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generallynerdy · 3 years

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I wonder if he can taste the sadness (Ahsoka Tano & Anakin Skywalker & Rex)

Summary: Ahsoka motions for the younglings to stay behind what little cover she was able to provide as the door wheezes open. She pokes her head out just enough to see and— “Master!” she cries, leaping up. Anakin is at the door, his lightsaber in his hand but unlit. He looks mildly surprised to see her, but takes her hug without hesitation. “Thank the Force,” she breathes out. “We heard blasters and then Master Nu told us to hide. What’s happening?” In her embrace, Anakin is unmoved. She frowns, looking up at him. “Master?”

Warnings: major character death, lightsaber wounds, lots of children die but only one is shown, canon genocide, canon divergence but only to make it sadder Word Count: 1,826

Prompt: Angstpril Day 4 - Betrayal

Author’s Note: WOWWW why do I do this to myself lmfao. I was like ‘oh hey what if Ahsoka was in the Temple during Order 66 would that suck or what’ and then I. Wrote it. For some reason. I’m sick and twisted. Also, not to make you sadder or anything, but can you imagine Obi-Wan finding her body? Shit dude. Anyway, you might think Anakin wouldn’t go to the dark side if the whole Ahsoka thing hadn’t happened, but, like...he already murdered a village of Tuskens before the Clone Wars. I do not doubt that it would’ve happened somehow. I know this is super late but I wanna get all my Angstpril stuff written down no matter how late it is or else I’m gonna feel terrible about it. Title is from My Mother, My Mother by Luther Hughes. (Also, Jinnel, the Kiffar, and her future Master are my ocs. Zett is a canon character but he has barely any appearances so, uh, dibs.)

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“Master Nu! I was just looking for you in the archives.”

Ahsoka bears a wide smile as the old Master of the archives turns to her. The young Padawan, though not so young now she thinks, bears a couple of datapads, old ones she’d borrowed before her last assignment.

“Ah, Padawan Tano. Apologies, but I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

She gestures behind her, where a youngling Clan chatters excitedly. At the sight of Ahsoka, one Nautolan girl lights up and turns to her friend, whispering furiously.

Ahsoka smiles and waves a little, getting a few waves back. “Sorry, Master, I didn’t realise. I can come back later,” she offers.

“That’s quite alright.” Master Nu waves her off. “Just leave it on my desk, and I—”

She stops. Her gaze drifts to the far end of the hallway, but when Ahsoka follows it, she finds nothing there. She’s about to ask what’s wrong, but then she feels it, too: a roil of darkness and fear.

“What is that?” she whispers, unmoving.

The younglings finally notice, a long moment after their seniors, and begin speaking frantically.

“Is the Temple under attack?”

“What do we do, Master Nu?”

“What’s happening?”

“I have to go find my Master!”

With a raised hand, Master Nu silences them all. “Quiet.” Quickly glancing around, she spots a meditation room with an open door. “Quickly, into the meditation room. Padawan Tano, watch our backs.”

“Yes, Master.”

The younglings file into the room obediently, still whispering to one another. One girl, a young Kiffar, bursts into tears, so Ahsoka pulls her aside immediately.

“My Master left to go to the Senate Building,” the Initiate blubbers. “She doesn’t know we’re in danger! I have to find her!”

(She’s too young to have a Master, Ahsoka realises, and doesn’t have a Padawan braid. The Master must’ve found her on a Search and bonded with her.)

“See if you can contact her on your comm, but you need to stay here until we know what’s going on, okay?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t leave her!”

“I understand. My Master is out there somewhere, too,” Ahsoka tries to reassure. “But I can’t let you leave alone, either. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll go find her together.”

The Initiate wipes at her eyes and nods, following the rest of her clan into the meditation room. Ahsoka looks back to Master Nu, who is glancing down the hall with wide, horrified eyes. Something has pulled in the Force.

Someone skids to a stop around the corner.

It’s a young human boy, a Padawan that Ahsoka has seen trailing behind Master Drallig for the last few weeks. On his sleeve, a scorch mark has burned through the fabric to his skin: a blaster wound.

At the sight of Master Nu and Ahsoka, his face twists in relief and he runs toward them.

“Zett,” Master Nu breathes out, taking his arm as soon as he’s close. “What’s going on?”

Through panting breaths, he speaks the impossible. “The clones—the clones are killing us!” he cries. “They got Master Drallig and I can’t find the Council—”

“What?” Ahsoka questions fiercely. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I really saw it! It’s the 501st, they have their armour and everything and they’re killing everybody—!”

Master Nu squeezes his uninjured shoulder. “Breathe, Padawan. I believe you.”

“What!?” Ahsoka turns on her. “They would never—!”

“It may be someone else in that armour, but you know he’s telling the truth, Ahsoka. You can feel it,” she says warningly. “Don’t let emotion cloud your instincts.”

She backs down, but her chest tightens. “Yes, Master,” she says quickly.

“How many of them are there?”

“All of them. Master Drallig—” Zett chokes on his name. “—he told me to go to the landing pad, to get out and find help.”

“I’ll go with you!”

Ahsoka jumps when the young Kiffar reappears, running up to Zett.

“I’m a good tracker,” she says quickly, “and I know where my Master’s going! We can find her!”

Zett looks to Master Nu at the same time she does, uncertainty in his bright eyes. The old archivist casts her gaze to the end of the hall, where the chaos is starting to get louder. With a deep breath, she kneels before the younglings, a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Do not stop, especially for anyone in clone armour. Don’t trust anyone you don’t recognise and whatever you do, do not return to the Temple until you are given the all-clear, do you understand?” When they both nod, she reaches for their hands and presses them together, letting Zett take the girl’s. Master Nu gives him a firm look. “Hold onto each other. Do not let go. This is not a game.”

“Yes, Master,” they say at the same time, equally shaky.

She stands. “Go.”

The pair run off, Zett tugging the Kiffar girl closer to him as they dash down the hall. Ahsoka watches them go, waiting until they’re around the corner to turn her attention back to Master Nu, who has apparently done the same. Before she can speak, the archivist puts a hand on her shoulder as well.

“Stay with the younglings. Lock the door behind you and defend them with your life,” she instructs.

The girl’s eyes widen. “What? You’re leaving?”

“If the Temple is being attacked, there are things I have to do,” is her grim reply. “No one can get their hands on the archives, Padawan, no one. I’ll come find you when I get the chance.”

If I get the chance. The thought is there, though unspoken.

Steeling herself, Ahsoka swallows roughly but nods. “Yes, Master.”

With a glance over the Padawan’s shoulder, Master Nu lowers her voice. “Above all, make sure they make it out.”

“May the Force be with you,” she says quietly, a hope more than a comfort.

Master Nu smiles, a little sad, a little proud. “It is always with us, Ahsoka. It is always with you. Be brave.”

Her words echo in the young Togruta’s mind even as she departs. When she finally pulls herself together, she rushes into the meditation room, counting heads and closing the door behind her. She enters a code to lock it down completely before turning back to her charges.

“I need you all to listen carefully and do exactly as I say, okay?”

There are scattered nods and ‘yes, Padawan Tano’s, so she gives out instructions.

They build barricades throughout the room, providing cover for themselves. Initiates with lightsabers pair up with those without and the latter group gets a few weapons from Ahsoka. Her clone troopers—the ones killing Jedi—gave her quite a few vibroblades and pocket blasters over the years and she’s kept them all. It’s more than a little useful right now, she thinks as she hands them to the younglings.

“Keep your heads down and trust in the Force,” Ahsoka orders, ducking behind a gathering of meditation chairs and tables with three Initiates. She places a hand on the shoulder of the youngest, a small Mirialan with teary eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”

Footsteps thunder from the hallway outside. The younglings fall silent in an instant, poised for battle.

Something catches in Ahsoka’s chest. They’re ready for this. They’re children and terrified but they’re ready for a fight. Is this what her Master used to feel when he looked at her, 14 standard and standing on the front lines? Like something was desperately wrong with this picture?

“The scanners indicate life forms in this room, sir.”

Ahsoka freezes.

It sounds like a clone, though she can't place who. Could Zett have been right? Are the clones—the 501st, of all battalions—turning against them? What in the Force would make them do that? Something here is horribly, horribly wrong.

There's some beeping on the other side of the wall and someone out there must have the codes, because the door starts to slide open.

Ahsoka motions for the younglings to stay behind what little cover she was able to provide as the door wheezes open. She pokes her head out just enough to see and—

“Master!” she cries, leaping up.

Anakin is at the door, his lightsaber in his hand but unlit. He looks mildly surprised to see her, but takes her hug without hesitation.

“Thank the Force,” she breathes out. “We heard blasters and then Master Nu told us to hide. What’s happening?”

In her embrace, Anakin is unmoved.

She frowns, looking up at him. “Master?”

Light washes over her, the stark blue of his lightsaber being lit. She glances down to get a look at where he’s pointing it, what he could possibly be defending her from in a room of younglings. But then pain strikes her abdomen, squeezing her lungs. A choked gasp drags itself from her lips and she finally sees it.

The saber in her chest. Anakin’s saber in her chest.

A youngling screams and blaster fire echoes throughout the room, but Ahsoka can’t see what happens. She can’t even cry out for the Initiates she was meant to protect. All she can do is look back up at him.

His expression is blank, untouched by her apparent agony. He stares down at her with those yellow eyes—

Yellow eyes?

Her mouth falls open a little, her legs wobbling. She loses her balance, falling into him. And he catches her. There isn’t any sort of purpose to the movement, but he catches her.

He has yellow eyes.

Ahsoka thinks of Dooku, of his last moments spent glaring at her and her Master, those burning yellow eyes. She thinks of his red lightsaber fitting perfectly into Anakin’s hand and how nauseous she’d become at the sight.

“Anakin?”

It’s weak, hardly there. She doesn’t even know if he hears it.

And then she’s falling, falling to the floor. He drops her, lets her crumble underneath him, unable to hold herself up.

He walks away.

Breathing raggedly, Ahsoka wants to reach out, wants to grab the bottom of his robe before he can leave her. But her hands won’t cooperate, her entire body screaming at the scorched wound she bears.

The meditation room has fallen silent, leaving the troopers to follow after Anakin. They start to leave, but one notices she’s still breathing, still trying to move.

He lifts his blaster and she finally sees him.

“Rex,” she breathes out.

The jaig eyes on his helmet, carefully painted, give him away instantly. He lifts his pistols and she wants to cry. She doesn’t have the strength for even that. But she doesn’t need any strength to see that his hands are shaking. Ahsoka will never know what’s going on in his head, what’s driving him to lift his blasters in her direction. All she knows is that his hands are shaking.

“It’s okay, Rex,” she says, sounding far from it. “It’s okay.”

He fires.

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

Reblogs are better than likes and deeply appreciated!

If you tag this as an Ahsoka ship, I will block you so fast.

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catflorist · 3 years

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The Time Being (ao3 / ffn) catflorist Summary: Time-slipping is a side effect of wielding the Rinnegan. When Sasuke slips through time, he always goes to Sakura, whether he wants to or not. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

pt 5: sakura

After Sasuke left, Sakura woke up alone on a bench just as the sky began to lighten.

She rubbed the goosebumps on her bare arms. The aching pressure of a sob churned in her chest, but she could not cry.

Someone sat next to her. She recognized the line of his shoulders before she recognized his face.

Sasuke's jaw was sharper, his hair tied back and long enough to graze his shoulder blades. Mismatched eyes—red and purple—met hers before fading into their familiar dark.

He frowned. "You're cold." His voice was quieter, deeper than the voice of her Sasuke. He shrugged the cloak off his shoulders and offered it to her.

Sakura accepted, too stunned to speak. There was no need to voice the obvious. He was not the Sasuke she knew.

"I always wondered how you knew I was leaving," he said.

Sakura burrowed inside the cloak, still warm from his body. The fabric was soft, sun-worn, and smelled like salt. "Because I know you," she answered.

Sasuke smiled, and Sakura's head cleared. He had left, but he was here again. That had to mean something.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice trembled, but the knot in her throat was loosening.

The first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, lighting the treetops in gold. "I need to tell you something."

As dawn rose, Sasuke told her about his time-slipping, about the Rinnegan, that she should expect more appearances in the years to come. Sakura listened in a rapture. When he revealed the truth behind the massacre of the Uchiha clan, her tears finally fell. In the morning light, the village appeared ghostly, like bones bleaching in the sun.

"Will you ever come back?" Sakura asked, when everything was said.

"Yes," Sasuke said.

She dried her eyes on the collar of his cloak. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he said. "We'll meet again soon."

"How long?"

"Five years or so, for you." His brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. You'll need to be patient with me."

"I'll be here when you're ready," she said.

Smiling again, Sasuke tapped the center of her brow with two gentle fingers. "You're with me right now."

A rush of questions flooded Sakura's mind, but they were out of time. Sasuke frowned, rubbing his temples, and Sakura took this to mean he was about to leave. She passed the cloak into his lap.

Sasuke slipped away like ducking underwater, leaving behind a quiet ripple of his presence.

When Naruto and Kakashi found her, the village had already woken up. Traffic clattered from the nearby main streets, and curtains fluttered from open windows. Someone nearby was grilling fish for breakfast.

"He's gone," Sakura said.

For a beat, Naruto and Kakashi said nothing. They searched Sakura's expression, giving her the opportunity to grieve, if she wanted to. But Sakura's breathing remained calm.

Kakashi lifted the hitai-ate obscuring his left eye. His gaze shone with regret. "This is my fault." At this, Sakura's lip started trembling.

Naruto's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "I'm going after him," he snarled.

"There's no need, Naruto." Sakura gripped the stone of the bench. "He'll come back one day."

Sakura trained under Tsunade and grew strong. She learned how to tear open the earth and to mend bones. How to store her chakra drop by drop, so one day it would become a vast ocean under her control.

Two years passed before she saw Sasuke again. It occurred in her own time. He perched on the rim of the cliff outside Orochimaru's hideout, wind lifting his robes. A purple obi ensnared his waist. With the sun at his back, he looked more shadow than boy. His eyes held nothing when he looked at her—neither interest nor contempt.

