The Mimic is genuinely such an interesting fnaf antagonist to me bc it’s a learning, thinking, autonomous being in a way that most of the other animatronic adversaries aren’t with it being entirely devoid of any remains of a human soul, its existence dictated by an algorithm and simple instructing program which it proceeds to carry out with horrifyingly deadly precision, nothing more than a rogue antique endo-turned-murderbot responsible for multiple bloody gore-fests in the tales from the pizzaplex stories and epilogues and yet, AND YET. it’s simultaneously the child it learned it’s mannerisms and ideas that originally shaped its view of the world from, given “life” not by another’s soul but simply the anguish of a father’s grief over the loss of that same child that it doesn’t understand, now learning and adapting as per its programming to the anger and pain and fear it sees in everyone that so much as looks at it, the same hands and arms that used to gently hold a homemade stuffed tiger it now uses to break and rend and maim, and in a way its (later) brutalizing murder-sprees can be seen as little more than an innocent, literal, almost childlike interpretation of its instructions. it is lifeless and robotic and emotionless and capable of learning and emulating and born from pain and loss and anger and adapted to fear and suffering and it is absolutely everything to me
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hi, i just read your latest piece, and i was wondering:
……..
who gave you the right?!?!?! that shit hurtEd. ouch.
now, i took longer than i wanted to reply to this one, because i knew i wished to write back, and there was simply not a good moment for it--- with less words... here are...amends, dear anon. edit: it was not amends, i am so sorry. prev ♥️
---
There's a certain kind of relief, Obi-Wan muses. In death, that is.
Afterlife, part of the living force, heaven or hell— however you would call it, it matters little. This is where Obi-Wan exists now, lingering in the twilight of the force, between the the living and the else.
He should move on.
He's done enough, he's given enough.
Obi-Wan tells himself that the reason for his protracted stay is his promise to watch the boy. He did not train him as he should have. At the very least he will not break his promise to keep him safe.
Some days, it was the only thing that kept him going.
The promise to himself, to the force, to...Anakin.
Obi-Wan tells himself that he owes that much to the memory of the man he once loved. (Still does, if he's honest enough.)(He is not.).
Owes that and more— for how completely he had failed him.
If he spends more time on watching the ashen remains of what used to be a breathtaking, beautiful supernova in the force— than on actually guiding the boy, well, he tells himself that this is for the best, as well. There's little good Obi-Wan's guidance does, after all.
There's no fixing it. Obi-Wan realizes as he watches the one who used to be his Padawan meditate, shields lowered, thinking himself alone.
He said so himself, many times over. He knew that, many times over. Yet he still finds new ways to feel heartsick over it, still manages to be somehow surprised at the notion that this is the truth, that his—
Despair sinks deep within Obi-Wan's core as Darth opens up wider to the force, exposing his turmoiled self to the living force. The layers of anger and hatred are blinding, crimson red and pitch black, all coiled tightly together, protecting what's inside. Claws and venom, and—
Oh, Obi-Wan shudders as Anakin lowers one more shield, for it is Anakin he senses beneath it all— his fear, his agony, his pain.
Oh, Anakin. Obi-Wan thinks, his own force signature twisting into knots. What he would have done to amend for this, to fix this to save him— but there's no bringing that rueful smile back, nor changing the past. Obi-Wan recoils from the thought. It is ruthless, pragmatic, and familliar. One he is used to, one he had been repeating to himself each day and each night. There is nothing he can do. Nothing.
Not anymore, not now, not then.
He can feel himself fading away, shifting deeper into the Force.
Away, away, away— again.
Turning his back as he once did, decades ago, the words 'Help me, Master' scourging through his soul and beyond.
He is a coward.
An old, foolish coward, who can never follow through.
Not that way, or another. Not in any way that matters.
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Everybody always talks about Alfred's parenting but what about Martha and Thomas? Got any headcanons about them being parents and their influence on Bruce's later life?
Part of that is the fact that their deaths probably effected him more then anything they had time to do in his life - early childhood is incredibly important, yes, but as long as the Waynes were good-to-decent, the foundation was solid enough that Bruce’s few remaining memories of them alive would skew rosy.
There is at least one canon where the trip to the theatre was an apology on Thomas’ part for losing his temper at Bruce for interrupting him in his office, which is also a solid bit of parenting on his part (caveat that some canon shows Thomas hitting Bruce for interrupting him, which is not solid parenting). But i think that method of apology - an action or physical sign of apology over just verbally apologizing is something that Bruce learned from his parents, and combined with his difficulties speaking about his feelings, doesnt always serve him as well as it should.
And i think Batman is actually the best indication of the Waynes affect on Bruce - that his reaction to unbearable tragedy is a promise that no one will have to suffer like he did, that he will make this into a kinder world if he has to shape it tjat way himself. I think he learned that from Thomas and Martha too.
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