinda hit different

i might be biased because i read my first sns fics on wattpad but they lowkey kinda just capture my attention plus the reader comments on random sentences lmao

where do you think is the best place to read sns ff?

Hi @mxhirus ! Oh I have a confession to make... I've never read SNS fics outside of ao3. It's definitely ao3 for me, but that may be biased from me as well>< I got scolded by my friend because my opinion on y/n fics isn't great, so she sent me a few from Tokyorev to read on Wattpad. Well, my opinion didn't change after reading them. I have thoughts on this... But I'll digress... Reading on Wattpad is annoying, I don't like it. Do you pay for it? These advertisements in between are obnoxious. If you don't 'save' the story then forget finding it again because it's literally gone when the stupid app logs you out every time for no reason. Sometimes it doesn't swipe correctly and it sends you a chapter back, but before you can correct that mistake, you first have to sit through a bunch of advertisements again omg. (Unless you of course pay which is a question that pops up every chapter too -.-) And they're loooooong as well D: Or ugh, those banners that literally cover the text, hello??? None of this is an issue on ao3. The little side-comments... I guess it's nice to read in between? I'm not sure if I'd feel the same as a writer though. There was one fic where the writer made a decision and there were a bunch of comments saying how they were going to quit reading and bashing them. It's a bit of a double-edged sword I think.

[funkyplantguy]

grian gets saved by hotguy and then pines over him <3

so this "au" (if you can even call it that when it exists exclusively in my brain and now in this ask) is mostly crack and comes from me joking around a couple days ago with some friends so...don't take it too seriously. that being said...

-

you have (3) new comments! view now?

click.

areeongreenday: hey! so this is insane.

click.

h0tguysnumber0n3fan: i guess i kind of understand where you're coming from with this - scar goodman and hotguy do share a similar sense of humor, and i sort of see what you're saying at 47:03 when you compared their voices (more specifically, the inflection they use on specific words) but...i guess i'm having a hard time imagining scar as a superhero. don't get me wrong - he's plenty cool, but...didn't he say that he's a full-time content creator now? i don't know that he'd really have the time to record, edit, and post videos on top of saving the city on a near-daily basis. interesting theory, though! admire the dedication.

click.

scargoodman: ;)

and there it was, taunting him - that damn winky face, yet again, commented nearly instantaneously each time grian uploaded a new video about the man itself. scar goodman - known to many as the man who had risen to sudden fame in the video essayist community with his charming good looks and boisterous personality. scar goodman, whom grian suspected was secretly none other than the city's beloved superhero. after all, they'd both made their debuts within a week of each other and shared not only a similar path of success but a similar sense of humor, a similar speaking style, a similar body type, a similar laugh...sure, there were things that didn't quite line up, but...for the most part, they appeared to be the exact same person.

okay - maybe grian was a little obsessed. but what was he supposed to do, not point out the obvious?

what made matters worse was that nobody seemed to believe him. no matter how many videos he posted, no matter how much proof he gave...nobody was willing to hear him out.

nobody except scar goodman himself, who seemed intent to drive him absolutely insane.

grian grumbled something to himself, pocketing his phone and continuing down the long, narrow sidewalk to his apartment complex. he'd lost track of time at work yet again, and as a result, the sun had long set. this wasn't unusual for him - he often opted to remain late in the office to "finish up a few things" (ie take advantage of the functional wifi his workplace offered instead of trying to upload videos on his crummy home network), so he was...fairly comfortable tracing the path back to his apartment in the dark of night. the street lights in this part of town didn't work exceptionally well, but with the familiarity of it all and the dull light of the moon, grian typically fared well enough.

tonight, however...well, call him paranoid, but...something felt...off. something about the way all the buildings around him were dark, indicating that their inhabitants were either asleep or out (and entirely unreachable if grian were to call for help). something about the absence of the various stray cats that he often crossed paths with. something about how the complete and utter silence made his ears ring.

"aw, what's this? a cute guy? well, pretty boy, you've just entered the wrong part of town at the wrong time. unfortunately, loose lips sink ships, or...uh...however the saying goes, so...sorry, i can't let you leave this visit alive."

before grian could even register the words being spoken (where were they even coming from?? above him? below him? behind him? everywhere, all at once?), he felt hands gripping the back of his shirt. in another moment, he was on the ground, his breath clawing its way out of his chest. above him stood a figure, shrouded in darkness and the billowing, starry cape draped across their shoulders. in their hands was something glinting, something sharp, something deadly -- something that grian's frazzled, spinning mind was unable to put a name to. or maybe it refused to - refused to name the tool that would be his doom. maybe it was better that way, he mused idly, as the figure raised it high above their head. maybe it was best to not know.

"hey! there you are - what did i say about running off?"

and just as quickly as he'd accepted his death, the threat of it was gone, vanquished by the appearance of the tall, costumed man on the rooftop adjacent. grian felt his breath return to his chest in one fell swoop, filling his lungs and sending a wave of sensitivity to his throat. he coughed, hard, tears welling helplessly in his eyes, and the newcomer's attention snapped to him in an instant.

"oh - and you've made a friend! how nice. unfortunately, there are no plus ones in prison."

"hotguy," grian's would-be murderer snarled. "i thought i'd lost you."

"nah. i may have gotten lost, sure. but you didn't lose me. there's a difference."

"you'll wish that i'd lost you when i'm through with you."

"oh, that was lame!" the man cried, hopping over the low rooftop wall and landing neatly on the ground below (how he did it, even grian wasn't sure. by all intents and purposes, his legs shouldn't have that level of shock absorption, even if he had been fed some chemical cocktail by a mad scientist at a young age as he boasted). "listen - we've got to get you a better catchphrase."

hotguy strode forward, his eyes glinting behind his tinted visor. he glanced to grian out of the corner of his eye, then back to the villain - then back to grian again, his mouth going slack in surprise. grian met his gaze - took in his appearance - and let out a bark of laughter, one not missed by either scar goodman or the cloaked figure in front of him. scar returned his laughter, throwing his head back and planting his hands firmly on his hips.

"well, what a coincidence," he giggled, after a moment. "my new catchphrase just so happens to be "subscribe to my youtube channel."

"what?" their third demanded, glancing between the two. "what are you talking about?"

"oh my god. there's no way. there's no way. how - how am i the only one who knows? how am i the only one who suspects?? it's obvious - it's so obvious."

"what's obvious?"

"i know, right? i make it as obvious as possible, and still...still, nobody puts two and two together. well...nobody except for you, apparently. i guess that you're just...special."

"why don't you just come out and say it?" grian mused, propping himself up on his elbows and ignoring the sputtering from their newly acquired third wheel. "i feel like if you said it - either as scar goodman or hotguy - people would have to believe it, no?"

a strange look came over hotguy's face, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

"ah...i don't think that would change anything. plus, i have this thing with this cute guy where he tries to tell everyone my identity and i egg him on to get him to make more silly videos. i would hate to give that up."

he winked, and grian felt warmth climb his cheeks. gone was the fear, gone was the panic, gone was the darkness and the creeping, crawling sense of unease - instead, there was only curiosity, burning brightly in his chest. he wanted to talk to scar - hotguy - for hours, wanted to pull the object of his obsession apart to see what made him tick, then put him back together again, just to see what would happen. he wanted to get to know who hotguy was underneath the suit - and who scar goodman was with the suit. he'd wanted (he'd wanted for so long) and it felt like maybe...just maybe...he'd get to have.

"hey! what the hell is going on?"

"oh, right," hotguy chuckled, turning his attention to the third member of their party. "sorry - didn't mean to ignore you. here - sit tight, for real this time. the police will be here soon."

"dude, i'm just going to leave again. do you really not have handcuffs or something?"

"who needs handcuffs when you have a cub to design fancy gadgets for you?"

"a...a what?" the figure asked, then yelped, startled, as something exploded out of the cuff on hotguy's wrist. a net, affixing itself neatly to their body, wrapping them up in a cocoon of their own folly. grian stared at it, humming in approval.

"nice."

"thank you! it's new."

"i know."

"i bet you do," scar responded, and grian flushed further at the teasing edge his tone took on. "i bet you know almost everything about me, at this point. obsessed, much?"

"i could say the same," grian huffed back, pulling himself to his feet and brushing off his jeans (there was a rip in one leg, now, he noticed with a frown). "you recognized me, like, immediately. it's pretty dark out, too - sounds like you're the one obsessed."

"what can i say - you're pretty and smart. i happen to like my men pretty and smart."

grian sputtered incoherently in response, all confidence gone out the window. oh god - he was even more charismatic in person, even in costume. and god, was the costume more attractive in person, as well - baggy cargo pants and a tight, fitted top that exposed his tanned midriff. not the most tactical, sure - but damn was it hot.

"you can't say that," he moaned, covering his reddened cheeks with his hands. "oh my god. i hate you. i've known you for five minutes and i already hate you."

"sure you do," scar responded, grinning. "i - oh, hold on."

he raised his hand and tapped the earpiece affixed to the side of his head, concentrating. after a moment, he sighed - and for just a second, grian thought that his shoulders drooped in exhaustion. as quickly as they sagged, however, scar was straightening, turning back to grian with an easy smile.

"sorry, handsome, duty calls. are you alright to get back home on your own? i doubt this guy will be giving you any more trouble. those nets are pretty sturdy."

"wait!" grian sputtered, his heart hammering painfully in his chest (no, no, he couldn't let scar slip through his fingers, not now, not when he was finally so close). "don't go - i...can i see you again?"

scar's smile wobbled around the edges, and any panic grian felt was replaced with guilty - heavy and suffocating (though he wasn't sure why)

"ah...isn't it more fun, this way? don't you like the chase? isn't that exhilaration enough for your pretty little head?"

"i mean...it's a fun hobby, yeah, but -,"

"then we'll stick to the status quo. after all, i'd hate to rob you of your favorite hobby. goodnight, grian. can't wait for your next video."

and with a wink, he was gone, disappearing back into the shadows so quickly grian could have sworn he was made of them. and grian...well. he had an apartment to get home to, a cat to feed...and a chase to continue. and maybe, someday, if he was fast enough...he'd catch up.

[guess-that-ship]

Potential Reasons Why Submissions Are Rejected

Do you wonder why your ship was rejected? Well, here's some potential reasons why:

(all examples provided are written by me and are not intended to be a ship from any existing media)

1. The summary described the story, not the relationship

This is perhaps the most common reason why I reject a ship. This is ultimately subjective, but I should be able to get a clear picture of their relationship just from one summary. Just describing the story does not do that.

Example: "A is the newly-appointed ruler of his kingdom, and B is his childhood friend. After a prophesied calamity threatens to wipe out humanity, they go on a journey fighting monsters, meeting new people, and grow to become better people overall. They fall in love, and the story ends with them kissing."