Then he said, "Sakura." He exhaled her name like a breath, like he didn't even realize he was saying it.

It still hurt when they failed to convince him to return, even if it was what Sakura expected.

The trip back to Konoha was solemn. Naruto was shaken and quiet, and even Sai wisely held his tongue. They traveled through the night until Captain Yamato constructed a temporary wooden shelter with four separate rooms.

When she was alone, Sakura held her head in her hands. She tried to fit the Sasuke she just saw into her knowledge of him. He was longer her teammate, and he was far from the man who had chosen to tie his hair back. He was somewhere in between, somewhere lost, with a long way to go.

"Sakura?"

Sasuke, exactly as she remembered from their genin days, inspected her wet face. All his questions stopped. He grasped her hand and looked stubbornly away, daring her to state what they both knew. It was not his way to freely offer a comforting touch.

Sakura closed her eyes. Sasuke had promised to return, but she never would have doubted it on her own.

"The daimyo wants to drain a lake to build another summer palace, and the council says they have the funds to spare," Tsunade spat, shoving a mountain of paperwork in Sakura's direction. "But there's nothing in the budget for the civilian guilds?"

Sighing in sympathy, Sakura pulled her favorite chair to Tsunade's desk. She flipped through the paperwork, signing a perfect copy of the Hokage's signature on each page. Tsunade filled two glasses with amber liquid, set one beside her student, and settled behind her own tower of paper. This was their evening ritual.

Signing her name with angry flourishes, Tsunade muttered, "Three years as Hokage and I can't get anything done."

Each day, Sakura watched Tsunade fight the council tooth and nail to implement her vision for the village. Each day, the council blocked her every move.

Sakura's pen stilled. Tsunade did not know the truth of the Uchiha massacre. Was it right to tell her?

"Tsunade-shishou…" she began, then the words froze on her tongue.

Her teacher raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out," she urged.

"Have you ever thought that the council might be doing more harm than good?"

This was a radical view. Many citizens of Konoha supported the council in their decision-making. The village was prosperous and powerful. There was no reason to ask deeper questions.

Tsunade was silent for a breath too long, revealing her answer. Teacher and student gazed at each other with a new understanding.

Sakura's hands shook. "There is something you should know."

The council met in an imposing structure set behind the largest gate in the village. Since few windows penetrated its thick walls, the building's interior remained cold and dim no matter the season. When darkness fell, Tsunade and Sakura snuck inside and entered the archive.

After undoing a genjutsu, breaking the ninjutsu seal on a wooden chest, and snapping a plain lock in half, they uncovered the file detailing plans behind the Uchiha massacre.

The scroll was thin. It did not take much space on a page at all to massacre a clan.

Sakura read it first. It was one thing to hear the truth from Sasuke. It was another to see it confirmed in writing, signed by the leaders of the village, and stamped in approval. When she saw the Third Hokage's signature, her heart panged. Sarutobi-sama had always been kind to her. Yet he had known and approved of this plan. Was it a betrayal, or a requirement of his position? Which was worse?

"This village is rotten to the core," Tsunade muttered after closing the scroll. "Is this why your teammate left?"

"No," Sakura said. "He doesn't know the truth yet."

"How did you think to look for this?"

"I was close with Sasuke," she offered, not meeting her teacher's eyes. "I had a suspicion."

Tsunade did not push further. She pressed her lips together, rubbed the space between her eyebrows. For once, the ageless face of Sakura's teacher looked tired.

"We carve our faces into the cliff as if we have something to celebrate," she said. "As if we owe our greatness to the world. But it's all a lie."

Huddled next to Tsunade, surrounded by the archive's chilly secrets, Sakura swore to make the village a better place by the time Sasuke returned.

"No surprise, Sakura. They denied your plans." Tsunade stamped a document hard enough to shake her entire desk. "Danzo told me personally."

Sakura clenched her fists, but she was not surprised. Last week Tsunade refused to shut down an investigation into the Hyuuga clan's use of branding. Now, the council had coincidentally tabled Sakura's sensible proposal to construct a pediatric wing of the hospital.

This was not Sakura's first roadblock. Last month, the council canceled their first meeting with Sakura's newly-established civilian board, citing scheduling conflicts, and dodged all attempts to reschedule. Not long before, they implied that unless Tsunade agreed to spare three extra jonin for the daimyo's entourage, they might not find funds to spare for Sakura's medic training program. Each time, Danzo delivered the news with a modest smile, as if he were pouring her a cup of tea and expecting gratitude in response.

The more Sakura's plans fizzled out, the more she feared Konoha could never change.

Sometimes Sakura imagined herself leaving the village. She thought about it the same way she thought about embracing the next Sasuke she saw. It was not a real possibility, but the idea floated in her head, and sometimes hurt to think about.

She could live alone somewhere. Maybe by the ocean. Her brain conjured all the details: fresh, salty air. Seabirds screeching and plummeting into the water. The temperamental sand shifting under her feet. There would be nothing to fix. Nothing would require changing. Maybe she would find peace.

Sakura worked hard to improve the village, but she did not buy the plant Ino suggested would flourish in the morning light of her bedroom. She stored every scrap of chakra away for her future seal. She did not spend money except when her friends dragged her to dinner. She thought about the Sasuke who smelled like salt. She dreamt about the ocean.

When Sasuke appeared next, it was at the worst possible time, and that's what she told him. She had a village to defend and to heal.

Sasuke was closer, somehow. He wore the obi, but his eyes were brighter. He did not hesitate to approach her and to call out her name. Sakura wished he had stayed long enough for her to heal the wound on his head.

The battle worsened. A hoard of Katsuyu's summons under Sakura's command saved the hospital and the old Uchiha compound from destruction, but Pain's attack leveled much of Konoha to the ground.

Tsunade sank into a coma. Shizune and Sakura tended to the wrecked village.

Captain Yamato was reconstructing Konoha by himself when Sakura stepped in. In his patient voice, he taught her the basics of woodstyle. At first she could only summon twigs and vines. Her wood produced too much foliage, inhibiting its use as a building material. She persevered. By the end of the month, she was by his side, reimagining and rebuilding Konoha, coaxing the surrounding forest to regrow.

Sakura and Yamato faced the empty land where the council building once stood.

"I have an idea," Sakura said, "though it isn't traditional."

"By all means," Yamato said.

Sakura pressed her hands together. Wood coiled into the air and formed a new type of building. It was small and modest with an unadorned facade. A large window opened upon the council gathering space. Where the gate once existed, she created a square for the citizens of Konoha to gather. The council's discussions could no longer occur in private, outside the public eye.

It was no trivial responsibility to possess the skills to rebuild a village. If she could carve out a window when before there was none, create a new space for people to breathe, she would.

"Sakura, you have too many jobs," Ino complained.

"I am a simple student," Sakura denied, though Ino was right. In Tsunade's absence, Sakura's role in the village took on more of a political nature than ever.

After the council appointed Danzo as the temporary Hokage, she and Shizune fought to maintain Tsunade's policies and legislation under his strict rule. During council meetings, she served as Tsunade's representative. In between these responsibilities, Sakura squeezed in training and shifts at the hospital.

This meant Sakura did not have time in her schedule to eat dinner with both Ino and Naruto in one week, so she requested they meet together. Her two friends disrupted the peaceful evening of every Konoha resident with their public debate over where to eat before Ino finally threw up her hands.

Naruto slurped his Ichiraku's ramen. "You're a student, a shinobi, an architect..."

"...a medic, a politician," Ino picked up. She considered. "A large-forehead-bearer."

"Pig," Sakura responded fondly. She eyed Naruto. "Dobe," she said, using Sasuke's word without thinking, and the cheerful mood dampened.

Ino set her teacup on the table with a soft clink. "Have you heard anything?"

Naruto sighed. "The teme is up to some shit."

Sakura chewed her lip. The last they'd heard, Sasuke had formed a team and joined the Akatsuki. Five years or so, Sasuke had promised. Over four years had passed since that day.

Just as a lump formed in Sakura's throat, Ino squeezed her shoulder. "Let's walk to the square, later," she suggested. "It's great, but I think it could use a few more places to sit."

They walked to the square. Sakura twisted wood into benches and placed them according to Ino's vision.

"Beautiful work. But what about trees? Some shade would be nice," Ino said. "Don't you think, Naruto?"

"Eh? But it's night––ow," Naruto gasped, as Ino elbowed him in the ribs. "I mean, absolutely. Could use some greenery, and all that."

Sakura's hands flew through the signs. Trees sprouted in each corner of the square, growing taller than the nearby council building, than any building in the village.

The transformation was immediate. Soft murmurs of rustling leaves replaced silence. A bird landed upon a branch. From where they were standing, the newly born foliage obscured the faces carved into the Hokage Mountain. In the silver wash of the moon, it appeared as if they grew over the mountain itself, a tangle of wood and leaf and stone.

Without speaking, the three of them sat together on the nearest bench, inaugurating the new space.

"This was a good idea, Ino," Sakura said.

Ino and Naruto raised eyebrows at each other.

"Do you feel better, Forehead?"

Gazing at the treetops, Sakura found herself smiling. She felt better.

Sakura was listening to a council meeting with detached resentment when news broke of Danzo's death.

Tsumiki Kido, Danzo's closest confidant on the council, called for a moment of silence. As councilmembers bowed their heads, Sakura's heart raced. She and Shizune shared a careful glance.

When the moment was done, Tsumiki shook his head. "It is clear Uchiha Sasuke has outgrown his usefulness."

"He is a criminal and an enemy," another voice chimed in.

Sakura already knew there was a future waiting for Sasuke. He would live to meet her on that bench. Still, her blood ran cold.

"The boy has shown his true colors," Tsumiki replied. "Who will his next target be? How else will he terrorize our beloved village?"

As evenly as she could manage, Sakura said, "Konoha will never be the same after Danzo-sama's loss." She lowered her head, and faces around the table followed suit. "He displayed the Will of Fire until the end. It is evident he made a great sacrifice for the village, a sacrifice we must not undermine."

Tsumiki frowned and opened his mouth.

"Don't you see?" Sakura interjected, meeting the eyes of each councilmember. "Danzo-sama could easily defeat any enemy. In his wisdom, he understood that Uchiha Sasuke's continued wellbeing is in the best interest of the village. The Uchiha clan's doujutsu, the Sharingan, is a valuable tool. Only Sasuke possesses this skill, now that his brother Itachi is dead."

When several heads nodded, Sakura frowned and looked to the ceiling. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, as if in thought. "I'm happy to volunteer to look through our archives on the Uchiha clan. I'm certain I'll find useful information that illustrates how having an Uchiha in service of the village is beneficial. Perhaps I'll uncover other skills, other histories, that are useful to know. We keep good records, after all."

The younger members of the council did not blink, but Sakura watched key faces twitch. Their eyes bored into her, wondering if the words archive, Itachi, records, all said in the same context, were a coincidence.

As silence fell, the public square outside remained lively. Two elderly civilians took a seat upon one of the newly crafted benches. A shuriken thunked against the large window overlooking the meeting space. Children's laughter sounded, then a group of young Academy students raced to retrieve their object.

Tsumiki's lips pressed together in a thin line. "That won't be necessary."

All talk of retaliation against Sasuke ceased. Discussion turned to Danzo's funeral preparations, then to candidates for the next acting Hokage. Sakura suggested Kakashi. The council grumbled, but it was a good suggestion.

"You spoke well, but that was a risk," Shizune said later. "They will be upset."

Sakura was scrubbing her hands after a surgery when she heard that Tsunade was awake.

She burst into the room. Shizune lifted her tear-streaked face and smiled. Tsunade sat upright in her bed, young and fresh as ever, as if awaking from a catnap rather than a deathly coma. Her teacher was not physically affectionate, but she returned Sakura's tight embrace with no reservations, and brushed the uncombed hair away from her face.

"You've both been busy," Tsunade said, after Sakura and Shizune explained everything she had missed. She eyed Sakura, inspecting the dark circles under her student's eyes. "Don't give too much away. You can't heal or fight or fix this damn village if you don't keep anything for yourself." .

Sakura was on the battlefield. She saw his shadow before she saw him, that familiar line of his shoulders. .

Up next: Sasuke and Sakura meet again.

Notes: double cliffhanger...don't be mad? :) though i hope some of your questions are starting to be answered.

also, we're more than halfway through now! this chapter through the end were the hardest to write--thank you for following along with me!

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku fanfic #ss fic #ss #my ss #my fic #the time being

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chaoticspacefam · 4 years

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(lovely art was done for me by @moonlitalien <3 you should totally go check out the rest of her stuff owo)

GENERAL

name : Aria Saal-Shenly | Darth Canis, Commander Canis

gender : Female

age : 38 as of 3629 BBY (physically looks about 24, thank you Force powers!)

place of birth : Onderon, Japrael system. But was only there for 2 years, spent the rest of her early years on Korriban and Dromund Kaas after her father took her from her mother to begin her apprenticeship.

spoken languages : Basic, High Sith, Twi’leki, Huttese, Mirialan, also understands but can’t speak fluently in Selkatha and Droid speak

sexual orientation : Demiromantic Pansexual

occupation : Sith Acolyte/Apprentice → Sith Inquisitor → Jedi Padawan (Sith Assassin) → Spice smuggler → Jedi Padawan again/Barsen’thor of the Jedi Order (Sith Assassin again) → co-Commander/High Council Member of the Eternal Alliance

APPEARANCE

eye color : Dark side amber, very bright. Naturally, her eyes are heterochromic;

hair color : Raven black, with a blonde streak dyed into her fringe on the left side.

height : 5 ft 1 in, she’s tiiiiinyyy (but don’t say that to her face)

scars and burns : Quite a few. Most notably, she has a large puncture/bite mark scar (lining up pretty good with the average-sized Tuk’ata’s teeth ;)) on her throat, various smaller blaster marks and/or saber burns, particularly on her shoulders and collarbone. And finally, a very large cluster of through-and-through scar tissue stretching across almost her entire torso, and mirrored on her back.

overweight : Not really, but she is very stocky in build, so she doesn’t have an hourglass figure at all.

underweight : No

FAVORITE

color : Gunmetal grey

music genre : Doesn’t tend to listen to music much, pretty much just chills and listens to whatever Vano likes.

tv show : mostly documentaries on Sith Archaeology and artefacts, occasionally a holodrama, though she mostly watches those because her wife likes them and she just wants to spend time with her, as opposed to actually caring about the storyline.

food : hearty, warming food like stews, curries etc.

drink : alcoholic: Arkanian Sweet Milk, anything strong enough to knock you onto your ass, she likes heavy liqueour and holds hers well. Though she will drink just about anything. Non-alcoholic: partial to bantha or nerf milk, especially slightly warmed.

book : not much of a reader, but will sometimes go over ancient Sith scripts with Ni’kasi, or read through some of her father’s old archive files when she’s missing him.

HAVE THEY:

passed university : if graduating from the Sith Academy/Jedi Order counts as university, then yes.

had sex : Yes.

had sex in public : A public place, yes. In front of other people, though? nope.

gotten pregnant/gotten someone pregnant : Nope. Aria is sterile due to side effects from a blunt trauma injury in her youth (she crashed a TIE fighter and was impaled by the bulkhead. A longass soak in a kolto tank and several months of treatment and physical therapy restored most of her other physical abilities, but they couldn’t undo the damage to her reproductive system - she doesn’t mind, she never wanted kids anyways and now it just means she doesn’t have to faff with...things when she’d rather be doing the other thing ;))

kissed a boy : Yep!

kissed a girl : Yep!

gotten tattoos : Yes. Aria has red Sith tattoos along her jawline, on her chin, and around her left eye (see image above for reference!). she covers these up with a TON of makeup while she’s undercover with the Jedi, but finally stops putting the concealers on once they get to Yavin and she can confidently be herself again.

had a broken heart : Nnnnnooopeee. She’s the one that does the heartbreaking ;’)

been in love : yes! only with Vano, though. and it took her YEARS to finally admit it to herself, nevermind poor Va sjuhsgyudg XD

stayed up for longer than 24 hours : on a few occasions yes. More often during the KOTFE/ET timeline, when Valkorion starts terrorising Vano in her dreams. Aria stays up to shake her awake and bring her back down when it gets really bad :(

ARE THEY:

a virgin : Lol, no. (she’s a whore and she’s not even sorry)

a cuddler : If your name is Vano, yes. With everyone else, not so much.

a kisser : Absolutely! Especially with Vano, of course, but is known to be quite kissy with just about anyone, sometimes purposefully just to make them flustered and/or for a laugh, because she’s a troll like that :’D

scared easily : Ahahahahahahahahhahahahaha. No. Definitely not, this woman has nerves of steel. She’ll stare down a beast ten times her size and scream back at it and not even flinch once. That’s not to say she’s entirely fearless, she does have fears, but they’re incredibly specific and chances are you have to actually know what they are before you’ll actually be able to frighten this tiny gremlin.

jealous easily : not particularly. she can be somewhat possessive at times, but usually only with a fairly good reason (watch out, Quinn)

trustworthy : If you’re someone who has earned her genuine trust and respect, absolutely. Otherwise...don’t trust her as far as you could throw her. She’ll stab you in the back as soon as is convenient for her, especially to save her own ass (or someone she does care about)

dominant : Can be, depending on the mood (an anashamed switch *wiggles eyebrows*)

submissive : Can be, depending on the mood (an anashamed switch *wiggles eyebrows*)

in love : yes! even she was surprised by that one, but she and Vano are inseparable now.

single : Nope! Happily married and even though she might flirt sometimes (especially if it makes the recipient uncomfortable), she has no intention of following through with any of it.

RANDOM QUESTIONS

have they harmed themselves : Not on purpose, but had a glitterstim habit for a good five years when she first fled from the Sith and Jedi and has some problems with her long-term memory as a result, as well as a binge-drinking problem. She’s still a heavy drinker, but nowhere near what it used to be.

thought of suicide : surprisingly, no. she’s too stubborn for that. Aria will keep chugging on out of sheer spite.

attempted suicide : nope, even though she’s been through some bad, bad stuff and had a lot of trauma to work through, even at the worst moments of her life she was determined to poke the entire world in the eye and tell it to “go fuck itself” :’)

wanted to kill someone : Bwahahahahah absolutely. It’s...I mean it’s basically her entire job. The person in charge points at something/one and says “that one” and she’ll go do it (: She calms down a bit once she follows Vano into the Alliance and starts taking orders from her and Saarai (but only because they are more chill. If they leave her unattended and/or don’t explicitly say "DO NOT kill the thing!!” then she’s a loose cannon *whistles*)

rode a (space) horse : yes! she’s ridden various things from Uxibeasts to Tauntauns and Icetrompers, and even a Hssiss once, but her usual go-to mount is a Varactyl.

have / had a job : Yes. She was, for a time, the Barsen’thor of the Jedi, but secretly a Sith Assassin/sleeper agent who weakened the Order from the inside, until the tail end of the battle(s) on Ilum when Satele finally caught her out and threw her ass in Time Out (a.k.a jail/a Force cage) before Vano and Ni’kasi could get to her. She was eventually - somewhat begrudgingly - released and ordered to accompany Theron on his mission, as Theron didn’t trust Lana or the other Sith they were sending enough to go alone and no other Jedi would volunteer to go with him without further details. When that Sith turns out to be Vano, Aria joins up with the proto-Alliance they begin to form on Yavin and stays at Vano’s side to become a co-Commander/member of the Alliance’s High Council once it’s formed for real.

fears : she has PTSD associated with the people she killed in her younger years (most notably her mother and a certain someone else I cannot yet mention because spoilers), but her biggest fear is actually death/dying. Aria is terrified of the day the Force finally takes her and she has to face all the people she’s harmed while she was a puppet to Vitiate’s Empire.

FAMILY

sibling(s) : none in official canon, though in the Zephyrverse AU she does have quite a few half-siblings on her father’s side.

parents : Myala Thulie | (Former) Cipher Nine (non canon) (Mother, deceased), Roanan Saal | Darth Noctis (Father, deceased as of end of Sith Warrior storyline)

children : Ahahahahahahahahahaha no. Do not leave her around children, she’s an awful babysitter and would be an even worse mother. Aria will teach them to cuss like a Corellian pilot in all five languages that she knows and just generally be a very awful influence on them.

pets : the former Tuk’ata Mother, Chwûq, and her mate Taral. Once bonded to her father, but chose to attach themselves to Aria instead after his death; and a Woodland Varactyl (female) named Maeiv (pronounced “may-eev”),

I’m not gonna tag anybody cause I’m literally doing this one again because I’m bored/I needed stuff to throw into the queue for this weekend while I’m afk. If you’re reading this and you want to do it, tho, go for it!! :DD

#bold of you to assume i know what i'm queuing #swtor #star wars: the old republic #swtor OCs #OC meme #swtor oc: aria saal #tw: drugs #tw: alcoholism

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 45 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 45 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

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Doctor Worran put her arms around her Captain and looked at Mord as she said, “It was Ord smoke that contaminated provisions. My Captain and over seventy of the crew were hurt. Twenty seven died. She’s been poisoned twice.”

Sula blinked back her tears and regained a semblance of composure. To control the feelings that still raged in her after more than ten Gatherings, she spoke with almost academic detachment. “These provisions would have prevented those deaths and saved many more, myself included, from injury. If we’d had this process we could have just washed the Ord smoke from the blocks. The total populations of twenty three murdered ships could have been saved.”

Once again, the circling Wide Wing became a thing of interest. It helped Sula to focus and get her thoughts under control. She picked up the block of preserved crab and looked at it with both sorrow and hope.

“These provisions will enable us to make long, swift runs when necessary.”

“Like battle intercept runs?” Mord asked brow furrowed with curiosity.

“Like battle intercept runs,” confirmed Sula.

“The Captain of Captains got away from us after the Second War,” put in Doctor Worran, “because he had more provisions than we did. Nets, lines and catch processing slowed us down, allowing him to escape. Provisions like these could have ended the matter there. Instead, thousands died and over a hundred ships were lost in the Third War.”

Kurin, who had been listening intently, asked, “Where is he now?”

“At the end of the Third War, we had more provisions than he did,” Sula said shortly. Kurin was awed by the thought that so small a thing as this might have saved thousands of lives and many ships. She mentally filed away the notion that a big picture is made up of small details and sometimes just one detail can change the entire picture.

Sula was staring at a lowly block of preserved fish and seeing carnage, a war that could have been prevented, ships and lives saved by a bit of safe food. She was biting back tears as she signed the agreements that Alor put in front of her.

Soon, the Longin’s cargo crane was lowering bulging nets into lighters. The provisions were being transferred to the Dark Dragon. The two galley Masters had their heads together, going over the whole process and the equipment needed.

Master Juris was busy in the boat-shop, fabricating two new sets of block presses, one for the Dark Dragon, and one for the Soaring Bird. Kurin could not help in the manufacture, as she normally would have, so he set her to making drawings and writing directions for the equipment. Both Captain Mord and Captain Sula were watching the work going on in the shop.

A runner from the Council located Sula and conveyed their urgent request that she come back. All of the Captains that had left the Council were also being recalled.

As Mord and Sula left, Master Juris remarked to Kurin, “There’s a Wide Wing hunting on this breeze. The Council’s asked for Sula and Huld both. I’ll wager you that they want more than just advice on how to run the search for the Grandalor.”

“I know what you mean. They are the only Captains here that have any experience in searching for ships that don’t want to be found. If we catch the Grandalor, I hope that the Dark Dragon doesn’t have to sink her. It would cause Sula grief that she doesn’t need.”

“I did see that even the thought of war bothered her,” said Master Juris, looking up from the mold and press that he was fabricating.

Kurin continued to carefully copy her drawing as she replied, “Sula still cries in her sleep for the folk that she’s killed. She can’t forget them. She sees no difference between them and her own crew. The last war that she fought was over ten Gatherings ago.”

“That must be hard,” said Master Juris sympathetically, as he methodically shaved the carefully shaped press ram for a perfect fit in the mold. “The Dark Dragon has sunk what, about thirty ships?”

“Thirty six,” said Kurin, concentrating on a bit of tricky detail in her sketch. “She has damaged and captured fifty three and taken the surrender of a hundred and twenty-one. While I was on board the Dark Dragon, I was allowed to read what I could in Sula’s library and sailors will talk. Most of her books are written in Winternight. I can’t read it but I did look through quite a few of them anyway. They had pictures that I could understand. I know what war is, now. It scares me.”

Master Juris had a tight, angry smile as he spoke, “It is hard knowledge to have. I think that you had an easier time receiving the knowledge than the Grandalor will have.” He carefully measured another press part with a caliper, so that it would exactly match the previous press, standing on his bench.

In the Council Pavilion, Master Juris’ prediction was being borne out. Captain Sarfin was addressing both Sula and Huld.

“We have no claim on your time. You came here for a clearly stated purpose which you have accomplished. In all honor, you could leave us here to deal with the situation that has arisen in our fleet. I do hope, indeed we all hope, that you will continue to help us as you have already.

“You have made one search sweep for the Grandalor. We know that you have experience in searching for ships that want to hide. We have to find the Grandalor and bring her to justice. Will you help us? If you will, we will put the fleet under your command.”

Huld was sitting cross-legged on the deck. Sula turned to him and crouched down to his level. “Honored One, this is not my decision alone. May we do this thing?”

Huld did not open his eyes. He replied quietly, “We must.”

Sula uncoiled, a spring of human energy. “We will organize and guide your effort. When you find the Grandalor, do not try to take her. Huld and I have the experience and equipment for that task. We will not take the reward but will see it shared out to the ships that found her.

“Set up a large table and bring me maps showing your territories. I will need sailing data on all of the ships that will be in the search. In particular, I will need your wind nomograms.

She looked about at the Captains, some like Sarfin, were already beginning to dig through the fleet Archive for what she had asked. Others, Skua in particular, seemed troubled by the way that she was taking charge.

Seeing his reluctance, Sula asked Skua directly, “Do you want to be a part of this search?”

He scowled, “Not really. The Fauline really isn’t up to this sort of work. Our schooner rig is handy but it’s not very fast. We should be going to our Spring waters and fishing.”

“Then go to notify the Arrakan fleet. You can begin fishing after that is done.” Sula turned her back on him in dismissal and began to study the data piling up in front of her. As Skua stalked out, he heard her saying, “Longin, you and the Dorton are both fast and sail tight to the wind. You will take the North. Go to the Dragon Sea and begin your mapping. Dorton, you go with the Longin and patrol one degree south of them and one half day upwind from them.”

As they began to protest that they could not cover so vast an area, she handed them a different chart. “Here, this polar projection will make the real situation clear. Mercators always distort the northern latitudes.”

The Fauline gathered her crew and left, ostensibly for the Arrakan fleet.

TO BE CONTINUED

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kimyoonmiauthor · 4 years

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Myka and James Stauffer rehoming a disabled child--What more can you do?

I wrote this once, but then it wouldn’t post. So this is a second time, excuse it if it’s not as eloquent as it should be. I’m an international adoptee, so we’re more affected by this case than most because according to Reuters 2013 more of us are “rehomed” than others. Because of this, I’ve also been following the case since 2010. So all of the people “shocked” by this terminology needs to listen to adoptees. Over the last 10 years or so, I’ve been collecting resources and things YOU as non-adoptees can do to help. This has included listening to Birth Parents, Adoptees, Adoptive Parents, Former Foster Youth, and basically using my Anthropology training to collect a list. I have to remind you that going after the Stauffers alone isn’t enough. We have to go after the systems that enabled them to do this in the first place so this does not happen to another child. I get it. Vigilante justice feels good. It’s short, sweet and you get results and to see the face of the individual. A system doesn’t have a face you can gloat over. But if you really do care, you’d go after prevention and long term change, otherwise your outrage--and I’m including all of those youtubers I had to sort through (which was painful at best, but so goes advocacy), is empty. You only care about your own self-satisfaction rather than the long term cause or the people involved themselves. (My anti-Cancel Crew objections are along this line of thought.) Since I’ve been asked what this looks like and re-pasting it over and over is a pain, I decided to centralize the post with the levels of justification for the action. I get this post is longish, but take the part you need to make that change you want to advocate for.