Cool story, but what about their relationship? This doesn't tell me anything about it.

2. The summary was too specific

I feel like some submissions just give too many details that can give a ship away immediately. This doesn't stop every ship from being recognized immediately--I can't know every single piece of media--but I think it helps stops the majority.

Example: "These two characters are aliens who are also pirates. They are rivals, but in one battle on the moon, A severely injures B, resulting in her falling into a coma. A feels bad, and everyone agrees she went too far. A ends up going on a journey to revive B, and it ends with A confessing her feelings to B. B reciprocates, and they decide to end their rivalry and be together forever."

The mere mention of alien pirates would narrow it down a lot. The battle on the moon narrows it down even further. This probably would be acceptable if you removed some of the more defining details.

3. The summary was too vague/not unique

The opposite of #2, summaries like these just feel like they've been done a million times before. Try your best to make your submission stand out!

Example: "A falls in love with their best friend, B. After much deliberation, they confesses to them, but B does not reciprocate, leaving them heartbroken."

This could describe a multitude of ships. Maybe if you mentioned how they met or what happened after A confessed, this would be an acceptable submission.

Striking a balance between vague and specific can be tricky, so I encourage you to just write it and see what happens.

4. I was unsure if I needed to tag it

This reason isn't too common, but sometimes there's just submissions I feel like need to be tagged, but the submitter did not provide any and I could not think of any tags to be added. Please try to include any tags you may think is necessary!

5. I recognized the ship submitted

This has only happened twice so far in my time running the blog, but I feel like it's still worth mentioning. I'm actually surprised it's only happened twice--some fandoms I'm in are definitely big enough that at least one ship has a reasonable chance to be submitted. But there's millions of ships out there, so maybe it isn't that surprising.

I think in both cases they would've been good if it was modified to remove identifying details. However, both cases would give away the ship when combined with the submission name, and I try to avoid modifying the name.

So, sometimes it just comes down to luck.

Well, I hope this helps, and happy submitting! Remember, it's okay if your ship doesn't get in. You can always try again next time--there's a ton of amazing ships submitted every season, but there's a limited number of spots on the bracket, so I cannot accept them all.

[rjalker]

here's what I have transcribed of The Copper-Clad World by Harl Vincent, from September 1931 so far.

still can't tell if the spaceship is named the RXS or the RX8.

It's got ableism and racism so far, but has a cool premise. Not sure if there's a specific term for when you build a shell around...something that's not a whole solar system.

stuff in brackets will be removed from the final version.

this is public domain, so you can do literally anything you want with it. Please rewrite it to not be bigoted.

the original, blurry PDF can be found here.

this story is not complete yet. I have no idea how much longer it is lol.

Edit: Added more of it so far. I know tumblr would love this evil alien cat lady queen if this were a modern thing.

The Copper-Clad World, by Harl Vincent

Chapter 1: Into the Unknown

Adrift in space! Blaine Carson worked frantically at the controls, his jaw set in grim lines and his eyes narrowed to anxious slits as he peered into the diamond-studded ebon of the heavens. A million miles astern he knew the red disk of the planet Mars was receding rapidly into the blackness. And the RXS[?] was streaking into the outer void at a terrific pace – out of control.

Something had warned him when they left Earth; the Martian cargo of k-metal was of enormous value and a direct invitation to piracy. Of course there was the attempt at secrecy and the shippers had sent along those guards. His engineer, Tom Farley, was thoroughly reliable, too. But this failure of the control rocket-tubes, missing their destination as a result – there was something queer about it.

“Tommy,” he called into the mike.[comma?] “Find anything yet?”

“We-e-ll, something,” the audiophone drawled after a moment: “I’m coming up.”

“What is it, Tom?” he asked when the engineer’s round face appeared at the head of the engine room companionway.

Farley dropped his voice and his customary smile was gone. “I found the stern rocket-tube ignition jammed so it’s firing continuously,[?]” he said,“and the others are all dead: won’t fire at all. That’s why she doesn’t swing to the controls?” [why is there a questionmark]

:Can’t you fix it? Lord, man, we’re headed out into the bent of planetoids. We’ll be wrecked.”

“Nothing I can do, Blaine, without shutting down the atomic engines. Then we’d freeze to death and run out of oxygen. These ships ought to have a spare engine just to take care of heating and air conditioning. I’ve always said so.”

“What happened to the ignition system?”

Tom Farley looked over his shoulder apprehensively. “Dirty work, Blaine,” he whispered. “I’m sure of it. Tool marks on the breech of the stern tube. And there’s one of those guards I don’t like the look of.”

“Nonsense. The k-metal people know their men; they picked these three especially for the job.”

“Who else could do it? There’s only the five of us on board.”

There might be something in what Tommy said, at that. A thing like this couldn’t just happen by itself. And, come to think of it, one of those guards was a queer looking bird: dwarfed and hunch[?]-backed, sort of, and with long dangling arms. It would be better to investigate.

“Get ‘em up here, Tommy,” Blaine said.

The RX8[?] drove on and on through the uncharted wastes outside the orbit of Mars. None of the space ships of the inner planets ever ventured out this far, and Blaine knew there was grave danger of colliding with some of the small bodies with which the zone was infested. If one of those guards was the traitor he was risking his own neck as well as theirs.

Two of them entered the control room with Tom Farley, big, husky fellows of solid countenance and armed with regulation flame-ray pistols and gas grenades.

“Where’s the other, the dwarf?” Blaine asked, his suspicions mounting immediately.

“In his bunk,” Tom replied with a meaning look. “He said he’d be up in a few minutes.”

The pilot-commander addressed the guards. “Fellows,” he said, “I suppose you know we’re in a serious fix. The ship is out of control and we’ve missed Mars, where your metal was to be delivered. We’re speeding out into the unknown, out past the limits of space-travel toward the orbits of Jupiter Saturn, Uranus – God knows where. And my engineer thinks that one of our number has tampered with the machinery. Know anything about it?” Blaine eyed them keenly.

One of the guards, Mahoney, flushed hotly. “No, sir,” he snapped. “At least Kelly and meself had nothin’ to do with it. But we’ve been suspicionin’ that little Antazzo ever since we came out. It’s a peculiar way he has about him, the divil.”

“You think he -- “

An incisive voice from the doorway interrupted, “Never mind what he thinks, Carson. I’ll do the thinking from now on.”

As one man they turned to face the speaker. It was the guard, Antazzo, and he was clothed from neck to ankles in a garment of bright metallic stuff that shimmered with shifting colors like those of a soap bubble. A mask of similar stuff covered his face, and in each hand there was a weapon resembling a ray pistol but of strangely unfamiliar design.

Mahoney shot from the hip and his stabbing ray splashed full on the hunchback’s chest – but harmlessly. That lustrous garment was an insulating armor; the traitorous guard should have been shriveled to a cinder at the contact. Antazzo laughed evilly as his own weapons loosed strange and terrible energies.

Tom Farley ducked, and Blaine watched in horrified amazement as the crackling streamers of blue radiance from the dwarf’s pistols found their marks. Mahoney and Kelly, standing there, bathed for a brief instant in horrid blue fire; tottering, swaying, their mouths opened wide in a last agonized effort to cry out. Tiny pinpoints of brilliant pyrotechnics flashing and exploding within the columns of blue fire. Then, nothing! Where the two husky guards had stood there was utter emptiness; not even a shred of clothing remained. The air in the control room became heavy and acrid.

“Antazzo!” White-faced and shaking, Blaine cried out in futile protest, “My God, man, what have you done? What does this mean?”

And then, in a blaze of rage, he was on his feet. Murder was in his heart as he set himself for a crashing charge that would sweep the beast from his feet. His own flame-pistol was missing; it was a case of killing this monster with his bare hands. Tom was circling, over there, cursing horribly. One of them would get him. Strangely, Antazzo had lowered the muzzles of his pistols.

A terrific punch, started from the floor, never reached its mark. Blaine saw a tiny puff of pinkish vapor that spurted from the bosom of that metallic garment. He was coughing and gasping; helpless. Muscles refused to do his bidding. With a moan he dropped into the pilot’s seat, knowing that Antazzo’s will compelled him. That gas had hypnotic powers. Mechanically, his fingers strayed to the controls.

And Tom – Good old Tommy – he was under the influence of the stuff too, creeping there on hands and knees toward the engine room companionway.

Antazzo was talking. “We come now to the matter of instructions,” he said. “You, Farley, will assist me in restoring the ignition system to normal. You, Carson, will keep to the controls and will lay a course to Jupiter as soon as the control rocket-tubes will respond. Understand?”

Tom growled reluctant assent from where he was crawling.

Strange, this hypnotic gas! Blaine mind functioned clearly enough, yet he was utterly at the mercy of this madman’s will – a robot of flesh and blood. “Jupiter!” he exclaimed. “Why man, it’s nearly a half billion miles from the sun. Not habitable, either.”

Antazzo had removed his mask and now smiled a superior smile. “We’ll reach it,” he said: “the RX[8?S?] is very fast. And it’s not the planet itself we’re found for, but its second satellite. Io, your astronomers call this body, and it’s a world sadly in need of this marvelous k-metal.”

“But – but --”

“Enough!” The hunchback snarled his rebuke in Blaine’s face and turned to Tom. “Come, Farley,” he said, as if talking to a child, “we must get to work.”

In a daze of conflicting emotions, Blaine turned to gaze through the forward port when the two had left the control room. The RX[8S?] was accelerating rapidly under the steady discharge of gases from the stern rocket-tube and had already reached the speed of one thousand miles a second. If one of those tiny asteroids, even one no larger than a marble, should meet up with them it would crash through the hull plates as if they were paper. His heart went cold at the thought.

Oddly enough, he found himself wanting to make this trip with the demonic Antazzo. It was the effects of the pink gas. Even with the misshapen guard down there in the engine room the power of his will was effective. The devil must be an Ionian, he thought. But how in the name of the sky-lane imps had he reached Earth? How had he wormed his way into the confidence of the k-metal people? He must have been there several years, working to this very end.

There was a tinkling crash on the starboard side amidships; a screaming swish as something slithered along the side and caromed off into the void. One of those little planetoids. Probably no bigger than a pea, and luckily they had struck it glancingly. He wiped the sudden perspiration from his forehead.

Pressure on the directive rocket controls brought no response. Would they never finish with that ignition system?

A gleaming light-fleck segregated itself from the mass of stars ahead. At first he thought he imagined it, but a second examination, this time through the telescope, convinced him it was growing larger. Drawing nearer, it was, and resolving itself into a well defined orb that was directly in their path. Fifteen hundred miles a second, the indicator read now! They’d never know what happened when they struck.