If you want to take parts of this post, you can take the links without credit, but not the specific words. And don’t take credit for work you didn’t do.

What is Rehoming?

The often legal, but immoral act of placing a child without oversight of the state or government by placing them on the internet or doing backyard deals. We adoptees have been battling facebook pages for years to shut it down. I am not naming them, because I don’t want to encourage the behavior.

This is separate from dissolution of adoption. This is done with home study and legal oversight.

Why is this a Problem?

Adoptive parents go through a long, long process call home study this can take anywhere from a few months to a year. This has evolved over the years. Since this specific case involves international adoption, I’ll do a run down of the evolution of how home study has evolved in the International adoption community. I know it’s dry and boring, but it’s important to understand why the Stauffer case is egregious and why I am holding Holt responsible.

Home study used to be, “Are you Christian?” as done by the Holts. To be clear, social workers and his translator at the time objected to this. His reasoning? He thought all Christians are good people. (Though if you check the qualifiers for genocide by the UN, this is loosely on the list.) Adoptees were lucky to even get half a page.

This resulted in children being put into sex trafficking rings and child slavery. Social workers and Adoptees legislated against the Holts and the restrictions went up. (The whole list of immoral, yet not illegal crimes the organization has done as a whole, is a whole other story. I know it backwards and forwards as an adoptee with dates and countries since I’ve been in the adoptee community since roughly 1999.) This took 20 years from the first children in 1940′s and 1950′s. The home study in the 1970′s was still thin, but the amount of abuse cases went down. By the 1980′s, there was pressure to actually care about the children, so ESWS (one of the Korean agencies) and the other agencies in Korea started pushing for more extensive home studies (at the behest of Adoptees). The packet and requirements were thin. This included things like checking the financials of the family in question. Giving the parents language lessons, and then a packet usually about an inch thick. They would also get family statements and recommendations. A social worker would come and check the safety of the home. By about the 1990′s the packet has increased, and psychological evaluations started to be put into place. There were lists of books added to the list. (I asked Adoptive Parents to help me with this.) These were “suggestions” but no one tested if the prospective parents read them. So the packets given were about 6 inches deep, with the books about a foot. The in-class studies, several honest Adoptive Parents called “laughable” there was no race training at all and most of it was hanging out.

By the early 2000′s, they started to finally let parents of color adopt in larger numbers. (I know) The rehoming had gotten far more decent. The psych evaluations got deeper. They started to exclude criminal activity, do background checks on the parents, and do deeper psych evaluations, requiring deeper studies. But the Adoptive Parents I talked to said they were not getting the support they needed. The agencies weren’t listening on what they needed to parent their child. This is about the time I started collecting a wishlist and sending it to agencies. As far as I’m connected, nothing has really changed since then. The problem with rehoming is that it sets us back to 1950′s rules. All of this progress that Adoptees, Social workers, and well-meaning Adoptive Parents have fought hard for is done in an instant. There is no home study and the former parents get away with it because Adoptees and Foster Kids are not protected by the same laws that children from birth are.

What does this have to do with the Stauffers?

The Stauffers, a few years ago, decided to adopt a kid from China. They are social influencers. So they asked to fund their child’s adoption. They opted to have a child with special needs and by reports “checked 99% of them.” They paid zero for the adoption, and then used him to boost one of their channels and Instagram follower’s accounts. Their channel boosted by a ton of money, such that they could move into a mansion, their “dream home”, go on several large family vacations, made off of publicizing his story for their own “disability savior” points. Some of the videos, however, were problematic.

He was later said to have autism, and was in speech therapy, by Myka who wanted to “save” money on him by bringing him to a cheaper therapist. Despite this, the channel grew.

Then suddenly the boy disappeared from the channel. After months of pressuring her, they released a video saying they had “rehomed” him. The internet was enraged by this and went after her and James Stauffer. They tried to push Myka to receive all the blame to protect James Stauffer’s channel. All of the videos of this little boy were still up and monetized. They came up with a petition to force all of the videos down. The monetized videos came down and a new petition started: https://www.change.org/p/youtube-shut-down-myka-stauffer-s-youtube-account?signed=true

I also started a letter writing campaign to the governor to make sure it was getting investigated. Everyone else posting about it was trying to go after Myka Stauffer, but I wanted legal change. With me and my network, we worked three days straight to finally get an answer and make sure that the boy they had adopted and “rehomed” was safe.

Is Rehoming New?

Internet Amnesia is real. No. It’s been happening to public knowledge since 2010.

There was the NYC case which got turned into a Law and Order Special Victims Unit episode: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/svu-shines-a-light-on-the_b_4735153

There was the Justin Harris case.

There was the Hart case. (They rehomed once and were able to adopt two more times.)

And if you didn’t think it was covered before then there is also:

https://www.today.com/parents/it-takes-more-love-what-happens-when-adoption-fails-918076

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2018/11/children-who-have-second-adoptions/575902/

https://mljadoptions.com/blog/adoption-rehoming-disruption-dissolution-20140520

I’ve been riding my own state to institute laws against rehoming, and they finally did it, after the Governor vetoed it once, and I chased him about it. You could be a person that does this too.

So What Can I Do to be a Part of the Change? Here is a PDF of the current anti-rehoming laws. Press for the ones in your state to be cleaned up/invented. https://www.childwelfare.gov/pubPDFs/custody_transfers.pdf Here's contacts for the city where they live if you want to make sure they get justice for him. http://www.delawareohio.net/agendas-motions-summaries-meeting-recordings/meet-city-council-2/ You can contact Governor Mike DeWine and ask him to do something similar to this law https://www.writing.ucsb.edu/sites/secure.lsit.ucsb.edu.writ.d7/files/sitefiles/publications/2010_Sho.pdf which would give Huxley 90% of the earnings in a trust fund and protect the other Stauffer kids: https://governor.ohio.gov/wps/portal/gov/governor/contact The petition to take down their videos is here (They shifted their channels, but still have Huxley's content up.): https://www.change.org/p/youtube-demand-the-stauffers-remove-all-monetized-content-ft-huxley-from-their-youtube-channel?recruiter=1095019618

There is a more strict petition here: https://www.change.org/p/youtube-shut-down-myka-stauffer-s-youtube-account?signed=true There is a federal law that's been in the works since about 2015, when the Justin Harris case broke. Langevin has been trying to get it passed. It has bipartisan support. https://langevin.house.gov/press-release/bipartisan-bill-will-protect-adopted-children-rehoming He is the one that said that cats and dogs have more protections than adoptees or foster care youth have.

https://willbrownsberger.com/rehoming-of-adopted-children/

Send them love and support for working on this for so long. I think if people really, really did care, they'd call their Senators and make sure they are supporting this bill (It has bipartisan support): https://www.senate.gov/senators/How_to_correspond_senators.htm

Why and How to Hold Holt Responsible

Holt wasn’t responsible for the placement of this young boy. However, he is still their charge. When they absorbed the other agency, they should have checked on their charges and made sure they were doing well. But they didn’t.

This seems like a mild crime in most people’s eyes, but case after case, their failure to give Adoptive Parents support and check on them has resulted in a huge list of them saying, “This is unfortunate.”, but then not changing their contracts and trying to clean up the system they perpetuate. Since they are the largest of the International Adoption agencies, they also could set an example, by say, not enabling people to adopt on repeat from them if they’ve rehomed a child. (Shouldn’t their records show that?) and creating a network of adoption agencies to prevent abuse and rehoming so the Hart case doesn’t repeat.

https://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/nyregion/chinas-adoption-scandal-sends-chills-through-families-in-united-states.html https://books.google.com/books?id=ABEoAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA224&lpg=PA224&dq=Holt+International+abuse&source=bl&ots=3tvNla8X2x&sig=ACfU3U00GO4BzWMLUnU9dnI_EYqy1VwilA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi546nirOvpAhV3HzQIHWTwCow4ChDoATAFegQIDBAB#v=onepage&q=Holt%20International%20abuse&f=false And this is the complete list: http://poundpuplegacy.org/node/6194

Their contact:

https://www.holtinternational.org/contactus.php

But what do I ask for?

I compiled this list with the help of Adoptive Parents who have dealt with Holt before.

- Psych evaluations to take out the Narcissistic people (though stop selling it as a Savior Project would also help.) - Check their parenting styles--some styles do and some styles don't work for adoptees because of the initial trauma. - Minimum Foster Care training.

Many adopters go the rehoming route because they believe the Foster Care system is broken and listen to the news. It is, but they should work with Social Workers because Backyard deals are less than that. Obama (no matter how you feel about him) suggested Foster Care training for all Adoptive Parents which is more rigorous than home study for most states (though this also needs revision). - Make them learn the language of the adoptee they are adopting for at least one year (where it applies and they would have to pass with a C or better.) This is mostly so they learn the cultural standards of the country and it helps cement ideas about socialization as well that is hard to describe otherwise. - Holt specifically forbids Adoptive Parents from contacting Foster Parents after placement--reverse that. Adoptive Parents had to work around them and those that did had better outcomes for their child. Often the Foster Parents were eager to help. - Adoption agencies would be required with any international adoption to give a run down from the foster parents of some basics of socialization (for the country), and maybe some basic training. This would be interactive. (as supposed to the next item)

- Give a basic rundown sheet of things to help the child transition from standard socialization practices. How to comfort the child? What specific foods was the child eating? Is there a brand of detergent that was used in their original home? Where does the child sleep? What are their sleeping hours? What type of clothes do they wear? Things people take for granted and think are universal. Anthropologists and Foster Parents could help with this. - For parents taking on disabilities, they should be required prior to encounter the disability and meet more seasoned parents currently dealing with the disability in question--especially adoptive parents. So they can ask questions, network and really, really see if they can handle it. Don't take their word for it. - Adoptees, PoC, etc and any other diversity labels involved with the child should be required to be in close contact with them. i.e. not the internet. Basic race, etc training should apply and they have to pass a test.

-Check on the Adoptee after placement.

After Adoption care. Several APs said they would have really liked this, but then they were left in the dark. In fact their agencies gave them zero support. And the baby would cry and cry and they were totally lost on what to do. They were lost on which experts to ask, and who they could contact. This is unacceptable. Dogs and cats get more checks and aftercare than human children.

On the consequences end,

Child trafficking and Abandonment--Holt should press for those laws. APs that care are for this. They said, why aren’t there these laws?

Also any adopters that rehome would be banned from adopting again, and they would be added to a general blacklist and spread that information to other agencies.

Through this dissolution of adoption should be the key.

If they break the contract, you can sue.

Lastly, don’t believe you are alone. Your anger can make change. At least let your anger last long enough to make this change to the laws so we adoptees don’t have to hear next year how people are shocked yet again by another rehoming case. Be the change the world needs. You aren’t helpless.

#adoption #rehoming #myka stauffer #james stauffer #rehoming should be illegal #international adoption

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greyias · 4 years

Text

FIC: Smoke and Mirrors - Chapter 14

Title: Smoke and Mirrors Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T Genre: Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn Synopsis: Something’s rotten on Carrick Station, and Theron won’t rest until he finds out what. But picking at the frayed threads of suspicion quickly unravels a conspiracy much larger than even the Republic’s top spy can handle on his own. (A mostly canon-compliant retelling of the Forged Alliances storyline, as seen through the eyes of Theron Shan.) Author’s Notes and Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

Chapter Index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | Crossposted to AO3

The report didn’t get finished that night, but his automated trace on Darok did. It would help monitor most public and low-security information. Any high-clearance snooping was a manual process systems had been put in place to prevent automated data mining. Several of which were of his own design after he’d found the flaws several years back.

Of course, having such an intimate knowledge of the SIS systems helped him keep off the radar, as long as he kept a clear head about him. It also helped that his official assignment was to assist with the investigation on finding out how the Imps had managed to get to Tython. Which he was, just… splitting his attention some.

Officially, none of it led to Darok, which was frustrating, but not to be unexpected. Thus far, Theron had been able to identify two leaks associated with the attack on Tython, but had several more flagged for follow-up. The first was the Sith capture of a Jedi Archivist that worked in the Tython library, and the other was an ignored report from a cargo pilot that frequented the temple regarding the theft of a manifest that included information on her route and the hyperlanes.

These leaks mirrored his own datamining into the Korriban op too closely for his own comfort. If he were a suspicious man, which he was, he would suspect that the information he had found had been planted. By someone leaving just enough bread crumbs for a clever enough intelligence operative to put the pieces together. If that was the case, someone had used the SIS, and more specifically him, in whatever this was.

His implants pinged him with an alert from his automated trace, cutting through his sour mood. Seeing that it was a passenger manifest of a flight departing Tython, he pulled away form the terminal he’d been manning most of the day and surreptitiously pulled out his datapad to review the passenger list. It appeared that Darok was leaving the Temple, and his current destination looked like it was Carrick Station.

Theron was about to do some minor slicing into the colonel’s schedule to see exactly what he had planned, when he got an inbox notification.

To: Theron Shan From: Greyias Highwind Subject: HI!

Heya Spyboy—we haven’t met officially, but the boss asked me to write to you from this address. (I’m Kira, I’m sure you’ve read about me. I hear you have a file on all of us! What does mine say?) She got pulled away with a meeting with the Pilgrim Matriarch. Or a hugfest, not really sure what’s going on over there. Anyway, she wanted me to let you know right away that some ‘mutual friend’ of you two had to leave the planet on a meeting?

Good riddance I say. He was cramping our style. Scourge almost started a lightsaber fight with one of his men when they kept blocking the door to the Archives. But this is Scourge, so it could just be Taungsday.

Okay, I’m getting a look now, so maybe this letter was supposed to be shorter. I promise I’ve only looked at like all of your messages to her. What’s this about a mythological bracelet? Are you two going treasure hunting? Can I come? I promise to bring snacks.