There was no reply for a moment, and the blue-white globe drove madly toward them. He consulted the chart. Pallas – an asteroid some three hundred miles in diameter. Not very big as celestial bodies go, but big enough!

“Just one minute now.” It was Tommy’s voice coming drearily, unnaturally through the audiophone. A minute! Ninety thousand miles! It seemed the asteroid was that close already.

Antazzo was in the control room then, and the effect of his mental dominance became more pronounced. Suddenly the dwarf let out a shriek of terror when he looked through the port and saw the brilliant body that now loomed so close. Blaine experienced as savage joy in the knowledge that the hunchback was mortally afraid.

“Latza! Latza!” In his fear Antazzo slipped into his own tongue. Then, remembering, he shouted, “We’re ready, Carson. Swing wide!”

The directive rockets answered to their controls now. Quick pressure on this, a swift pull on that, swinging the energy value to maximum, brought results. The little vessel groaned and shivered under the strain as a full blast from the forward tubes retarded them. Her hull plates twisted and screeched as the steering tubes belched full energy in swinging them from their course. They were thrown forward violently, though the deceleration compensators were working to the utmost.

Pallas swung around in their field of vision, and there was a fleeting glimpse of sun-lit spires of mountains, shadowed valleys, and mysterious crevasses from which clouds of steam and yellow vapor curled. Still it seemed they must crash against one of those slender pinnacles. Nearer it came like a flash; a dizzying blur, now, that drove directly in their straining faces.

And then, abruptly, it was gone. Already thousands of miles astern, the danger was past. Miraculously, they had escaped.

Antazzo laughed; a hollow mirthless cackle. His fingers shook crazily when he untwisted them from their grip on the port rail.

“Good work, my friend. Very good, indeed,” he jabbered, his chin quivering in nervous reaction. “And now we carry on – on to Io.”

Blaine Carson, almost wishing they had collided with the spire, set himself grimly to the task. He was powerless to refuse.

Chapter 2: The Second Satellite

When, eventually, they swung into the orbit of Jupiter and headed in toward the enormous red-belted body, the two Earth men were heartily disgusted with the voyage and with themselves. Repeated doses of the pink gas – the ignominy of their utter subservience to the will of Antazzo – had worn them down no less than had the hard work and loss of sleep. Both were in vile humor. They endured the triumphant chatter of their captor in bitter silence.

“Over there, my friends,” he said, pointing; “see? It is our destination. The golden crescent, Io, is something over a quarter million of your miles from the mother planet. See it? It is home, my friends, home to me and for yourselves in the future – if the Zara spares your lives. Lay your course to the body, Carson.”

Blaine growled as he sighted through the telescope. Yet, in spite of his fury, he could not overcome the feeling of excitement that came to him when the powerful glass brought the satellite near. This body was like nothing else in the heavens. Antazzo had called it the golden crescent. Rather, it was of gleaming coppery hue, and now, as they swung around, it was fully illuminated – a brilliant sphere of unbroken contour. Smoothly globular, there was not one projection or indentation to indicate the existence of land or sea, mountain or valley, on its surface. It was like a ball of solid copper, scintillant there in the weak sunlight and the reflected light from its great mother planet.

Antazzo laughed over his absorption. “Looks peculiar to you, does it not?” he asked; “rather different from any of the bodies you have visited, you are thinking.”

Blaine grunted wordless assent. The globe that was Io rushed in to meet them, growing ever larger in the field of the telescope. Now it appeared that there were tiny seams in the smooth surface, a regular criss-cross pattern of fine lines that looked like – Lord, yes, that was it! The body was constructed from an infinite number of copper plates, riveted or brazed together to form a perfect sphere.

“Why, the thing’s made of copper!” Blaine gasped. “Copper plates. It’s a man-made world; artificial. But where are the inhabitants?”

Antazzo laughed uproariously. “Not man-made, my friend,” he corrected, “but preserved by man for his own salvation. A dying world, it was, and the cleverest scientists in the universe saved it and themselves from certain death. What you see is merely a shell of copper, the covering they constructed to retain an atmosphere and make continuation of life possible – inside.”

“Your people live inside that shell?” Blaine was incredulous.

“What else? We must have air to breathe and warmth for our bodies. How else could we have retained it?”

It was staggering, this revelation. The young pilot could not conceive of a completely enclosed world with inhabitants forever shut off from the light of the sun by day and from the beauties of the heavens by night. Yet here it was, drawing ever nearer, a colossal monument to the ingenuity and handiwork of a highly intelligent civilization who had labored probably for centuries to preserve their kind. A titanic task! Who could imagine a sphere of metal more than twenty-four hundred miles in diameter enclosing a world and its peoples? A copper-clad world!

They were coming in close now, and the gravitational pull of the body made itself felt. Blaine was busy with the controls, sending tremendous blasts from the forward rocket-tubes to retard their speed for a safe landing. The incredibly smooth copper surface was just beneath them, stretching miles away to the horizon in all directions.

The inductor compass was functioning. Evidently Io possessed as strong a magnetic field as did the inner planets. Antazzo now consulted a chart which he drew from his pocket, and examined minutely the surface over which they were speeding. Here and there curious designs were etched on the copper plates, and it was from these he determined their course. Obviously there was an entrance to this sealed-in world.

When they had proceeded some two thousand miles in a northeasterly direction Antazzo gave the order to reduce speed. Off at the horizon there appeared a bulge in the copper surface, a round protuberance that resolved itself into a great dome-shaped structure as they drew nearer. A full two hundred feet it reared itself into the heavens, and Blaine saw a number of large circular hatches in its side that evidently covered air-locked entrances.

“You will land close by the dome, Carson,” Antazzo barked, “and both of you will get into your moon-suits.”

At his tone, Blaine saw red. He realized on the instant that the effect of the pink gas had worn off and that he was his own master once more. All the pent-up emotions of the past few days were unleashed. If only he could get in one good punch. They might get away yet. There was plenty of k-metal to replenish the fuel supply. He whirled suddenly, muscles tensed. He faced the grinning hunchback – and was greeted by a breathtaking spurt of the pink gas. This time it was not merely a subjecting of his own will to that of the master but a complete hypnotism, a somnambulistic state. As in a dream he turned to the controls.

Now it came to him that the dwarf no longer spoke. He worked his will entirely without words; his evil mind possessed fully the mind of his victim. For Blaine Carson there was no further independent thinking. He was an automaton, a sleep-walker.

Like a detached and more or less disinterested observer, he saw that he had landed the ship. Then he noticed three dwarfs in bulky, helmeted moon-suits, shuffling clumsily across the copper plates. Hazily he knew he was with the others in an airlock; the hiss and the throbbing of pumps told him that. Under the great dome there was the latticework of a huge reflecting telescope; strange pigmy figures scuttled here and there, working at curious machines. There was the constant purr of many motors, the gentle pulsation of floorplates beneath his feet.

With the moon-suit removed, he realized the atmosphere was fetid and stifling. A great pressure bore on his lungs, making breathing labored and difficult. And then they were in a lift that dropped into the depths of its shaft with dizzying speed. Antazzo’s grin; Tom’s eyes, dull and lifeless, floating there in the haze before his own – it was all a nightmare from which he must soon awaken.

There followed a period of complete unconsciousness of movement and of his surroundings. Light – light everywhere; a blue-white radiance that beat upon his unseeing eyes with unrelenting ferocity. Stabbing pains bored into his very brain, pains that carried with them an unspoken and unintelligible command. Why couldn’t they let him alone; leave him to die in peace? H e knew he was on his feet, swaying. There were voices, strident and guttural, and then by some magic the veil was lifted. His brain cleared and he saw that he stood before a dais where a much bejeweled and resplendently clad woman sat curled in the luxurious cushions of a golden seat. Chalk-white was her face and her lips crimson; amazing eyes, cat’s eyes, pupils red-flecked and glittering, stared out at him.

“The Zara,” Antazzo whispered. “You will make obeisance.”

Mechanically, Blaine dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the floor. Tom Farley, over there, was doing the same, but Antazzo stood erect with his arms crossed over his chest and his head thrown back. The eyes of the Zara swept him contemptuously from head to foot. All was not well between them.

Blaine arose from his humiliating position at a sharp command from the hunchback. Tommy did likewise and the two exchanged sheepish looks. The effects of the pink gas were wearing off once more. They were in a large hall, obviously the throne room of a palace. Men-at-arms lined the walls on either side of the dais, and these were straight limbed giants with green-bronze skin and regular features – not at all like the deformed Ionian who had captured them and stolen the RX[8???S???]

The Zara talked rapidly in throaty gutturals, her fierce gaze directed at Antazzo and her brows drawn together in a scowl that could have but one meaning. She was displeased with the hunchback, displeased and furiously angry. What was it all about? Hadn’t he brought home the bacon – the k-metal they were after? Blaine was nonplused.

Then Antazzo replied to the woman who was obviously his queen. His voice rose in shrill disagreement and his scowl was as fierce as the Zara’s. Threatening her, he was, the nervy devil. He clenched his fists and raised his arms in an angry gesture, pacing the floor in his fury and thrusting out a pugnacious chin while he raved. This Zara woman rose higher in her cushions, and the look that flashed from those terrible eyes would have warned a less excited human, however justifiable his anger might be. But Antazzo was in too deep to draw back, that was plain to be seen. Blaine held his breath in anticipation of an explosion.

It came then, that explosion, and in a way entirely unexpected and horrible to behold. The tiger woman uttered one fierce sibilant like the hiss of a serpent, a terrifying sound that silenced the hunchback and brought him stiffly to attention, mouth open and eyes bulging with horror. One of those unbelievably white arms stretched forth, threateningly tense, and a jeweled finger leveled itself at the rash Ionian. From it there flashed an intangible something that leaped to bridge the distance with the speed of light, something that screeched as it flew and crashed like breaking glass when it struck Antazzo’s horrified face. In an instant he was on the floor, screaming and writhing in mortal agony.

The Zara watched with compressed lips and livid features as a host of black disk-like things covered the squirming body, spinning madly as if driven by atomic energy and emitting a myriad high-pitched tones like the angry buzzing of a swarm of bees. Antazzo’s body shriveled as the things hummed on in their devilish work. Soon there was but a tiny heap of clothing with the angry black disks whirling and singing their song of hate. And then, in a puff of thick yellow vapor they were gone, their gruesome work completed. The odor of putrefaction lay heavy on the air.

Blaine shuddered and a fit of nausea twisted his vitals. It served the devil right, of course, but it was a horrible way to go. These damned Ionians, even to their queen, were bloodthirsty creatures. And what devilish ingenuity they had displayed in their development of weapons! His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the flaming orbs of the Zara.