Theron couldn’t suppress a groan, massaging his forehead as he read the contents of the message. He had only just gotten to the end of it, when another notification pinged.

To: Theron Shan From: Greyias Highwind Subject: Apologies

Apparently my former Padawan can’t be trusted with the simple task of writing a sentence and pressing the send button. I got pulled away in the middle of my message and asked her to finish it since I thought it was important to keep you updated on… our “friend’s” whereabouts. Clearly my inbox was too great a temptation for her to pass up.

To: Greyias Highwind From: Theron Shan Subject: Really?

I’m making the bold assumption this message is being read by its intended recipient now, and that you’ve changed all of your security protocols and passcodes? And that in the future you won’t be handing off future dictation requests to your nosy secretary?

I’m aware of our our friend’s movements, and if there’s anything noteworthy I will let you know. I trust you’ll also inform me if I need to be aware of any incidents between your crew and SpecOps? Things that, say, might hamper my efforts on this end?

You should probably also let Kira know that we’re not going on a treasure hunt. I think she was far too excited about that.

He stared at the screen for a few moments, debating whether he should ask about Dentiri. Seeing as she hadn’t brought it up, he decided against it, and just pressed send before he thought on it too long. Besides, he didn’t intend to start a letter writing campaign here. His time was better spent on the investigation—both the official one he was conducting and the private one.

Of course, if he didn’t want a reply, he shouldn’t have asked any questions.

To: Theron Shan From: Greyias Highwind Subject: Yes Really

There was nothing noteworthy to report on this end regarding my crew’s interactions with SpecOps. We’re simply trying to do what we can right now, and most of the Republic forces arriving are of great help. We will likely be called away soon, but I’m hoping that some members of the Council will arrive before then. No offense to the military, but I would feel more comfortable leaving with one of the Order’s leaders in charge. I hope we do not have to miss the memorial service, but a Jedi must go where they are needed most.

Until then, I will await your reply of these “noteworthy” revelations.

I have also informed Kira that there will be no hunt for the Lost Bracelet of Darth Lahvvish. I have never heard of this Sith nor know why she was so careless with her jewelry, but I don’t want to ask. Kira seems crushed enough as it is.

However, maybe you should look into the mystery, since you’ve got access to all of those special databases to know where everyone is at all times. Maybe they can give you the clue to the location of the missing Bracelet of Fellowship, last seen in the Sea of Hypothesis? Just a thought.

“Hey, Shan, you okay there? You look like you’re having a stroke.”

“What?” Theron was torn away from the datapad to see Jonas Balkar’s stupid smirking face leaning into his cubicle.

“Well, that or you might be starting to form a smile, and I know that’s not physically possible.”

“Shut it, Balkar.” He quickly stowed the datapad away before it attracted the other agent’s attention. “What are you doing here? Thought you were living it up on Nar Shaddaa.”

“Trant pulled me back, said he needed more eyes on this Tython thing and wanted the best.”

“I think you got the memo meant for me. You can run back along to playing nice with the Hutts.”

“Pass.” Jonas sauntered over, throwing an arm around Theron’s shoulders. “Now, since it’s quitting time and your old buddy’s back in town—“

“We’re not buddies.”

“—I say it’s high time we go get a drink.”

“I’m not—“

Jonas apparently wasn’t listening and already in the mood for a good hangover. Using his grip on the other man’s shoulders, he propelled his fellow agent towards the door. Sure, Theron could have popped the other man’s arm out of its socket and reclaimed his personal space and evening plans of spying on Darok… but he really didn’t want to have that conversation with Marcus again.

“Fine,” Theron muttered darkly, “one drink. But if this winds up being another one of your stupid schemes, I’m going to rearrange that pretty face so all the girls run away at their first look at you.”

“No need to get possessive, Shan. You’ll always be my number one.”

“Bite me, Balkar.”

#swtor fanfiction #theron shan x jedi knight #Theron Shan #Female Jedi Knight/Hero of Tython #oc: greyias highwind #kira carsen #jonas balkar #otp: adorkable #brotp: spyboys #brotp: theron shan & jonas balkar #SoR Fic O Doom #smoke and mirrors #swtor #fanfic #greyfic

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bibliotechnician · 5 years

Text

Just a bunch of excerpts I’ve shared with people over the course of the last few years or so. They’re split up by ship where applicable, timeframe where not. I might make more of these as they show up in archive searches or being written. If something stands out and you want more of it, lemme know; they’re all unfinished drabbles-in-progress.

Warning for some ... ah ... implied necropophagy in brief for one of them, which [for those unfamiliar] is cannibalism of dead people.

---------------------------------------------

SAURKRAUTS

"What is that." It was less a question, more an observation. He stopped behind her, the scuffle of his boots and clacking of the gun belts falling quiet in the inky black. The only sound came from far off, a constant dripping trickle of water that penetrated the thick silence, so tangible it felt like someone could cut a slice off it. Even then, she knew he could at least see her enough to read her movements, and she was aware of him within her space. "What is it?" he whispered back, tentative to break the stillness. Something else was breaking through, she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Something that sent a shudder up her spine and set her metaphoric hackles raising. This wasn't the usual tunnel anxiety either. This was something real, something dangerous. She took a step back and broadened her profile in threat, grateful to feel his hand at her back to make sure she was steady. Instinct pulled her to look at the thing, whatever it was. But the problem was that there was nothing to see enough to actually look at. What is that... The thought plagued her head before the panic started setting in. She was underground, in a tunnel, the thought set her to hyperventilate. She barely heard Reiner's voice asking low and with concern if she was alright, the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat in her ears, the feeling of the tunnels closing down, the darkness pushing in, the shuffle along one wall... "There!” It erupted from her like a cannon, echoing around the concrete tube as startling as Reiner's flashlight beam cutting into the black abyss. Crouched on a jutted piece of masonry was a figure. It looked vaguely human in shape, swathed in black tatters, completely still even as the light hit it. "What the fuck ... is that..." That sure seemed the question of the day... She waited, staring at it. The longer she did, the more uneasy it made her feel. The hackles stayed up, her head lowered like they were. Whatever it was emanated a malevolence that penetrated the suit and her skin and her muscles and anchored deep in her bones. Volk prized herself for her ability to observe and conserve but this thing didn't want that, evident when a pair of wide yellowed eyes opened on the bottom of where the head was supposed to be. A wave of feeling hit her, foreboding and furious, and she went to pull the Tikhar from her side. It was only then she noticed the barrel of Reiner's rifle already aimed at it from over one shoulder.

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MAKSIM

"Well, it is just lying around doing nothing but rotting and feeding the occasional hungry mutant." he started, his voice devoid of any extreme expression but there was an odd quirk of a smile on his face that made her stomach drop. "I would still rather hunt for rats. Or Nosalises. Or something I still deem perfectly edible." she told him, turning away to look for her own quarry. "Oh, you won't find rats in this tunnel. They rarely frequent it here." There was a musical twinge to his voice now and she was almost afraid of what it meant. "Besides. They don't tell you that human meat is sweet to the taste, especially when it's been fermenting for a short while. Give me a moment to have it cut and cleaned, you'll think you're eating pork from one of those lucky livestocky stations. It helps it go down smoother, in the end..." She shied from him then. "Fine. I'll eat mutant meat then, but you won't catch me eating my own, regardless of them being dead." "They certainly won't be missing it, it's not like I'm asking you to help me hunt a living breathing human being." "How is this any different." "It doesn't squirm so much. Or scream, or beg, or fight. You maintain a good healthy level of energy..." "God, I fucking hate you." "You know, everyone says that." he said, back to his flat tones and chilling smirks, a flash of dim light off the blade of a well-worn trench-knife in his hand, the sickening shlup of it passing through decaying skin and muscle making her gag and taste bile in the back of her throat. "You should all really think up better ways to express your distaste, hate is too broad a term to use. Try 'disgust', or 'repulsed', those are good words to use. Or get used to it. We're very likely going to be here for a while."

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BOOKWYRMS

She heard him shuffle to a stop on the stairs, taking a precautionary glance at the yawning doorways around the the top landing before looking behind her. He was looking at the catalogs along the wall with a look that she could take as some form of longing. It was hard to tell through the lenses on the gasmask, but there was the sparkle there. One of curiosity, and she figured he knew what the catalogs meant to Brahmin. She knew he had been here before, and that it had left him terrified of the place. She didn't ask him about it, she didn't need to. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. She wasn't here to force it. After all, it had taken her about two months to convince him to follow her, and another had passed before he approached her to try. She walked up next to him, looking from the catalogs to him. "Do you want to try?" she asked him, her voice low so as not to attract attention so close to the front doors. The look he gave her was reverent, though he lowered his eyes to the side. "I don't think I'm allowed to." he answered, sheepish and almost a whisper. "Because you're not officially Brahmin." she replied, watching him avoid her gaze as she pinpointed the reason. "You know, I don't adhere to a lot of Brahmin ways. Despite being one in their system." She added, with a nod toward the drawers on the wall, "Go see what they have for you. If you're meant to be here, they'll know more than me." The excitement was palpable, she could feel it waft off him in giddy waves as he made a beeline toward them, running a hand reverently over each surviving drawerfront until he found the one that apparently spoke to him. His fingers were on the knob, but he paused, offering a side glance to the Stalker as she walked into his field of view. She nodded her head at him and he pulled, sliding it open in the long casing of aged cards that had once served as a filing system. He reached forward, eyes scanning over the contents as he went, until he found the one that spoke to him the most. He pulled it out slowly, turned it around so he could see the writing on it, and she chanced a glance at it. Brave New World, Huxley. "What does it mean?" he asked after a moment, unable to see how her brows knit and her lips thinned. "...It has a lot of meanings. It is how you want to interpret it." she said at last, stopping his arm as he made to slot it back in. "Nein. Keep it. Keep it in mind, all will be made clearer as you look into yourself, now or later." She heard him cough a laugh, slotting it into a pocket. "For someone who doesn't believe in the spiritualism of the Library, you certainly see this as something to be worshiped." "The Library is a building. But there are things hidden in it. Strange things, stranger than you, me, the Librarians. Be aware that it is not the Library to praise, but that which it contains. That is what it is to be a smart Brahmin. That thinking keeps you alive."

"Aha! I see you have documented Librarians among these pages!" she crowed triumphantly. Artyom looked momentarily confused before glancing over her shoulder at the page she was staring at and looking side-eyed toward her with a playful condescension. "You are not a Librarian." A snort was awarded him with a, "Says you." The worn journal was snapped closed and handed back to him. "No. Really. I think you're the first one outside my father to say that in recent years." "I can't be the only one who still sees you for human." he stated, accepting his journal back from her. "Oh yes. Outside Papa, it's always a Librarian ... or a tree ..." He thought back to a point he'd seen a tree, trying to make the correlation before nodding slowly. "Alright, the tree I understand. But a Librarian? How do you get confused for that. It seems a bit strange, outside the whole 'working in the Library' thing..." She leaned her shoulder against him, her voice low. "Listen. You stare down one guy in a bar around here..."

"The Codec doesn't exist." Artyom started, as though the words had slapped him in the face for being a stupid child. "It ... it doesn't?" The question was quiet and tentative, almost like he was afraid he'd stepped on a nerve with it. Volk sighed a little and relaxed some, realizing maybe something so blunt wasn't a good way to go about it. "No. It doesn't. The Council actively believes in it, so to them, it wasn't a meaningless crusade. They sent one of their own believers with you, so you didn't have a chance to know the truth. But I can tell you with certainty that the Codec doesn't really exist, at least physically, within the walls of the Library." she told him. The tone change did wonders for his own anxiety and she saw him visibly relax with a slump of his shoulders. "If it doesn't exist, though ... How would you know?" "If anyone in this station would have found it and brought it back, it would have been me." "That sounds arrogant..." "I've crawled that Library top to bottom for many years and asked the Librarians to find it. The smart ones, at least." She looked him as sincerely as she could in the eyes. "If they haven't found it, I haven't found it. I'm sorry to say that it doesn't exist."

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EXODUS

"What. Is. That." Anna did not seem surprised in the least. Of course she wouldn't be, Volk mused to herself. She was already used to this and had been for years. Probably due to the morning she'd had, or maybe it was because the Spartan sniper was puffing nonchalantly away on a cigarette of her own, Volk pulled out a pre-rolled stick and lit it. "It's a bruise and a split lip. What do you think it looks like." There was a glint her eyes at that, a bit mischievous perhaps. She knew exactly what her shorter sister was referring to and chose to divert attention. All it got her was a scoff and a look of fatigue that seemed to span decades. "You know damned well what I mean, you walking tree. What is that!" She pointed toward the struggling mutant held firmly by the neck in the German's other hand, futilely trying to get away from the tightened belt like a collar either to bite its captor's hand and arm or simply to get away. "Oh! That. Ja..." Volk started, staring at it for a moment. The position it was stuck in could not have been comfortable for it. Served the little bastard right. "...The locals call them 'humanimals'." "...Okay, I'll bite. What is it doing here." Anna sighed, defeated and unamused. "Learning some fucking manners."

#metro 2033 #metro exodus #metro oc #saurkrauts #bookwyrms #some other crazy shenanigans like two polezhaevskaya line drabbles #also retcon #and anna being done with literally everything her crazy german sister does anymore

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raendown · 6 years

Link

I was matched with @mantykora14 (whom I can not tag still) for the @madatobiremix challenge! Fun! I did a remix of their story What Not To Do In The Office.

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3223 Rating: T+ Summary: Madara has a habit of looking without properly seeing - although he does really like what he's seeing.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KOFI

Blind Observations

There wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary about Tobirama’s ass – if you left aside the fact that it looked as though it had been sculpted by the gods themselves. All things considered, however, it was still attached to the most annoying and stuck-up prick that Madara had ever had the displeasure of knowing so it wasn’t as though he planned to do anything with this attraction he had. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t shamelessly check out Tobirama’s posterior so long as the idiot was going to flaunt it so easily around the work place. After all, a man had to take his pleasures where he could find them in this world.