She was actually smiling at him, this beautiful, heartless animal, not a smile of derision but one of deliberate allure. He felt the hot blood mount to his temples. A languid arm beckoned him to her side and the amazing creature settled back in her cushions with the drowsy, contented motions of a lazy feline.

“Watch your step!” Tommy hissed.

That warning was unnecessary. Blaine shook his head and backed away from the dais, an instinctive recoiling from a loathsome thing. The Zara saw and understood; and she went again into a black rage. She sat stiffly erect and called rapid orders ot her men-at-arms.

The Earth men were surrounded instantly, their arms and legs pinioned by powerful hands, their feeble resistance overcome by the bronze giants as easily as if they had been children. Helpless and hopeless, they were borne from the room.

This was the end of the story, Blaine thought. Why this Zara woman had not made away with them at once was a mystery. Perhaps they were being reserved for an even more terrible fate than that of the hunchback. They were being carried along a dim-lit passage now, and Tom was cursing his captors in a never-ending stream of invective.

A metal door opened and then clanged shut behind them. They were dumped unceremoniously on metal tables that resembled those of a hospital operating-room on Earth. Woven bands, quickly adjusted by the bronze giants held them fast. Blaine turned his head and saw that Tommy was still struggling against the inevitable. A gag had been placed in his mouth; that was why he has ceased reviling the Zara’s servitors.

The room was cluttered with elaborate and complicated mechanism that Blaine could not recognize in the slightest detail, excepting that there were many banks of slender glass cylinders which bore some resemblance to the vacuum tubes used on the inner planets for radio communication and television. One of the bronze giants, he saw, was bringing a metal cap from which a cable extended to one of the strange machines. This cap was forced down over his head with a none too gentle pressure and he could see no more.

There came a sharp buzz from the machine and a million stinging needles drove into his brain. There was a moment of fleeting visions; strange places he viewed, and strange creatures parading in a fantasmagoria or delirium before his aching eyes. Voices, harsh and guttural, spoke in his drumming ears; voices that were dimly understandable, though uttered in the tongue spoken by Antazzo and the Zara. Then came sudden and merciful unconsciousness.

Chapter 3: Ilen-dar

When Blaine Carson opened his eyes it was to stare at the blue-white radiance of an illuminated ceiling. He lay on a downy cot and it seemed he had just recovered from a long illness. Weak and sick, he turned his head listlessly to gaze at the ornate embossed designs on a wall of gleaming silvery metal. What place was this? His mind was wool-gathering; dim memories of unspeakable things struggled for mastery over a hazy consciousness. Suddenly then he remembered, and he sat up in his unfamiliar bed, senses acutely alert.

Across the room he saw a figure hunched in a chair; a twisted man-creature who was oddly like someone he had seen. Antazzo! But this one had none of the other’s ferocity as he returned Blaine’s stare. Rather, there was a look of deep concern in his ugly face. He came immediately to the bedside and looked at Blaine solicitously.

“I see you have recovered,” he said. “It is good.”

Blaine stared and stared. This creature had spoken in the language of the Zara’s subjects, yet he understood his every word! It must be a dream, this impossible thing that had happened. And where was tom? Abruptly he found that he was talking rapidly in this tongue of an alien race.

“Yes, I’ve recovered”, he said, “and I’m amazed at what I find. How have I acquired this knowledge of your language? Where am I, and where is my friend? Can you enlighten me in these things?”

The other smiled. “I can, Earth man,” he replied. “You have been taught our language while you slept. A thought transference process we use for educating the young. You are in the palace of the Zara and your friend is safe in the next room. I may add that you are in high favor with Her Majesty.”

The wizened creature lowered his voice on the last words, and his knowing eyes spoke volumes. In favor with that she-devil! Blaine went cold at the thought.

“I want to see my friend,” he said shortly.

“Later. My orders are to bring you to the Zara immediately you are strong enough. And Pegrani obeys orders.”

No use to attempt a break now. Blaine was tempted to drive a fist into that ugly countenance and fight his way out of the place. But that would be suicide. He’d wait, get the lay of the land first and then try to dope something out with Tommy.

“All right, Pegrani,” he said, “I’m ready to go before this Zara of yours.”

As he prepared for the audience, alien thoughts crowded one upon the other in his strangely enlightened mind. With the knowledge of the language had come knowledge of many things relative to the copper-clad world. They’d given him a liberal education. Somehow he knew these stunted creatures like Antazzo and Pegrani were known as Llotta and that, while ruling the sealed-in planet, their kind had originally come from Ganymede, the fifth satellite of Jupiter. Centuries had passed since the inhabitants of Europa and Ganymede had been forced to desert their aging worlds and had settled on Io. During other centuries the widely different peoples had cooperated in constructing the great copper enclosure in order to keep the new world alive and capable of supporting life. Then had come a century of bitter warfare in which the Llotta were victorious. Intense hatred existed between the two races, he knew, and a hazy impression of mechanically imparted knowledge told him that few of the Europans remained alive.

“We are here, Carson,” his guide announced, when they stood before the square columns of an enormous portal.

The scene in the throne room was vastly different than when he had first visited it. The Zara sat curled as before, a golden bowl of incense burning at either side of the throne. The men-at-arms were absent and, instead, there were dozens of handmaidens, white-skinned and seductive as their queen, reclining on luxurious cushions that were arranged in a semicircle before the dais. It was a scene of Oriental splendor. A stage carefully set.

Pegrani knelt and touched his forehead to the floor but Blaine held himself stuffly erect, looking straight into the eyes of the Zara. She smiled and extended her arm in that beckoning gesture.

“You may leave now, Pegrani,” she said, without deigning him a glance. “Remain in the corridor until I send for you.”

There was a tense silence as the Zara’s gaze, ineffably softened now, held Blaine’s. Unconsciously he was drawn to the steps of the dais. Unwillingly, yet inexorably, his lagging footsteps brought him to her side. Cool white fingers touched his arm and he saw that the red flecks in the black of those wide eyes were golden now. Surely there was no harm in this woman. But he remembered Antazzo.

“Carson,” she purred, “you are more than welcome to Llotta-nar, the land of my people and the ruling power of Antrid, the body you call Io. The freedom of the realm is yours for as long a time as you wish to remain.”

This was too good to be true. “You – you mean,” he stammered, “that Antazzo exceeded his authority in his act of piracy – in bringing us here?”

The golden flecks flashed red and a cold note was manifest in the throaty voice. “Antazzo,” she replied, “was destroyed for his audacious actions. We needed this k-metal of yours, Carson, and he was sent to Earth to get a quantity of the material. By magnetic directional waves was he sent – we have no shape-ships – his body disintegrated by my scientists for transmittal, and the atoms of his beastly form reassembled in their proper relation when he arrived there. But he threatened me when he returned successful. The possession of the k-metal and his knowledge of its powers and uses had gone to his head. He demanded my hand in return for his work; demanded that he be permitted to mount the throne of Llotta-nar as my consort. Therefore I destroyed him.” The hard eyes softened anew. “And – and for his abominable treatment of you I destroyed him,” she concluded.

Blaine fought off the spell of those gold-flecked eyes; he looked away in sudden panic. This creature was not telling the truth. She was hiding something; a sinister motive lay beneath her smooth speech.

“My friend,” he said abruptly: “what of him?”

“For your sake, my Carson,” she purred, “he too shall have the freedom of the realm for as long a time as is desired.”

The cool fingers crept along his arm, firm and compelling. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He thought of the pink gas as his eyes were drawn irresistibly to hers. What he saw in those gold-flecked depths sent a shiver of apprehension chasing down his spine. Savage, devestating desire mingled with ill-concealed rage and his coldness. This beautiful animal could turn like a flash, and rend him limb from limb – and would on the slightest provocation.

A commotion in the corridor caused her to release him and sit bolt upright. Temporarily relieved, Blaine wheeled to face the portal. Tommy had broken loose! He heard his strident voice, berating an unseen antagonist in the tongue of the Llotta.

Then they were in the room, Tommy struggling and arguing vociferously with one of the green-bronze guards. The handmaidens had deserted their cushions and were milling about in affrighted confusion. The Zara’s sibilant exclamation startled him into looking at her once more. The same cold fury that had greeted Antazzo glinted icy-hard in that grimly beautiful face. It was all over for poor Tommy.

But the Zara reached upward and stroked a transparent rod that dangled above the throne, something he had not noticed before. A screaming vibrant note smote the heavy air, a pulsation that beat at the ear drums with painful intensity. Silence fell as the awesome sound died away and echoed faintly from the huge columns that supported the arched ceiling. Tommy cooled off when he saw that Blaine was unharmed.

“Drekan!” The Zara’s voice was a whiplash as she addressed the guard. “You will leave my presence and report to your overman for punishment. Never again molest the Earth men. Begone!”

Again this amazing woman curled in her cushions and again she purred. Tommy watched in open mouthed astonishment as she smiled guilelessly on his friend.”

“You may leave me now, my Carson,” she cooed. “Farley is free to accompany you. Pegrani will guide you and inform you regarding our customs and our people. You will learn much. And then you shall return to Zara Clyone.”

Blaine had fully expected that Tommy would die a horrible death before his eyes, and in his sudden relief bent low and kissed the cold white hand of the Zara. A foolish thing to do! She purred and snuggled into the cushions like the feline that she was – a dangerous animal; claws drawn in now but ready to strike out, razor sharp, on a moment’s notice.

[galateaencore]

🍉🕯️ (writer’s ask)

thank you)))) Under the cut:

🍉in what ways has writing helped you process trauma and/or navigate through your own life?

Oh man. Firstly, you would ask 😂😅

Also, I'm going to have to think about this one so ask me again next year or something as my answer may change. Sometimes I think that it obviously has and other times I think that it's no different to processing trauma by, like, running or just living or whatever. Writing allows you to pause time and examine a subject from all angles, but I don't know if that's processing or if sometimes that's disassociating or fixating or some other -ing. Basically, creating a thing is a complex process that kind of takes over your whole self for a bit and I can't attribute a discrete piece of that process to trauma or its processing, at least speaking about myself.

🕯️was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn’t think it would take you?

Gardens is definitely my problem child. And will remain so, unless I by some tragic failure of analysis decide to do this to myself again. Here's a list:

It's huge and I still don't know why I did that to myself.

I think I did that thing where I made it about everything all at once and I still haven't entirely cured it of kitchen sink syndrome. There are so many bits of it that are meant to connect to one another, which in practice feels like herding cats. And I still think I hadn't edited it sufficiently down to like its central idea and no trimmings.

Canon. I wanted it to be in conversation with certain specific bits of canon, but I think this too needed much more gestation.

It went through so many iterations during which substantial parts of it changed substantially. If you read my early drafts it's a completely different story.