Sliding a little lower in his chair, Madara tilted his head to one side and let his eyes roam down the natural path laid out for him by the seam of Tobirama’s deliciously tight pants. Bent over the Hokage’s desk to mark something on the map spread across the top, he was in perfect position to give the rest of the room a little show. Izuna was much too busy inspecting his nails with boredom and Mito had given her attention to the folder of intel they were all discussing. Neither of them seemed particularly distracted by Tobirama’s ass, which Madara could understand; it was a little disappointing that his favorite eye candy wasn’t worth the trouble of bedding at least once. It would have been nice to sink his teeth in to those perfectly sculpted muscles but the screaming protests it would take to get there turned him off the idea every time he revisited it.

When Tobirama straightened at last just to berate his sibling for some ridiculous statement or another Madara mourned the loss of his wonderful distraction as the younger man’s shirt slid back down in to place. Then he made sure to rearrange his expression so that by the time the object of his gaze turned around there was no hint that he had spent the last ten minutes fantasizing about what he could do with those pale cheeks.

“Mito, my sweet, where did the file say they were first spotted?” Hashirama asked. His wife flicked back a page to check before looking up with a small smile.

“Your brother is right. They were spotted closer to the eastern outpost, not down by the ravines.”

“Hmph.” Sitting back with a pout for having been proved wrong, Hashirama crossed his arms to glare at the map.

Madara was thrilled to see Tobirama roll his eyes and bend down again to reach across and point at the spot they had just been arguing over for so long. While it was annoying that this stupid conference was apparently going to be derailed yet again for another pointless disagreement, at least he had something nice to look at while he waited for order to reassert itself.

Or for Mito to get tired of the bickering and set them all back on track with only a few sharp words.

Sparring with Tobirama had several benefits which, in Madara’s mind, far outweighed the downsides of having to spend any time in the company of someone so insufferable. He wasn’t exactly going to be thanking Hashirama for forcing them in to this stupid exercise in learning how to get along but he also wasn’t quite as upset about it as his friend might think.

For one, Tobirama’s sparring outfit left a great deal more skin exposed than his usual attire and the longer they traded blows the more the material stuck to him in a manner which left very little to the imagination. Madara could easily picture this image of a sweat soaked panting Tobirama transposed on to the image of his own bed where the flush on his cheeks would be from a very different kind of strain. He imagined the narrow-eyed look of hyper focus would probably stay the same as well and, honestly, he couldn’t say that didn’t appeal to him all the more.

He was also a fan of the treat which was watching Tobirama’s muscles shift and flow as their limbs struck out against each other. Just watching the man spin about for a roundhouse kick and getting that split second view of his flexing ass was more than worth the pain of a heel connecting solidly with his solar plexus.

Even the vicious smirk parting those pale pink lips and baring sharp teeth was attractive somehow. Madara felt his eye twitch when he finally noticed how badly he had allowed himself to be distracted by his opponent’s physical features. Clearly Tobirama wasn’t aware of his thoughts but it still wouldn’t do for Madara to allow himself to be bested, not by him. Tightening his fists with renewed determination, Madara drove forward with intent to disable, if not maim.

There might be some kind of attraction there but Hashirama was mad if he thought they could be forced to get along by being made to fight each other. Stupid backward logic, that was.

Public bathing had always been an uncomfortable experience for Madara. Prancing about naked and defenseless with so many other people around, most of whom he had never met, always left him tense during an activity which should have relaxed him. Modesty wasn’t a big problem but feeling a stranger’s eyes on him made him question whether they were admiring his figure or plotting an attack. When possible, he avoided the public baths.

He was very glad that he had not been able to avoid such an outing today. In fact, if this was to be his reward then he would need to give some serious thought to making a new habit of accepting Hashirama’s offers to go together. Madara wondered if there was a way to ask whether Tobirama usually accompanied his brother or not without arousing suspicion.

Observing without getting caught was, for once, incredibly easy. It seemed Tobirama was very used to the hungry stares that followed him as he waded in to the hot water to find a place where he could get comfortable and close his eyes. Hashirama remained as oblivious as ever while he chatted away, complete ignorant of the way Madara’s gaze had yet to leave his brother’s naked body. Miles of pale skin lay stretched out on delicious display, slowly turning pink from the heat of the water, glistening with the steam hanging in the air, and Madara drank it all in with relish.

Try though he might, he couldn’t think of a single thing he did not enjoy about Tobirama – physically at least. Everything from the angular fall of his hair to the faint scars of battle were attractive. Madara tilted his head to one side and tried to imagine what sounds the man might make it he were to sink his teeth in to one of those rosebud nipples, notably small for a man his size but perfectly bitable.

Before he could take the thought much further he jerked as one of Hashirama’s wide hand gestures splashed water in to his face. He turned to his friend with a scowl, annoyed at having his fantasies interrupted.

“Watch it!”

“Oops! Sorry Madara.” Hashirama beamed at him in apology, to which he scowled even deeper.

“I specifically put my hair up so it wouldn’t get wet. I just wanted a nice relaxing soak and now you’re splashing me!”

“But it was an accident!”

Sometime between the crocodile tears and the begging for forgiveness Madara looked over to see that Tobirama still had his eyes closed but his lips were stretched out in an amused smile as he listened to their bickering. He looked vastly different without the frown which seemed to appear by habit each time the two of them were within a dozen feet of each other. Actually it was quite a lovely effect, softening his features until he looked more amiable, almost inviting. Madara wondered idly how much effort it would take to see that smile again – solely for aesthetic purposes, of course.

Not that he had any intentions of putting in that effort. What did he care if Tobirama smiled for him or not? The thought was a distracting one, though, and Madara regretted allowing his attention to waver when Hashirama managed to splash him for a second time.

Listening to a bunch of puffed up halfwits yammer on about things that really shouldn’t require this much deliberation was boring. Madara felt absolutely no guilt in letting his mind wander away from the council meeting going on around him to instead focus on something much more interesting.

As he always did, Tobirama sat across the table with a scroll open before him and his hand dancing across the page as he recorded the minutes of their meeting. He hadn’t lifted his eyes in probably close to twenty minutes or even opened his mouth to make one of his usual sarcastic comments. Very likely he wished he could tune out of the proceedings as well and Madara smirked to know that his nemesis was also trapped listening to boring old men squabble like children.

Dressed in the boring vests Hashirama had okayed as the standard uniform, most of his body hidden under the wood of the conference table, there wasn’t a whole lot for Madara to stare at and fantasize about today. Yet somehow he still found himself captivated watching the elegant way Tobirama’s fingers manipulated his pen. For a man he had incredibly beautiful hands, long delicate fingers and smooth palms, soft despite the callouses every shinobi earned in their early years. His nails were all neatly trimmed down and cleaned and Madara blinked slowly as he imaged sucking two of those fingers in to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and hallowing his cheeks.

Fifteen minutes later Madara was startled out of his daydreams by a fist slamming down on the table in irritation and it was hard to say what he found more disturbing: that he was still staring at nothing but Tobirama’s fingers or that the sexual nature of his thoughts had slowly cooled to become a contemplation of what they would feel like wrapped up in his own.

Ridiculous, he grumbled silently to himself as he wrenched his eyes away. No force on earth could ever make him actually want to hold hands with that beast.

The only time he could choose to be distracted that might possibly be worse than this would be if they were right in the middle of battle. Listening to Tobirama recap troop movements and known jutsu specialties less than half a mile from the targets they were about to be in battle with was also a bad choice. Not knowing this information could get him or the people around him killed.

Still he couldn’t seem to drag his eyes away from the top of the man’s head. Today’s weather included a healthy breeze which entered the cave they were using as cover in fits and starts, barely reaching farther than where Tobirama stood in the entrance as he spoke to them all. Each time the wind reached him it lifted his hair and tugged at the frosted locks. He didn’t seem to notice – or if he did then he didn’t care – but Madara found himself fascinated by the effortlessly tousled look reminiscent of someone who had just gotten out of bed. Watching his hair lift and dance was mesmerizing. It made him wonder if those locks would be soft to run his fingers through.

“Uchiha do I have something on my head?” Tobirama’s drawling sneer brought his eyes back down to meet the irritated glare aimed his way. “Or are you deliberately not listening because you wish to put your comrades in danger?”

“Fuck off. I’m listening.” Madara crossed his arms and glared back, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Like hell he would admit to it.

“Go on then, repeat back to me anything of what I just said.”

“I am not a child, Senju. Just keep talking!”

Tobirama huffed and rolled his eyes, turning to face more towards the other shinobi with them in a very subtle snub. Rather than take further offense, Madara made certain that no one was looking his way before allowing his eyes to slide back up in to Tobirama’s hair, though he did make sure to keep his ears open this time.

It wasn’t his fault the stupid man was so pretty. Actually, now that he was paying attention he realized that Tobirama also had a very pleasant voice as well; it rumbled from somewhere deep in the chest, the kind of voice built for dramatic statements and momentous words.

Madara smirked to himself. No wonder their whole clan was so prone to drama.

It took several more incidents like these before Madara realized the precarious situation he had managed to get himself in to but by then it was too late. He stared shamelessly whenever Tobirama stretched before a spar, he riled the other up just to listen to the cadences of his voice while he yelled, and it wasn’t until he realized that he was spending his off duty hours seeking the other out just to stare wordlessly that he finally came to terms with what was happening.

Lingering at the edge of the field where Tobirama was currently running his students through several drills, Madara suffered a minor breakdown as the thought occurred to him at last.

“Fuck. Fuck me and fuck it and fuck everything,” he whispered frantically under his breath. “I have a crush on him!” Madara tugged at his hair and spun around to face the opposite direction in case the man he’d been observing happened to look over and wonder at the source of his panic.

Stomping away back towards the village proper, Madara wondered how the hell he’d gotten to this point without even realizing it. It was just supposed to be a healthy bout of lust, nothing more than admiration for another man’s well-shaped body, something to fuel his fantasies but certainly nothing he had ever planned to pursue. Now he realized that somewhere between staring at a fine ass and smiling at sharp dry wit he had developed actual feelings for the worst possible person.

What was he supposed to do with these feelings? Surely he couldn’t tell the man – and kami forbid Hashirama ever find out. He shuddered to think what kind of terrifying reactions his friend would have to knowing about this situation. Either he would deliver the world’s most threatening older brother speech in history or he would enthusiastically air Madara’s dirty laundry to the entire village at top volume. Both of those options sounded awful. Clearly the best thing to do would be to keep to himself, avoid as much contact as possible, and hope that this temporary madness passed quickly.

Tobirama’s laughter echoed through the trees behind him and Madara swallowed thickly when he realized he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back just so he could listen for that sound again. He was in deeper trouble than he’d thought.

“Are you ever going to do something about that?” Tobirama’s voice sent Madara jerking upright in his chair. By the time the other turned around there were no signs he had been staring at anything but his own paperwork, certainly not the delectable rump exposed when his current project partner bent over to grab whatever he had dropped.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled, hearing the exasperated sigh but refusing to look up.

“That thing you do where you stare at my ass. Are you ever going to do something about it or am I supposed to keep pretending I don’t notice?”

Madara’s jaw clicked painfully as it fell open with shock.

After a long wait with no response Tobirama lifted one eyebrow in a judgmental manner and turned away again, digging through the papers he’d been trying to sort out before. Madara was glad to be given time to think. He’d only just accepted the fact that he had feelings for this asshole and suddenly he was expected to know what he wanted to do with those feelings? That was way too much pressure to spring on someone without warning!

Truthfully he knew exactly what he would want to do with this unexpected crush but the option of making it disappear hadn’t exactly been working out and the option of having it returned hadn’t seemed very likely either. Until now.

“Would you let me do something about it?” he asked cautiously. Tobirama didn’t so much as glance up from the papers he was looking at as he responded, infuriatingly casual.

“I think that depends on exactly what you were to do. And how often you wish to do it.”

“Don’t be filthy! That isn’t what I meant!”

“No?” Tobirama did look up at him then with a genuinely confused expression and Madara sank down in his chair as he realized that the other man probably thought he was only interested in sex.

Grunting darkly, he averted his eyes. “Hn. Never mind. Forget it.”

“I will do no such thing. What else could you possibly be staring at me so often for? Unless you – oh.”

“Shut up!” Shoving his chair violently away from the desk, Madara stood up and scrambled towards the door. Tobirama beat him there. Just before his hand reached for the brass door handle an arm appeared to block his way and Tobirama was there in his face with a stunned expression.

“You like me,” the man said, eyes widening with surprise.

“I said shut up! Get out of my way!”

“Sage above, you do like me.” Tobirama’s face split in to a wide grin and Madara snarled. He didn’t need to be mocked for this!

A scuffle in the doorway wouldn’t exactly be his most dignified moment but Madara was more than prepared to go through with it if the other man didn’t move in the next three seconds. It was much more preferable than the idea of remaining here just to listen to Tobirama making fun of him for something he had no control over.

His half-baked schemes for escaping were foiled when the other man abruptly stopped laughing only to lean forward and pin him against the wall with a fierce kiss and the only thing Madara could think was that he’d been pining for no reason, apparently. Even worse, he had apparently somehow been obvious enough with his physical attraction to catch Tobirama’s eye while at the same time subtle enough with his developing feelings that he himself hadn’t even noticed.

“You like me too,” he accused, murmuring against Tobirama’s lips, unwilling to separate them so soon.

“I have a certain lack of hatred for your very existence. And I could probably be talked in to a date given the proper motivation.” Both of them were grinning, though Madara paused to huff in mock offense.

“Should I bend over so you can check out the goods?”

Tobirama laughed until he was hauled back down for more kisses. Madara took that to mean he would be allowed to stare at the man’s ass whenever he wanted from here on out – among other things, of course.

#rae writes #madatobiremix #madatobi #madara #tobirama #fanfiction

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the-roanoke-society · 6 years

Note

Hey, love you and your tags so much! But uh, what did Drake do? The media room? The four televisions? Morgan I gotta know. Please? (Take your time again I love you so much xoxo)

sigh.

oh this idiot right here…

it was discussed once, that drake formerly had a–let’s call it an infatuation, with seraphim. this was a good chunk of time before annabelle came into the picture, who is, obviously, a much better fit.

and while he has moved on romantically, he sort of held on the feelings of admiration of her abilities. he’d seen enough field footage both this side of the gate and on others to know that she was good at her job. he looks up to her as an agent.

on an off day, drake found himself wandering around the archives, eyes roving over assorted book spines. he, wyvern, longma, and a few other officers who worked with the gate had been called into a meeting with lilith and, to their surprise, technical officer dohbar, of the borley council. dohbar is the lead officer over the robin gate, borley’s equivalent of the washington avenue project.

and dohbar and his team, they’d–found a wall.

i don’t mean that entirely metaphorically. while our gate is built more for say, depth, the robin crew focused solely on how far outward they had access to (more than one dick joke has been made about this). how long did the road go, exactly? apparently, long enough for them to encounter what they surmised was some kind of psychic barrier (”wait, are you serious? this isn’t a marvel movie, shit like that doesn’t happen.” “wyvern, we have no other way of defining what it is, at present. just roll with it. this is the closest terminology we have.”)

so lilith had tasked them with aiding borley, seeing if we had anything on-hand that could help–whatever that looked like. even lilith wasn’t sure. if you couldn’t even tell what a wall was made of, how do you destroy it?

unfortunately for us, a large, blue book caught drake’s eye, and he reached for it. the essentials of technomancy. he frowned, and opened it.

he was elated. this was a perfect blend of technological science and summoning circles, just like the ones he’d seen seraphim and succubus do on occasion. never mind that he’d never cast a circle before, and look, there was even a list of entities right here, it’s probably just like calling a neighbor, he’d just ask one of them for help…

he then like a complete novice decided to just pick out a deity at random. his finger landed on a name: emem. the notes about them were vague, only really mentioning that they were very old, very powerful, and to be avoided unless circumstances were dire enough.

drake bit his lip, glancing at the circles on the opposite page. dire circumstances? not really. but if anyone could help them get past a literal barrier in the fabric of space-time through the use of technology, he thought–it’d be this guy.

he brought it up to wyvern first, who laughed at his face, and then more seriously told him to drop it. “we can figure this out ourselves. plus, the demons this talks about–they’re tricky. technology can sometimes be loosely defined. so can these things’ intentions. leave it alone.”

drake tried seraphim next. “absolutely fucking not.” he tried not to smile too hard when he realized that she’d had a slight scottish lilt to her voice. he wondered how many times she’d heard merlin say it.

of course, drake’s the kind of man who, when told to not do something, or that he can’t do something… well.

guess who decided to try it anyway.

now, fun fact, drake actually has a knack for circlework. whether that’s an inborn talent that was just never explored or something he’d learned enough from watching other agents remains unknown. but the point is–and also the terrible news–is that it worked.

drake was sitting cross-legged before a chalk circle, candles in their places, and an old motherboard in the center, looking into the eyes of something that sort of resembled hexxus, but made entirely of a metallic mesh that never seemed to stop moving.

“mister, uh, emem. hi.” smooth. it just blinked. “you’re probably wondering why i called you here today, y’see my name’s dr–”

there was a ear-splitting crack as this thing, realizing that drake didn’t have a fucking clue what he was doing and that no, he wasn’t going to listen to anything he had to say, thinned into nothing and shot through the wall behind him.

“… okay. may have fucked up.”

the results were immediate and disastrous. it got into the wires, it got into everything, acting as the most malevolent virus our basement crews had seen. they had to scramble to save archived files, and wyvern sprinted as soon as he realized what was happening to straight up unhook the physical gate from everything it was attached to.

too late.

as soon as it got into the gate, the machinery pulsed, and sent wyvern flying a good seven feet backwards. he stared in horror, as the big, metal circle seemed to–rot. like flesh.

he looked behind him in time to see drake, standing in the doorway, looking scared shitless.

“… what did you do?” wyvern coughed, roughly, fuck, he’d landed right on his bad shoulder–”what did you do?!”

“i was trying to help–”

“go get morgan. now. before we lose our equipment. … drake, move!”

and he found her already downstairs, standing in the artifacts room where those four monitors were.

four monitors that had been lifted from a warehouse where a much, much worse summoning than this had happened. monitors not even connected to anything anymore.

and now all four were on, all on different frequencies, one of which was whispering things that seraphim had to fight to not listen to, which led to the dialogue in the tags.

now, long story short, they did get this all sorted. seraphim and succubus essentially had to–well, exorcise the gate. driving dark spirits out of inanimate objects was infinitely harder than getting them out of living beings, because living beings could fight back. something weird gets into your aunt’s old plymouth, chances are it’s better to just let it stay inside there and move it to a junkyard.

but this was our gate. rebuilding it from scratch would be a project the likes of which we didn’t want to see. so. seraphim and succubus decided to make the executive decision that it was worth the effort, despite it being exceptionally high-risk for a multitude of factors. (”you call harry?” “yeah. told him i loved him. he and eggsy were about to head out for a mission themselves.” “well then i guess we better not die so he can tell you all about it when they get back.”)

it took them an hour and a half to draw out a circle. they had to make parts up as they went, making it equal parts purifying and warding, to keep it from getting out (”you can’t just–do like you do with people?” “… i’m sorry, did you just suggest i put my hands on that fucking thing?” “right, right, uh, sorry.”)

the ritual itself lasted over two hours. this thing would not fucking let go. seraphim went through so many psalms that she tasked drake with bringing her every single book of faith they possessed. if she had to read all of them aloud, she would. so be it. “fuck you, we don’t share our toys will bullies,” she once hissed, when a gargled sort of retching sound echoed from nowhere.

seraphim got what she described as a torrential nosebleed that stained the front of her shirt. succubus had a nasty split lip by the time they were over halfway through, swollen, red, angry.

and with just as loud a noise as it’d made slipping through the wall before–it was gone. finally fed up with holiness and magic. our tech rapidly went back to some sort of status normal, but the damage cleanup would prove to be extensive.

and after lilith found out what happened–what, you thought we’d be able to keep this from her forever?–she named drake as the head of all of it. “you are going to pay your penance for as long as it takes. and you are never, ever to attempt this again, or you will be fired. do i make myself clear?”

“yes, ma’am.”

“good. all of you are dismissed.”

but between you and i, i think what hurt him even more than the numerous sleepless nights that followed was how angry annabelle was with him when he finally told her what he’d done.

#seraphim speaks #technical officer drake #the washington avenue project #agent annabelle #sleight of heart #technical officer wyvern #technical officer longma #the borley council #the robin gate #technical officer dohbar #agent seraphim #agent succubus #lilith

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lurkingcrow · 7 years

Text

I have like a million other things that I’m in the middle of writing but I just had a thought that I felt the need to get down. Yeah yeah, it’s another crack AU idea... Such a surprise. I know. But still just imagine what might have been:

It is a time of supposed galactic stability. It will be decades yet before Sidious’ plans will come to fruition, and a certain Not-Yet-Negotiator is currently training under his Maverick Master as per canon. However in this universe there is one, marked difference.

In the halls of the great archives beneath the Jedi temple a minor cataloguing program designed to collate external references to Jedi deployed in the field (mentions in galactic news media, bounty descriptions, general gossip - the kind of things that might indicate a problem for long term missions) brings up a discrepancy for further review. It is the kind of thing which might easily be dismissed- a possible mention that cannot be appended to the relevant individual’s file because it is no longer in active circulation. This isn’t an unheard of occurrence; no program is perfect and it is easy to shrug off the match with a Jedi listed as having been deceased for years as being a false positive due to mistaken identity.

Which is what probably would have happened, had the Senior Padawan in charge of reviewing the system reports not had the unfortunate luck to have been caught sneaking an open container of Muja Juice into the archives by Madame Nu that morning and been dismissed for punishment duty. As a result it was the head archivist herself who ended up reading the report of a pirate arrested coming out of the Rattanak system, who in his interrogation happened to mention a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Jedi Knight Ky Narec, missing, presumed dead, following the loss of his ship five years previously. Now Jocasta Nu is nothing if not meticulous, and instead of dismissing the report instead double checks the initial case - while not probable, it is possible that the ship may have made it to a nearby system, and Rattanak is within feasible distance...

As such, in this universe, the Jedi Order sends a team to Rattanak to investigate Ky Narec’s possible survival. And so it is that the long lost knight returns to the Temple.There is however consternation in the Council - Ky Narec’s return from the dead is an unexpected blessing, but at the same time he is loudly and vociferously demanding to be allowed to return and finish his self appointed mission. And then there is the matter of his preteen “Padawan”...

Asajj Ventress is indisputably strong in the force, but she has never seen the inside of the creche. When Ky found her she was already old for an initiate, and the years since have been focused on skills relevant to their immediate survival rather than providing a broad understanding of Jedi principles. But the bond between Master and Padawan is strong, and there is no question that her training must continue. But still, what is the council to to with a semi-feral Padawan who has spent years in an active warzone and her headstrong master who has an unshakeable belief in his own judgement?

The answer is obvious. Team them up with another problem pair and hope they balance each other out. And so it is that a smirking Master Yoda informs Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon that their expertise is required for a very special mission...

Qui-Gon is quite happy with his new assignment. Applying his years of experience to formulate an appropriate plan for dealing with the ongoing conflict on Rattanak is not easy, however Ky is a highly perceptive man and has an excellent understanding of the relative dynamics between the different players. The lost knight also has a delightfully dry sense of humour and is passionate in his defence of his student, which endears him very much to the older Master for a number of reasons. For his own part Ky Narec is pleasantly surprised by how well Master Jinn is actually listening to his arguments. Oh he challenges Ky’s conclusions, but he does not dismiss his knowledge or suggest that the situation might best be left to develop on its own (unlike other Jedi Ky could mention). Indeed, he suspects their proposal has a very good chance of working.

Obi-Wan on the other hand is wondering how long the council intends to punish him for his various misdeeds. The Padawan he has been instructed to tutor is barely old enough to meet the standard definition of the term, has barely any understanding of most core teaching subjects and is only very begrudgingly separated from her master for more than an hour at a time. She is vicious, defensive and... and far too like himself in the wake of Melida/Daan. He remembers what it is like to be always on a hair trigger, always waiting for the next attack, desperately holding on to what you have because tomorrow it could be gone. He also remembers what it was like on his return. The scornful looks and disapproving frowns that left him feeling isolated, the endless nightmares and constant twitching at loud noises, the way the only one who seemed to have faith in him was his own Master - and little Asajj is far younger than he was...

Asajj is not sure she likes the Temple, no matter how much Master Ky says she will learn to call it home. The food is good, and it’s nice not to have to worry about sentry duty, but the people are stupid. Do they think she doesn’t notice the way they look at her? The way the snicker just because she doesn’t know who some karking bigwig from the shouting hou... Senate is? Master Ky tells her not to worry, that she will catch up in no time, but he’s busy these days with the tall Master who makes the others groan and she’s been left with this Padawan Kenobi who seems just as stupid as the rest of them! Except... Padawan Kenobi never laughs at her in the mess hall for eating too fast, just hands her extra seed rolls to squirrel away in her robes for later. Padawan Kenobi might roll his eyes at her when she complains about her reading, but he doesn’t raise his voice or tell her she’s stupid. Padawan Kenobi will spar with her, and while he knows just what to say to get a rise out of Asajj he never toys with her or tries to embarass her. And come to think of it, he always seems to make enough noise for her avoid being startled by him. Maybe Padawan Ken... no, Obi-Wan isn’t so bad after all. It doesn’t mean she’s going to make life easy for him though!

To cut a long story short (and oh are there ever stories, because honestly the Council dearly begins to regret setting this up) Obi-Wan has a new friend and Qui-Gon has a new partner in crime. Ky and Qui-Gon will watch in amusement while Obi-Wan and Asajj attempt to verbally eviscerate whatever hapless individual has earned their scorn, and the Padawans will sigh and trade stories about reckless masters who can’t seem to go anywhere without attracting trouble. Over time (once Asajj has grown enough not to horrify civilians when she pulls our her blades) when one pairing gets into trouble more often than not it is the other who comes to bail them out. Which is more frequent than you’d think. Ky and Asajj are not diplomats. On the other hand given the trouble Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan usually end up causing, having a pair or terrifyingly efficient warriors familiar with the seedier side of the galaxy is a distinct advantage.

Which is why when the Temple loses contact with pair after sending them to negotiate an end to the trade dispute on Naboo, Ky and Asajj just look at one another and start preparing for an extraction mission. As it turns out they don’t need to launch as rescue as surprise surprise the pair turn up on Coruscant accompanying the missing Queen and with a new stray in tow...

Let’s backtrack a bit here. Because while the core events remained the same, the details do not. Qui-Gon Jinn lands on Tatooine and immediately starts cursing as he recalls everything Ky has told him about Outer Rim economics. Still, they need to do what they can, so into town he heads, with a foolish Gungan and a disguised Queen by his side. And when he meets Anakin Skywalker and his mother, Qui-Gon Jinn remembers a young Dathomiri Padawan matter of factly telling him “Hal’Sted wasn’t a bad master, it could have been much worse” before explaining exactly how in great depth, and his blood runs cold.

Similarly, as their ship leaves behind the sand and suns of Tatooine, Obi-Wan Kenobi looks at his Master’s newest acquisition and thinks “Two of them. Bant is never going to let me hear the end of this.” and proceeds to do his best to reassure the boy and get him settled because experience has taught him that the easiest way to deal with a non-Temple raised force sensitive is to earn their trust as quickly as possible and worry about attachment issues later.

(Oh Obi-Wan, you have NO IDEA what you’ve just done)

What happens next is up in the air. Perhaps there are two more Jedi on the return to Naboo. Perhaps it changes things, and Qui-Gon lives to sort out his mess. Perhaps it doesn’t, and two padawans lose their masters that day. Perhaps Maul swears vengeance against two Jedi instead of one, and Asajj first tastes the Dark as the Sith that might once have been a brother takes away not only the man she sees as her father, but the Master who supported them both from the start.