Eredin, who had to be invented whole-cloth. This one was actually not that hard because I had an ending in mind early on and, while I was pretty agnostic on his character, knew a lot of things I didn't want to give him, like a redemption arc, so all of those fixed parameters helped narrow him down.

Ciri, whom I had to make my own. Which is harder than developing a minor canon imo. But my main thing was that I wanted this to be her story, as in about her and her past and her choices in navigating her life even if it's nominally a shipfic (oops, there, I spoiled it), and I wanted her to get what she wants in the end. Which for this ship and this plot contrivance is hard. I'm not gassing myself up - I don't know if I did it! You all will have to tell me in approximately 20 chapters 😂

Setting. This wasn't hard at all and fell into place by itself as a result of (handwaves frantically) aaaaall of the choices above, but I just want to register that I sometimes deeply regret making Tir na Lia into a kafkaesque bureaucracy with a gleaming metropolis at its heart rather than, well, weird Rivendell. I still want to write stories where Tir na Lia is weird Rivendell.

Lastly, what wasn't hard? The chemistry. The chemistry came very naturally.

Thanks so much for asking about my favorite topic, sorry for the essay!

[diamondcitydarlin]

i know this can't be just me and I know that it isn't JUST the natural result of looking at 'recent' in fandom tags (which is 9 times out of 10 a fucking mistake) bc I've seen it outside of this many times but like...idk. I feel like the fandom communities surrounding sh@dows and 0fmd are far more aggressively negative than they were last time I checked. Mostly I'm talking about the way it feels like people have become possessive over characters from both things and refuse to assume anything but the worst for anyone who depicts their faves (in fanfic or fanart) in a way they don't like or agree with. This isn't anything new in fandom but I'm really disappointed to see it happening here, the same kind of shit we'd see in early 00's HP fandom when someone didn't like a ship or a character 'the right way'.

And ofc I completely understand the frustration of seeing a character or pairing or subplot depicted in a fandom thing in a way one doesn't like or agree with, like ofc I get that, but I'm seeing this new trend of taking anyone doing this in extremely bad faith right off the cuff. publicly and/or DIRECTLY. Like, if a character is depicted in a fanart as too masc or too femme for whoever the viewer is, suddenly the fanartist is a terf confirmed or something and that's not really an exaggeration. Drawing Stede with a fucking beard is now high treason and punishable by death, apparently

And I'm not talking about giving artists, writers notes for how to better depict different cultures, skin types, genders, and so on, because that's completely different. Giving notes implies that you have no reason to assume this person did this for nefarious or selfish reasons just natural human ignorance that just needs to be addressed so they can do better next time, and with most of these artists that IS THE CASE. This isn't that. This is seeing something you don't like and assuming the person who made it did it for the worst possible fucking reason one could come up with and refusing to consider any other possibility bc how else could you punish them for wrongthink??

I guess we...don't care AT ALL how this is going to stifle creativity and gatekeep anyone from attempting to participate in fandom for fear of 'getting something wrong' and being taken as a bigot? A homophobe or terf for drawing or writing something in a tonedeaf but wellmeaning way? For fuck's sake people. But then maybe cruelty and gatekeeping are the point here?

It's really not helpful and it certainly isn't some humanitarian act for fandom rep as I think these people like to pride themselves it is, it's literally just a way for them to narrow down the scope of participation in fandom until its completely under their control and preference, regardless of who they might ostracize in the process (POC artists, for one).

It's nothing new, but man am I pissed to see it coming back here where I really hoped things would be different. Anyway I'm not fucking participating and I really hope whoever reads this thinks hard about not participating in it either, regardless of what motives these 'critics' claim to have. I'm sorry, but it is not fair or logical or kind to jump to these conclusions about each other based on fanart and fanfic. You don't fucking know these people and they don't know you.

And what's more, I'm just going to say it bc it's been coming up GO vs OFMD vs WWDITS debates of which one is queerer (which also makes me want to drive my car off a bridge tbh bc some of these folks are over here debating the queerness of these shows while rooting for Queerbait Het YT Men S2 to finally do the thing when bitch you know damn well); not everything in fandom is going to be made for you. Not everything in a source material is going to be for you. That doesn't inherently make those things bad.

but, apparently, if something is not tailored specifically to MY PREFERENCES of how characters should present (with beards for example) then it's not only invalid, the person who made it is a bad person who should feel bad about themselves? Make it make sense.

Yes, we're coming into an age of openly queer stories and I'm as excited as anyone to see myself reflected. But I'm also going to see other queer people and THEIR experiences reflected and it is not going to be my own and THAT IS NOT ONLY OKAY IT IS HOW IT SHOULD BE BECAUSE 'QUEER' IS AN UMBRELLA TERM THAT ENCOMPASSES A WIDE RANGE OF EXPERIENCES AND IDENTITIES

thanks i hate this <3

[the1trueanon]

Y'know what I wish Tumblr had for the blog archives? A "tags to exclude" button.

So say I'm looking for something specific on someone's blog. Let's say they're a writer, and they write for certain characters, and there's a few characters whose stories I really love and enjoy. Wanna be able to look for their interactions and stuff, so on the blog's archive tag search, I put in one of the characters' names (another thing that would make this easier is a "multi-tag search", so you can look for more than just one tag and in this, multiple characters).

But let's also say that this writer does ship writing, and ships this character with another, one I don't ship them with. That's fine and all, they're perfectly welcome to ship whomever they want, but if I search that character's name, I'm given an onslaught of ship writing that I don't have any particular interest in and don't particularly want to read (again, it's preference or whatever, shippeth ast thou shall shippeth), and in the archive, I can't particularly tell which posts are which because, well, you all have seen how archives are set up. Convenient for finding things and backtracking, not-so-convenient for telling the content (character or topic-wise, I mean) of a post.

This is where a "tags to exclude" search would be handy. Set up like a tag search, you could enter in the tag (or hopefully tags) to exclude from the search, and the modified results would exclude posts with that tag. That way, if something like the above scenario happens, I can look for posts with that said character/characters I like, but without having to deal with posts on a topic I might not want to see, that are about as widespread throughout the blog.

This, and that multi-tag search, just seem like they would be good and helpful additions 😅 I can't think of the number of times in which I've had to go through a blog's archive and thought "Man, it'd be really nice if I could do these things to help me narrow down what I'm looking for."

[wr1t3-my-wr0ngs]

Good Soldiers—Chapter 3/4

Remembering Yesterday’s Tomorrow (In the Here and Now)- Part 4 cont.

As much as Rex wants to move directly onto the next step in removing Krell, there is still a war that needs to be dealt with. Having Fives in his corner helps immensely as both a sounding board and support. It has taken a weight off his shoulders that he is infinitely glad he no longer has to shoulder alone. However, he had forgotten the specific brand of insanity that comes from working with his brothers, and while he is happy (among the other emotions that swirl dangerously close to the surface) to have them in his life again, it does, at times, make him wish his hair was longer so he could pull it out. Especially as he, Jesse, Tup, and Hardcase listen to Fives' infiltration plan.

"You want to what?"

He knows his plan to deal with Krell isn't perfect, but he hopes beyond all sense of reason that it's better then what he just heard Fives suggest.

"Have the men and myself fly the Umbaran craft into the supply ship and blow up the main reactor."

Last time, he hadn't asked for details. The thinking being he couldn't report what he didn't know. If this was the same plan that Fives had used to take down the supply ship, Rex knows why it went so horribly wrong.

"You are aware that General Skywalker was already one of the best pilots in the galaxy at that time? And that most of it was an accident?"

His brother looks sheepish. From his perch atop a table, Rex pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Despite knowing the answer, he asks his next question anyway.

"How many men are you planning to take up?"

"It would be us three, Sir."

Rex looks at Jesse who has momentarily looked up from cleaning his blaster to indicate Fives, Hardcase, and himself. The Captain unconsciously brings a hand up to stroke a beard that isn't there, thinking over the specifics that he was privy to the first time around — regretting his lack of involvement and the subsequent lack of information.

“If you have a better plan, we’re all ears.”

He thinks of Ahsoka, of her uncanny ability (force given or natural, he never knew) to plan on the fly. To take a pile of unknowns and somehow rearrange them until they created actionable intel. There was a reason she was one of the leaders of the Rebellion, and he, her right-hand-man.

But she's not here. Surrounded by a room of living ghosts, the only thing he has of her is his ring and the memories of advice they had shared. One in particular whispers across his mind.

Work with what you know.

So that’s what he does.

He thinks about the Separatist ships he's been on. The narrow passages designed for droids and not much else. Considers the size and challenges of the Umbaran crafts. Three would be a tight squeeze and tricky to maneuver in such a limited space, even with the best of pilots, never mind when operated by foot soldiers who considered demolishing a hanger a successful test run.

"Send only one pilot."

"Without backup?"

Tups concern is valid, a brother without backup was always a dangerous thing, for the mission and the soldier both. But he doesn't have a better plan, not one that would work with their limited number of men, resources, and time. He can only pray that what he can change will be enough.

Rex leaves that part out when he explains his thinking, although Fives gives him a brief side-eye. He watches as each man mulls over the idea, weighs the pros and the cons, considers their part.

"I'll do it."

His heart sinks.

"The Captains right, and I have the most experience with the tech."

"Hardcase, " He isn't sure what to say without giving himself away to everyone in the room. When he had first woken and started putting together his plan, he had considered that there may be things he couldn’t change, couldn’t make right. Hardcase it would seem, is one of those things. A knot of emotion catches in his chest as he considers the very real possibility of watching his brother's death a second time over. Eventually, he settles on the only question available to him.

“Are you sure?”

His brother squares his shoulders, easy-going manner set aside.

“I am, Captain.”

The room is silent for a moment, heavy with the knowledge that this very well may end up a suicide mission.

"What about—"

At that moment the doors to the barracks open, cutting Jesse off mid-sentence, revealing Dogma, head bent over a datapad and lips silently moving.

The collective group freezes, including Dogma who seems to realize he has the full attention of everyone in the room. His head snaps up and eyes go wide, jaw clicking shut, and for a second Rex thinks he can see fear in his brother's eyes. But his time to observe is limited, as Dogma, without so much as a word, about faces and leaves the room with the speed of a man being chased by cannon fire.

The group exchange glances and all Rex can do is shrug at the inquiring look Fives sends his way, just as stumped by his brothers behavior as the rest of them. He had expected suspicion and anger, or even the cold shoulder. Those he could understand, but fear?

He shakes himself internally. His concerns about Dogma hardly the top of his priorities at the moment.

"What about Krell?" Jesse repeats, looking between Fives and Rex in equal measure.

"We need a Jedi."

Hardcase scoffs and crosses his arms.

"Yeah, I don't know if you noticed Captain, but they're in short supply."

"I'm just saying that his ability to receive transmissions with new orders is awfully convenient, considering they're supposed to be being jammed."

Jesse looks up from cleaning his blaster with a critical eye.

"You think he's lying about communications with the 212th?"

Rex nods.

"It's a possibility. And it won't hurt to try and get General Kenobi here to assist."

"I think, " Tup starts slowly. "That I might be able to convince a few of the men to try and establish contact against orders. No promises, though."

Rex looks over to Fives, who nods in agreement.

"That's all we can ask for Tup."

Tup inclines his head at the ARC Trooper.

"And what if, and that's a karking large if mind you, we can't get the General to assist?"

Rex sighs.

"Plan B and prey."

----

Dogma was acting strange.

Usually, Tup wouldn't have paid much attention to his brother's odd habits. But he had never seen him that upset before or that close to exchanging blows with another brother. He understands Dogma's anger; he does. Is still reeling from the implications himself, even though nothing he heard really surprised him when he thought about it. But he also understands, as best as he can understand his brother, why it would affect Dogma more than the rest. He’s aware that he is the closest to Dogma, one of the few Vod’e who took the time to get to know the tightly wound trooper. And as a result, is far more used to the quirks of behavior than most and has learned to read Dogma with some degree of accuracy.

But he’s not sure what to make of his brother's recent behavior; walking into rooms, only to turn back around when he spots any of them, constantly reading at every available opportunity. Not that Dogma hadn’t done his share of recreational reading, but this was something different. The few times Tup had found him in the past hours, Dogma seemed to be enthralled, reading as if his life depended on it.

And now he is missing from his bunk.

It feels like avoidance, but never in his short life has Tup known Dogma to do anything less than face a problem head-on.

It concerns him, for Dogmas sake. His one consolation being that he knows his brother would ask for help if he needed it.

Whatever it is Dogma is up to, he only hopes it won't cause a problem for the Captain.

-----

Watching the sky for the impending destruction of the Separatist ship is by far the tensest twenty minutes of Rex’s life, and he intends to spend them with his eyes glued to the sky as if he might be able to see the raging space battle and the one small ship that contains his brother if he looks hard enough. Futile, he knows, but it's all he can do. The troops mill around him, coming and going at their own paces, running information back to the main tower, or just enjoying what rest they can in the middle of a war zone. At some point, Fives joins him.

"Any word?"

"Not yet, Captain."

"Any sign that Krell suspects?"

Fives shakes his head.

"No, Sir. I don't know what you told him about the takeoff, but he doesn't seem suspicious."

Rex didn't expect he would be, since he's almost certain that Krell knows what they are doing despite the lie Rex had fed him. Suspects that Krell knew the first time too, and that everything that followed was designed to torture himself and the men as much as possible.

They laps into silence and Rex returns his focus to the sky.

"Permission to ask a question?"

Rex glances at his brother, gauging the request.

"Granted."

"How did this mission go, last time?"

Fives is looking at him, but Rex can't meet his eyes and hopes that his brother will let the topic go with a simple answer.

"It was a success,"

"Rex, " The plea is soft, and it strikes him how much younger his brother is; the gap between them able to be measured in decades instead of a few years. Aware that behind the bravado and the swagger, Fives is as scared as Rex, wondering if he just sent his brother to his death.

He's hesitant to talk about it, the memories from Umbara old wounds that never fully healed. The sound of distant artillery and shelling only hammers home the futility of attempting to avoid them.

"I wasn't as involved last time, didn't really condone the course of action. I don't know what went wrong exactly, but from what I gathered something happened to sound the alarm, and the Seppies raised the ray shield around the main reactor. It had to be detonated by hand."

"Which brother...?"

"Hardcase."

The inhale of breath is sharp, and its what makes Rex finally look at his vod'ika, sees the pain in his eyes.

"Fives, I'm sorry."

"He knows the risks."

Rex isn't sure who the phrase is trying to console, Fives, or himself. He reaches out a hand to the back of his brother's neck, gently bringing their foreheads together. He can feel his little brother tremble ever so slightly under his touch, and he gives what he hopes is a comforting squeeze. They stay like that until the Captain feels the ARC Troopers breathing even out. When he pulls away Fives looks better, less shaken, and although his grin isn't as large as normal, it's still there. (He marks it down in a new column in his heart, right next to Ahsoka's smiles and laughter, counting it as a small victory against a war that's designed to cause as much misery as possible).

"Thanks, Gramps."

Despite himself, he laughs. Perhaps, he thinks, the nickname isn't so bad if it brings a little joy.

He's about to respond, when a flash of light overhead draws their attention; Bright orange and yellow that bleeds through the dark clouds. Hardcase did it. But he doesn't let himself relax, not yet, because for all the changes made, he still doesn't know if he changed enough.

His heart pounds in his ears and he's fairly certain that he's forgotten to breathe. The seconds tick by, each one seemingly longer than the last. Beside him, Fives is tense; eyes also fixed to the sky, waiting and watching.

The relief that foods him when he spots the speck of light approaching is indescribable. However, it quickly fades when he notices the erratic flight, the way the ship lists dangerously to one side, and (when it gets closer) the sparks that trial behind it.

The landing, if it can be called that, is rough, and when the shield comes down, Rex is there ready to catch his brother if need be. It's a good thing too, as Hardcase tumbles from the seat, blood leaking from under his helmet. It takes a matter of moments to find the pulse at his brother's neck and only then does Rex breathe. Unconscious, but miraculously alive.

Boots on the pavement prompt him and Fives to look up.

"The General requests your presence."

---

Knowing the execution order is coming doesn't make it any easier to hear or make him want to strangle the fallen Jedi any less. Especially as Hardcase, barley able to stand from what Rex strongly suspects is a concussion, has to be assisted to his mark.

“Do the prisoners request blindfolds?”

Tup looks disturbed to even be asking the question, and Rex’s heart goes out to him. No brother should have to face killing their own family.

Not right.

He has to check again to be sure he isn't imagining it, but no, it is Tup at the firing line.

Fives has begun speaking, but Rex doesn’t pay attention, too busy doing a headcount, grateful for the lack of helmets obscuring faces. He does it again, just to be sure.

Dogma isn't there.

Distantly, he's aware that Fives speech is winding to a close, but only just. Too busy running over the possibilities, the implications, and drawing a blank.

The sound of blaster fire draws his attention violently back to the present, and he is no less relieved to see that the firing squad had come to the same conclusion as before.

Fives glares at him as he walks up.

"A warning would have been nice." The ARC trooper hisses under his breath.

"And miss that speech? Look at them Fives, " he surreptitiously gestures to the men as he begins undoing the binders. "Sometimes we forget that we're more than walking numbers, especially under men like Krell. They needed to hear that."

The binders come off with a click, and Fives rubs his wrists.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I needed to hear it."

The ARC Trooper looks at the Captain for a moment, eventually nodding his head in acceptance.

"Besides, " Rex cocks an eyebrow, "I thought you didn't believe me?"

Fives punches him in the arm.

---

To say that Krell is displeased at the news of the failed execution would be an understatement. The fallen Jedi is livid, and standing before him held in a fourhanded grip, forced to look up to meet the massive force users gaze, Rex is reminded of standing up against the Imperial AT-AT on Seelos, just him, Gregor, and Wolffe; Easily uncrushable and very small.

“You are making a mistake by crossing me clone.”

It is fortunate then, that he isn't immune from the insanity that plagues his brothers, and that his tolerance for disrespect dwindled significantly with age.

“Its Captain.”

The lack of ‘Sir’ does not go unnoticed, and Krell’s grip on his arms tightens to the point of bruising. Rex does not look away. Neither does Krell, not even as a trooper relays the incoming transmission.

Rex is aware that were they alone, Krell would drop all pretenses of being a General. When the Besalisk does let go, it's accompanied by a shove and despite his best efforts, Rex stumbles.

“Lock the traitors in the brig. You have your stay of execution, Captain.”

The way Krell says his title slides like ice down Rex’s spine and leaves a rancid taste in his mouth.

“We take the Capitol now.”

---

The battle passes in a blur and by the time its over, he's shaken to his core. The reality of it so much worse than the nightmares ever were. Worse because he can still taste the ion trace from the blasters that lingers in the air, the screams of his brothers ringing to loud in his ears. Unable to console himself with the knowledge that it was just a dream.

The blood caked into his blacks.

He's only one man he tries to remind himself, only one man against a tide of destruction and death. He can't change everything.

Intellectually he knows its not his fault — that it's Krell and Krell alone that is responsible for every life lost in this sector of the planet.

It doesn't help, knowing that the battle - the loss- was designed to be a form of torture, not when it worked so well. Not when he still blames himself—his orders for the troops to not wear their helmets into battle being too little, too late, with far too many brothers dead by friendly fire.

Blames himself for every brother lost.

For Waxer.

His fists clench in a mix of rage and sorrow, before pulling himself back to present. They have minutes left before they go to confront Krell, and he needs to focus as they go over the plan one last time. The prison is hardly private, but at this point, discretion no longer matters. He knows that every brother, not just the little band he has assembled, will stand with him.

"I still say we should just kill him."

By rights, Hardcase shouldn't even be out of medical, but Rex strongly suspects that only death would have kept him from joining the fight against Krell at this point.

He shakes his head.

"And I'm right there beside you Vod, but unless we want to end up shipped back to Kamino for reconditioning, we need-"

"Evidence."

All four heads whip around. There, standing in the door to the cell, looking haggard and broken is Dogma. No one says a word as he makes his way toward the group and silently extends a datastick, hands trembling.

"I couldn't get what you said out of my mind." He addresses Rex. "About how things didn't add up. So I read his reports, ran the numbers. You were right."

His face is stony, but in his eyes, Rex can see the betrayal, the anger, the overwhelming sense of loss that comes from having ones whole world come undone around them.

"He didn't even hide it."

Ah, he read those reports. Brutal and full of plain language detailing his choices. The kind of reports where it didn't make sense how they could have gone without being flagged, not until Rex had learned the truth about Palpatine, just one of the many puzzle pieces that fell into place. Rex carefully takes the datastick.

“How do I help?”

He looks from Dogma to the cylindrical tube. Evidence, he had said.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Dogma nods.

"Every file, every report, every statistic." His smile is a wry, bitter thing. Sharp and self-deprecating, edged with the anger of a man who will never again be played for a fool. "It's amazing what you can get access to when someone thinks you're in their back pocket."

Then they have all the evidence they need.

"Tup, any word from the 212th?"

"No, Captain."

His frustration slips past his lips as a growl and he rapidly does the mental calculations, handing the datastick back to the tattooed Trooper.

"Dogma, get this to General Kenobi. I don't care how or who you have to go through to get it to him, but it's for his eyes only. Understand?"

The Trooper salutes, new purpose lending strength to his bearing, and as he barks out a "Yes, Sir!" he almost looks like the Dogma Rex remembers from the start of the campaign.

He looks around the cell at his brothers, fully kitted and armed, faces set with grim determination.

"Alright, men: Plan B."

[banditchika]

himari: bro we are bandmates

fandom: bandori

ship: tsuguhima (with some... interesting implications)

words: 2461

ao3 link

"You... what?" Tsugu's eyes were wide and round. Her soft pink mouth fell open, the way it always did when she was surprised or confused.

Himari stared, then realized she was staring and looked anywhere else. The stuffed squirrel that Ran had won Tsugu a few years back had never seemed so interesting. It was weird to pay that much attention to a friend's lips, right? Probably. At least, Himari thought so.

She hoped Tsugu hadn't noticed. She didn't want to make Tsugu uncomfortable—any more uncomfortable than she already was, anyways.

"I mean—I was just thinking," Himari stammered. "Only if you wanted to. You don't have to agree!" She tried for a reassuring smile, but Tsugu gawked like Himari's eyebrows had suddenly transformed into caterpillars. Huge failure!

But okay. That was fine. Himari could salvage this. She picked at the charm bracelet around her wrist, the delicate metal hearts and music notes warm from her skin. "It's just that we haven't had our first kisses yet, right!? I don't wanna be, y'know, bad at it when the real thing actually happens, so... um."

"So you want to kiss me?" Tsugu tugged at her collar. Her forehead was pinched, the choppy fringe of her bangs sitting at angles above her brows. Himari wanted to smooth that furrow away.

She also wanted to fix Tsugu's bangs, which were never ever properly styled and which were the result of letting Afterglow near her hair with scissors, but one thing at a time. She was already asking a lot from Tsugu, and even if every bone in her body screamed at her to play it off, play it off, keep it cool, say it was a joke—she had to get Tsugu to say yes, because Himari wanted this so badly.  

"I mean... it makes sense for it to be you!" Himari shrugged as carelessly as she could, channeling some of Tomoe’s easy confidence and coolness. Yeah. Himari was so cool, she asked to kiss one of her very best friends in the world like, every day. "You're also single, right?"

"I am, but technically, none of us are dating ..." Tsugu mumbled, dragging her gaze from Himari's face. "You could ask Moca-chan. She'd probably say yes right away."

"Yeah, but you know how Moca is with me! She'd never let me live it down," groaned Himari, flopping over their workbooks. She stretched her arms across the low table, reaching with grasping fingers for Tsugu, whose frown cracked into a faint smile. She rested her hand over Himari's, warm and delicate and soft. "Ran too—she'd think I was weird if I asked her, and you know how she and Moca are!"

Yeah, those two? No way, no way! Ran wouldn't even need to say anything for Moca to find out. When it came to Ran, Moca always seemed to know. If Himari went to Ran, there was absolutely no doubt that Moca would be leaning against her desk the very next day, eyebrows waggling and leering hard enough for Himari to cross her arms over her chest.

"Yeah..." Tsugu's voice was very soft. Himari turned her cheek to follow Tsugu as she rose from the table, knees popping, and curled up on the bed. She clutched Ran's stuffed squirrel to her chest and peered at Himari from between its ears. It was cute—the super special, Afterglow-only Tsugu-brand cute. "That's right, huh? They're always on the same wavelength."

There was something about Tsugu's voice and the way she watched Himari that had her heart stammering. Like someone had smashed a ball right into Himari's stomach, driving her breath from her lungs and Himari to her knees. Thank goodness she's sitting. "Yep, you get what I mean, right!? And I can't—I just can't ask Tomoe, y'know?"

Tsugu hummed thoughtfully, and Himari’s stomach churned. This wasn’t a “tennis ball in her gut”-ache; this was a “ran too many laps in the heat and am about to pass out” kind of ache, and Himari hated it something terrible. It made her feel off-balance, askew, and for once Tsugu wasn’t holding a hand out to catch her.

“Mmn,” Tsugu said at last. She slid off her bed, setting the squirrel on her pillow the way she usually served tea; like she was afraid she’d slip, and everything would break. “I think I know.”

“Yeah,” Himari sighed, and it sounded a little too much like an admission for her tastes. Tsugu watched her from the bedside, her hands tucked into the pockets of her cardigan. She was probably thinking very... Tsugurifically. That was her concentration face—eyes closed and lips turned down into something like a frown, but Tsugu was too sweet to wear anger very well. Mostly she just looked worried and stressed.

And this? All Himari’s fault. She regretted ever opening her mouth.

“Y-you know what, Tsugu? Just forget about it, it’s alright!” Himari slumped down in her seat and tugged sharply at the ends of her pigtails. “I didn’t mean to make things so-! I’m such a bad friend for asking this of you, I’m sorry—”

“Huh? Wait, Himari-chan! I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” There was a heavy thud, and Tsugu clasped Himari’s hands between her own, staring up from on her knees. “I was just… thinking it over, that’s all.”

“Aaah, hold on!” Himari shoved her chair back. She knelt, eye to eye with Tsugu, and—didn’t she see this in a drama once? Was she the swooning heroine here or one of several brooding love interests?

Tsugu cupped her face. Oh. Yeah, no, Himari was the heroine in this situation. Definitely. Either that, or Tsugu was the kind of protagonist to dip kiss her brooding lover in the rain, and—yeah, she had to admit, that checked out too.

Tsugu was pretty Tsugurific all the time, everywhere; it shouldn’t surprise her that Tsugu wasn’t the type to go easy here either.

But while part of her wanted to close her eyes and let Tsugu do—whatever she wanted to do, Himari had morals! Concerns! Moral concerns, and she had to get them out of the way before any kind of kissing happened. “Wait, Tsugu! Ts-u-u-gu! Hold up!”

“Eh?” Tsugu dropped her like a used pad. “W-what’s wrong? Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, I still wanna do it!” Himari’s voice cracked embarrassingly. Wow. Okay, she wasn’t looking too cool right now. “I mean… I just want to be sure that I didn’t make you feel like you had to or something. I don’t mean to be pushy or force you, or…” Himari snapped her fingers, trying for the right words. They evaded her. She settled for waving her hands around, shooing imaginary flies away. “Like… you know?”

Tsugu nodded slowly. Himari’s chest swelled, and her eyes prickled with a familiar burn—that was the best part about childhood friends! They always understood you, even if it wasn’t always perfect. There was no one who knew you better and no one else that could fill in the gaps so well or easily. Himari really was so lucky to have Afterglow, and in this moment, to have Tsugu.

“You’re not pushing me, Himari-chan. I wasn’t sure at first because it’s kind of… um.” Tsugu closed her eyes, deep in thought. “Mmn… weird? It’s kind of weird for you to ask, I mean.”

Kind of weird for her? Specifically her? “Hey! That’s not a compliment, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not much weirder than usual!” Tsugu chirped, pumping her fists. Himari mimed being shot in the heart and doubled over. Her brow brushed the mesh of Tsugu’s tights, and oh—it was so easy to fall into the rhythm of Afterglow’s usual banter that Himari could almost forget what they were doing. What they were about to do.

Tsugu pushed her back up. Her face was painfully earnest when Himari looked to her, round brown eyes and rosy cheeks and faint, dimpled smile. “So… I’m okay with it. Really, Himari-chan, you don’t have to worry about me. We can do it together, if that’s what you want.”

“R-really?” Himari clasped Tsugu’s narrow shoulders. “Really, really!?”

“Yes, really, really,” laughed Tsugu, and before Himari could crow or cheer or laugh or—or even prepare her heart—Tsugu put both hands on either side of her face and leaned in.

The kiss was… nothing at all like what Himari expected. Tsugu’s lips were a bit dry, and Himari’s felt as though they had too much gloss. It kinda felt like if Tsugu kissed even a little harder, her lips would just go sliding down Himari’s chin and into her lap, which was definitely not the best friend zone at all!

She didn’t really have the experience to tell whether or not it was a good kiss. Their lips slid against each other, pressing a little too hard, then too lightly, and Himari wasn’t sure whether she should breathe. Breathing was kind of important, right? Was Tsugu breathing?

(She was pretty sure Tsugu was breathing. She was tracing circles at the hinge of Himari’s jaw with her thumbs, and that took oxygen. Himari hoped she wouldn’t stop.)

Were there fireworks? Nah. Stars and hearts? Definitely not.

But Tsugu’s hands were warm. They pulled her in, and Tsugu kissed carefully, gently, as though Himari could take off at any moment. Which was weird because—because Himari wanted this. She wouldn’t run off for no reason, not when she was the one who asked.

Maybe because it was Tsugu. Maybe because it was technically her first kiss, even if she wasn’t sure it counted because—well, you know. But Himari liked this. It was nice, and Tsugu was nice. She asked the right person, after all.

Himari’s cheeks were flushed when Tsugu pulled away. Tsugu’s lips were shiny with Himari’s watermelon gloss, and she swore she would catch on fire when Tsugu licked her lips, looking thoughtful.

“That was… um. Thanks so much?” Himari offered, because Tsugu. What the fuck.

“Y-you’re welcome.” Tsugu covered her mouth with her hand. Her dark, dark eyes were wide, like she couldn’t believe what she had done. Himari couldn’t believe it either, and she was the one Tsugu did it to. “Was that…?”

“Oh! Oh boy, uh—that was good!” In the streets, a dog broke into a chorus of barks. Maybe Himari had finally done it: at last, her voice had reached a pitch that only animals could hear. “It was really good, Tsugu!”

Tsugu smiled, reddened cheeks dimpling. She sat with her hands in her lap, prim and proper even while Himari felt as though she should be fixing her hair, her lipgloss, unbuttoning her shirt… something that wasn’t staring at Tsugu’s lips, trying to figure out her kissing sorcery. “Waah… I’m glad.”

Tsugu said it so quietly, with so much pleasure that Himari couldn’t help herself. “Uuu… Ts-u-u-gu!”

“Ah!”

They went crashing as Himari flung herself on top of Tsugu, burying her tears in the soft fabric of Tsugu’s favorite cardigan. “Ts-u-u-gu, thank you sooo much-!”

“Um, is this really something you should be thanking me so much for?” She sounded like she was fighting back a giggle, but smoothed her hand over Himari’s spine anyways. “This is kinda embarrassing, Himari-chan…”

“You’ve saved me! Goddess Tsugu!”

“Ahahaha… that’s definitely too much.”

Tsugu helped Himari back to her chair and handed her tissues. Himari blew her nose and, squinting, tossed the crumpled wad of damp tissues into Tsugu’s deskside wastebasket. Point and score for Uehara!

Tomoe was the big one in Afterglow, sure, and Moca’s athleticism was really terrifying, actually, but Himari was a star tennis player! She was practically a jock by Afterglow’s standards.

Wait. Oh, shit. Wait.

Afterglow.

How was she…

How was she going to tell them? Himari’s good mood evaporated. She swallowed, cold sweat chilling her temples, her neck.

She used to love the swings when she was little. She’d swing up, up, up, and when she went as high as her little grade school body could take her, she would slip off the seat and tumble onto the grass, where Tomoe would laugh and Ran would watch her with huge, admiring eyes.

She felt like that now. But instead of landing on grass or spongy playground foam, Himari felt as though she’d crashed into earth. Her ears buzzed. It was—wow, it was kind of hard to breathe.

Tsugu was bustling about her room, satisfied that Himari was satisfied. Himari watched her. If… if it was Tsugu, it would be okay, right? Tsugu wouldn’t get mad at her. Tsugu would understand. Yeah, Tsugu had always been the most gentle of them; she hated it when they fought and always tried so, so hard to please.

She was too sweet to wear anger well. Yeah. Yeah, Tsugu wouldn’t mind.

“Hey, Tsugu?” Himari’s voice was distant even to her own ears. Tsugu turned, and Himari couldn’t even look at her face. She stared instead at the squirrel on Tsugu’s bed. Its blank marble eyes almost seemed accusing. “Can you… um. Is it okay if I ask you for one more favor?”

“Sure, Himari-chan. I’ll try my best. What is it?”

“Can you… can we keep this a secret between us? Like, not tell Tomoe or Ran or Moca.” Moca had a way of finding this stuff out on her own, but Himari wouldn’t make it easy. She only hoped that Tsugu wouldn’t either. “I don’t really want them to know.”

Tsugu was silent.

Himari licked her lips, and they didn’t taste familiar. Maybe it was because most of the gloss was kissed off. Maybe it was the guilt. “N-not because it wasn’t good or anything! I’m grateful, really. I am. I’m just… just…”

“It’s okay, Himari-chan.” Tsugu’s voice was strained. Himari chanced a glance at her. She was staring at her neatly-marked calendar and very carefully not blinking, lips pressed together in a trembling line. She tried to smile anyways, and Himari’s heart plummeted. She was awful. Terrible. The absolute worst. “I, um. I understand.”  

“Tsugu!”

“No, really I do!” Tsugu cleared her throat. “I-I think I should go check on the cafe? It’s about—um.” Her voice broke. “About rush hour now, so Mum and Dad might need some extra hands...”

She rounded the table and Himari didn’t dare to stop her when she passed.

Tsugu tugged the bedroom door open, narrow shoulders hunched up to her ears. “Mum’s trying out a new cake recipe, so I’ll bring up a slice in a bit! Just stay put, okay?”

“Alright…”

The door clicked shut, and Himari was alone. She pressed her forehead against the table. Tears burned down her cheeks, and Himari couldn’t suppress a shaky sigh.

Stupid.

[interstellarre]

Delve In The Depths. Chapter IV

Word Count. 1.5k

a/n. I feel like the story line is getting pretty confusing currently? Please let me know if I should slow the story down. Also, I'm going to be starting to write stories from this world not being a specific chapter.

Trigger Warnings. none

Series Masterlist

Chapter IV.

"Mortals such as yourself should keep better watch of your weapons. Do you know what happens when your dagger falls in the wrong hands?" the young man, well in looks you dare to presume, frowned at the weapon previously occupied on the floor. He stared you up and down, arms on his hips, analyzing you.

"And I've supposed you've never dropped something in your thousand year life?" you test the waters with a joke, tilting your head and laughing.

"Hmph, I can't understand your sense of humor." He turns his head and starts to walk away, making virtually no sound on the wood planks as he steps." Starting to turn away yourself, you stop mid-step to shout. This is your chance to receive the answers you've been waiting for. "Wait!" He looks over at you.

"Who's Bosacius?" you ask. His scowl returns. "Bosacius? What do you know of this name?"

Where have you heard that name? Your mind rushes to literature. Weren't adepti commonly discussed topics in Liyue's history? "I found a book in Wanwen Bookhouse," you bluff, "It contained a book regarding the topic of adepti, where his name was mentioned."

"That piece of literati fan fiction seems to be popular these days," he mused while you attempted to keep a neutral expression as if you knew what he was talking about. He must have heard it from someone else who read it. "Very well," he sighs, "I will answer your questions. In exchange you will answer questions of my own."

"Very well." agreeing to his deal. Fitting for a follower of Rex Lapis you suppose. "First," he starts, "How was karmic debt tainting you when I saw you in the morning? I didn't see you before this incident occurred. I am sure this wasn't a result of my own." Karmic debt? Is that what it was called?

"I don't know, I’ve had these symptoms all my life.” You admit.

“All your life? His face turns into one of deep confusion. Deep in thought.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing of your concern.”

In an attempt to steer the conversation away, you mention Bosacius. “And what of Bosacius? Where is he now?" Xiao's eyes narrow and the tension in the air thickens.

"Gone, I would think someone who read a book on Adepti would know that fact." he abruptly stops the conversation and you know he's caught you in your lie. "Where did you hear the name Bosacius's name?" he was starting to tighten his grip on his polearm.

"I heard it in my dreams." you cutting his decision to put a spear through your heart.

"Your dreams?"

Standing besides you now, he felt the guilt pouring over his soul as he looked down upon your relaxed features. A rush of familiarity went over him, one that he hadn't felt in eons, as he he delve into your dream.

"Isn't this ironic? With myself possessing a pyro vision and you a geo vision? Vaporization and Erosion?" Bosacius and Menogias look to the sea. Bosacius staring in silence while Menogias chattered, up to her usual antics. The waves crashed among the huge boulders of stone while the wind whipped Menogias's hair into a frenzy, though she didn't take it as a need to tuck it behind her ear.

Together they watched the shore and reminisce the lullabies sung by the waves and the wind. Meno's ranting silenced.

"When do you think this war against the fester of the slain gods will end?"

Bosacius tilts his head to look at the pyro user, "Hearing a comment as sensible as this from you is one in a million. I must be blessed by the divine." he mused. "Very funny." was the prickly reply from Menogias, as she reached to pull her mask from her face.

That was all Xiao needed. He collapsed out of the dream. It tasted nothing like the dreams he oh so frequently used to consume from mortals. "Bosacius? What is the meaning of this?"

II.

La Signora stood staring at the sea. The cool breeze rushes past her face and blew her hair to the side. Drumming her fingers over the ship rails, she seemed to be lost in her thoughts about times far away, years ago in the Port of Liyue Harbor. Coming back to the place always brought back the memories.

"Do you believe that this will the be weapon to finally destroy the Tsaritsa?" a fatui agent, Alexey, to her right asked, crossing his arms.

The haughty woman to his side asked, "Do you take me for someone that would fail to utilize their weapons when achieving their goals?" Signora asked.

A ferryman walked by them both and they hushed their voices.

"No, my intention was not to underestimate you my lady."

"Of course." Signora scowled, watching her entourage heaving her belongings up the ship. As the men carried the boxes up the stairs, a baby's wail rang out, making all the men wince.

Coming back to reality, the 8th harbinger shakes her head. An image of you sat down, glassy, blank eyes staring at a barred window while fatui agents guard your door clouds her mind. "A failed plan to dethrone your queen." a voice would ring out as the Cryo archon sat staring at the kneeling harbinger.

The ship's horn blast waking Signora out of her trance. One of the agents opens the door and assists the harbor worker with the necessary precautions.

The same monotone routine plays out. Her accomplices tow her luggage down the stairs. Alexey speaks to her in his usual quiet manner, "All the needed preparations for your arrival have been done, my lady." She nods her head, causing the wood stairs to creak as she stepped down to look at the bustling city. The merchants averted their gaze as the crowd stepped aside to let her walk. Alexey trailed behind her, nearly getting hit by her blond strands of hair fanned by the powerful breeze. A Qixing representative steps forward to greet her.

"La Signora, a honor," he offers his hand to which she shakes albeit hesitantly. "I-" he started only to look up and realize Signora had sauntered off. Looking back he watched her stride up the stairway tailed by her lackey. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighs in defeat.

The guard straightened his posture at her arrival, his form rigid. The doors swung open to reveal the empty lobby room with the exception of Ekaterina. "Master Signora," greeted Ekaterina, with a slight tremble to her usual pleasant tone. "Master Childe can be found at-"

The creaking of the door and the sound of shoes tapping on wood stops their conversation and causes them both to look back only for Signora to be greeted by a hurling figure pulling her into a tight hug.

"Such a sweet sight." a voice crooned behind them, "Could the fierce some harbinger be losing her touch?" which received a glower look from his fellow harbinger as you pulled away to look at the newcomer. "Snezhnaya's bloodhound proving useless commentary around Liyue. I believe you were recalled back to Snezhnaya? What reason do you have to be here again?" she snarled, gripping you tighter on the wrist as if he would steal you away.

You look back and forth between the both of them, the auburn haired man baiting for a fight and your suddenly snarky mother. You hold a hand out to the hydro user, which sticks out attached to his belt.

"It's [Name]."

"Childe, nice to meet you comrade." he offers his hand in response, flashing you a mischievous smile. You could feel your mother's glare at the back of your head. Wasn't it the mothers that were supposed to have eyes at the back of their heads? You mother pulls you away by the shoulder, "It's about time we head off Childe, I'm sure you'll find time to talk later."

"Right, of course," Chide verifies though he doesn't look too thrilled at the thought. Signora leans in to talk into your ear. You can smell her signature lavender perfume, nothing like the flowery scent that drifted out of Ying'er's shop. "We'll talk later." Ah, there we go, you can smell the motherly interrogation from a mile away.

She takes her leave following after Childe slipping through the doorway. Alexey breaks you out of your unseen panic.

"Shall we?"

The people of Liyue don't take too kindly to your fatui companion, you catch side eyes and whispers as you past them on your way to Third Round Knockout. You spy Chongyun nodding at Xingqiu with a rather determined look on his face as if he signed up for an extremely dangerous mission. Knowing Xingqui and the laughter he's hiding, it's definitely a possibility.

"We aren't meeting at Wanmin Restaurant today? Shame." sitting down at the third stool, holding your face in your hands, with a dramatic sigh. Chongyun shivers at the though of some of Xiangling's spicy dishes.

Xingqui welcomes your presence with a clap of his hands. "[Name]! How kind to grace us with your presence! I was just informing Chongyun here about the presence of a scary ghost seen in Qingce Village!" all said with a troubling smile. Chongyun starts to rise out of his seat as the waiter comes to take your orders. He starts going on about having to head to Qingce Village, inviting you for the ride startling the poor waiter.

Oh dear.