But perhaps it doesn’t change things. Perhaps a grieving Obi-Wan returns to the Temple with his tiny new Padawan only to be hugged within an inch of his life by a teenage menace who will flatly deny it if she is ever asked. Perhaps things are easier in a world where the Council has already had to deal with one overaged Padawan in the last decade (At least Skywalker doesn’t appear to be about to stab anyone who looks at him wrong). Certainly Obi-Wan has a better grip on Anakin’s lingering issues regarding slavery.

(”It's different.” Whispers an unusually gentle Asajj when little Ani asks her. “You are HIS Padawan, but he is YOUR Master, and you have a claim on each other.” She smiles. “And if you truly wanted to leave, he would let you go.”)

They’re not large changes, not world breaking shifts in the way the galaxy will turn. But that doesn’t matter.

I just want you all to imagine Knight Ventress.

Knight Ventress who is the unacknowledged master of Jar Kai and whose appearance has been known to send pirates running to the authorities to give themselves in.

Knight Ventress who is sharp and righteous anger, but never lets the Dark take hold, because she has too much to protect.

Knight Ventress who appears out of nowhere to snark at Kenobi and pat Skywalker on the head even after he grows to be taller than her.

Knight Ventress who has a horrifically complicated on-off relationship with Quinlan Vos that the entire Temple is trying to pretend Does. Not. Exist.

Knight Ventress who stalks into the middle of the Council chambers following the Battle of Geonosis and icily demands to know why they are leading a slave army.

Knight Ventress who repeatedly engages Dooku’s assassin, the brutish Savage Oppress, knowing that they share a heritage and that had things been different it might have been a far darker master she was sold to.

Knight Ventress who teases Knight Skywalker about his new Padawan, and promising to corrupt her lightsaber habits.

Knight Ventress who takes one look at the Duchess of Mandalore and just smirks knowingly at Obi-Wan.

Just... Knight Ventress.

Who stands beside Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi as they take down Darth Sidious and watch the galaxy still fall...

Isn’t it an interesting thought?

#crack

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se-housman · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 47 is available now!

There may not be any battles in this chapter, but it is certainly a big one! This is the one where Soren comes out to Ike about being Branded...

On the even of the final battle, the kid’s an absolutely wreck, and he finally reveals the truth to the person he cares about most in the wold 🖤

Wattpad | Ao3 | Quotev | MediaMiner

Here is an excerpt, not from the big confession, but the preceding one:

It was late when the war council finally concluded and no questions remained concerning Soren’s complete strategy. As new reports rolled in, the details could change, but the main plan would stay the same and everyone had accepted it. While the others filed out, Soren rolled up some documents to take to his room, imagining they would make good reading material if he awoke with nightmares again. But then he noticed Ike was lingering.

“Do you have a second, Soren?”

“What is it?” He laid the documents back on the table to give his commander his full attention (or what passed for it recently).

“What’s wrong?” Ike asked, drawing closer. “You’ve been quiet and moody for days. What’s going on?”

Soren hadn’t expected him to notice any difference—especially because they were both so busy. Ike’s concern made him feel uncomfortable and, if he was honest, a little guilty. Not only had he failed to keep his mind in order, now his problems were affecting Ike as well. “Um... Well, it’s...” Babble fell from his mouth as he tried to find an appropriate lie.

“Yes?” Ike’s eyes were wide and earnest.

“It’s nothing,” Soren finally said, unable to think of something that would placate him.

He made to leave, but Ike blocked his way. “C’mon, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Soren hesitated. Ike could be stubborn when he wanted, and he didn’t want to waste all night sitting here in silence. Finally, he decided to make an effort: “You’ve never worried about who you are, have you? Your family or where you come from…”

“Who I am?” Ike repeated and glanced at the ceiling. He seemed to be thinking hard. “Well, not really,” he finally admitted. “No. I guess I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I had a father and a mother. I don’t remember much about her, but otherwise, no complaints.”

Soren expected Ike would let him leave now. He’d at least tried to communicate what he felt; surely that would suffice. But he didn’t try to push past him again. Ike had honestly tried to understand him, and Soren felt compelled to do the same. “It must be…nice, to have loving parents,” he thought aloud. “You’ve benefitted from having people experience your childhood. They’ve helped shape the person you’ve become.”

Ike nodded as if he agreed.

“But without an adult around to affirm and support them, a child cannot know which path to take…or who they really are.” He didn’t know where he was going, and his voice lapsed into silence.

Ike seemed to consider this statement. “Don’t you have any memory of your parents?” he eventually asked. The mercenaries knew he was an orphan, but they also knew better than to ask personal questions. Soren had never offered any details.

“No.” He shook his head. “The woman who raised me was not my birth mother. And she wasn’t all that fond of me...” He wondered why was he telling Ike about Galina. Why hadn’t he just stopped talking?

The answer was simple: because Ike was still listening. And now that Soren had begun, he found it hard to stop. The words spilled from his mouth:

“My earliest memories are of her saying, ‘Why me? The world isn’t fair!’ or ‘Stay away from me, child.’ No love. No affection. She took care of me out of some sense of duty she didn’t really possess. It was just an arrangement.” Soren swallowed and paused for a moment. Ike said nothing, so he continued: “When I was about four, a sage came by and asked to take me in. He said I possessed rare magical talent. I remember the day clearly. My caretaker was delighted to give me up. In fact, she seemed almost delirious with joy. Smiling like a madwoman as she handed me over... The sage even gave her gold as compensation. Not that it was necessary.”

“Oh, Soren...” Ike finally said. “I had no idea.”

The words made Soren’s spine tingle. He felt utterly exposed. But he kept going, speaking faster now. He didn’t want to give Ike another moment to speak, afraid to hear aloud the pity in his eyes. He both craved and dreaded that pity. “The sage was old and knew death would soon come for him. His only goal was to teach his art to an apprentice. As time was short, he put me through terrible, rigorous magic training. We worked day and night, without cease. I didn’t even have time to think about who I really was. But it was still a better life than I had ever known. When the sage died two years later, I had acquired much magical skill. Perhaps too much for a child of my age...” He thought back to what he’d learned in the Mainal archives and suddenly felt sick. “At any rate, once I had eaten all of the food in his hovel, I left and walked for days. I needed help, but when I found other people, I came to another grim realization... I couldn’t speak. Not a word.”

“Soren...”

He rushed to continue: “Oh, I could read and write better than most of the villagers, and I could understand what they said. I just couldn’t talk. I couldn’t help it. The woman and the sage both hurled words at me. Unkind words, usually. But I never needed to answer, so-”

“Soren!” Ike said more sharply, bringing his monologue to a jarring stop.

He flushed with embarrassment. “Oh... I apologize, Ike. I should not have made you listen to such nonsense.”

“Soren, it’s not nonsense!” There was pity in his voice, but there was something else too—something angrier and less patronizing. “It’s awful! It’s the most terrible thing I’ve ever heard! Where did this happen? Was it in Begnion?”

“No...” He shook his head. “But, there’s more. I haven’t told you...about my parents...” Soren felt as if he’d strayed too close to an electric shock. Static ran over his nerves, clenching his fists, closing his throat and mouth and eyes. “No, that’s enough,” he struggled to say. “I’m sorry. Excuse me...” He forced his way past Ike so he could escape to the hall.

“Wait, Soren?” Ike reached out, but he broke into a run once he was past him. “Soren!” Ike called, but he ignored him. “Blast!”

Fortunately Ike did not pursue, and Soren slowed to a brisk walk once the war room was far behind him. What have I done? he wondered in horror. What was I about to do?

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trbl-will-find-me · 6 years

Text

Searching For Signal (1/2)

Limetown AU. Commander Weir belongs to @inbatcountry17 (thanks, Bat!!)

Her datapad blinks in the darkness. SIGNAL HACK COMPLETE, it reads. She presses play.

“ADVENT, building a brighter future,” a woman’s voice coos.

“The gifts of the Elders!” The Speaker proclaims.

“Unification Day,” a man intones.

There is the sound of a tape stopping short.

“Twenty years ago, ADVENT promised us a better tomorrow. We were so eager to believe them, that we never stopped to ask the cost,” her own voice cuts in. “We looked up in horror, and decided it was better to look away, that survival with a price was still survival.”

“But, somewhere along the way, we lost track of the books. We stopped keeping score. We figured our debts were paid, but ADVENT never stopped charging us. Why?”

“My name is Sally Royston, and I intend to find out.”

The music transition isn’t as smooth as she would like. It doesn’t have the polish of the shows she’d listened to once upon a time. Then again, she reasons, they probably had a little more to go on than a stolen datapad and some questionable software.

“Ask anyone in the city centers, and the odds are good you’ll find a common thread. It seems everyone knows someone who’s gone missing. Maybe they went off to join the ADVENT security forces. Maybe they never came home fro a trip to the Clinic. Maybe, they just vanished.”

“That number gets a lot higher when you look at minors in ADVENT’s care. I should know; I was one of them. In six years, thirteen people I knew went missing. That brings my personal missing count to fourteen when you add in my father.”

“That’s an awfully high number for these alleged urban paradises, especially compared to the so-called uncivilized havens. Yet, here we are.”

“Disappearances among the foster population followed a trend. The guardians take an interest in bringing the disappeared before the churches, claiming they have reason to believe the child under their had been blessed with the Elders’ favor. The clergy would take a special interest in that individual, taking the target under their wing, so to speak. Within weeks, the target would be gone, and the whole affair would be written off.”

“It’s a story that keeps repeating.”

A compilation of interview snippets fill the silence.

“A casual review of the Missing Persons reports described in these interviews confirm the details. I wasn’t able to follow up with any of my interviewees, however. Within days of contact, each and every one had likewise gone missing. If you’re curious, that brings my personal count up to twenty.”

“There is one other factor that unifies these reports: a single, red symbol, emblazoned with the word Avatar. What it means isn’t for me to say. There are no records. Any mention in intercepted ADVENT communication has been expunged. All evidence suggests that Avatar holds the key to the missing. But what holds the key to Avatar?”

The end music plays off and Betos nods. “You will certainly attract someone’s attention. I only hope it will be enough.”

“Did you all hear that?” V-Day crows. “Whoever this Sally Royston girl is, sounds like she’s on a mission. Little girl, if you’re out there, and you mean it, we’ll give you the time.”

Against her better judgment, she sends a missive.

She receives one in turn.

They reach an agreement.

She will need to learn to broadcast live.

Leads begin to filter in through V-Day. She follows each and every one, collecting more reports of the missing. Her count grows by leaps and bounds as the people who reach out soon join their friends and family in the ranks of the disappeared.

Midway through her second broadcast, her datapad begins to flicker as someone, or something, attempts to access it.

“There’s something … there’s something going on here,” she says. “Bear with me everyone.”

“There are … there are hundreds of files being downloaded to my datapad from an … unknown source.”

She begins opening them as they complete.

“These are … there are admissions files. Missing persons reports. Security files. They’re all marked with the Avatar logo. There must be … hundreds here. If you’re considering a trip to your local ADVENT Clinic, I might hold off.”

A folder downloads labeled Weir, W.

Commander Weir, she thinks. Her mother’s memories flood back to her.

“I think … I think it’s time I turn you back over to V-Day. Keep searching. Keep pulling the threads. Royston out.”

If we want a shot at taking this planet back, we have to find the Commander, she remembers her mother saying. Find Weir, and we find our chance.

She opens the folder, and is greeted with a single text file. There’s no place like home.

She scrubs a hand over her face. Breaking into the XCOM alpha site is a bad idea. She is acutely aware of that fact.

It will not stop her.

Betos refuses to let her go unattended.

Her mother’s access codes still work. The old base still smells like a tomb, though it is curiously devoid of human remains, almost as if someone had been through to clean house. She notes, with no small amount of curiosity, that the crimson red banners her parents’ memories say should hang in tatters in Mission Control are absent.

Someone has already done her the favor of breaking into the Commander’s office. She suspects it was the same soul who took the banners.

She unplugs the computer from the wall, and connects it to a small Elerium core, then connects her datapad to the bulky device. It makes short work of the outdated security protocols, and she soon has a complete copy of the XCOM archives. She spends the next few hours preparing for the broadcast.

The introduction music still isn’t as polished as she would like.

“When we last left off,” she begins. “I’d had someone or something access my datapad and leave me with several gigabytes worth of files. They conclusively tie many of the disappearances to this Avatar project. I still do not know the source of this leak, but I believe the documents to be credible.”

“Among these documents was a reference to one William Weir. Weir, for those of you who don’t know, was the Commander of XCOM, the organization that first fought to repel the invasion. Being the child of XCOM operatives, he was sort of a mythical figure growing up.

She plays a snippet cut from a Council call.

“My parents painted Weir as a complicated figure, but one whom they ultimately respected, and more importantly, trusted. I grew up hearing tales of a brilliant tactician and shrewd strategist, one who innately understood the balance of risk and reward. The men and women under William Weir’s command followed him, perhaps not blindly, but with near absolute trust.”

“Which speaks volumes, given how little is publicly available on the man. Finding concrete details on his past is a tall order. He’s a West Point graduate, a US Army veteran, and beyond that, something of a mystery. From what I can piece together, he had some sort of longstanding tie to anti-alien efforts.”

She plays another Council clip.

“He also didn’t make a habit of playing nicely with world leaders. Maybe he always knew what was coming. The same people he fought with were the people who would hand ADVENT the world on a silver platter just months later.”

“The next clip I’m about to play is … disturbing.”

She swallows hard as the recordings of the base incursion sound forth onto the airwaves. Hives rise along her skin, the combined terror from her parents’ memories brought to life once again. She feels like vomiting, like turning the recording off and hurling the datapad across the room. Some ghosts are not meant to be revived.

There is a sickening crunch.

“One of the only hard facts we have about Weir, or his fate, is this: when XCOM fell, Weir fell with it. His disappearance was perhaps humanity’s greatest loss; his continued Missing In Action status potentially our greatest hindrance.”

“What’s not clear is this: what ties him to Avatar?”

When they make it back to camp, there is an odd package of sorts waiting for her: a dead ADVENT scientist, dried blood around his mouth. Betos hands her a datapad. “He said this was to be given to you.

She sits around the fire that night, picking at dinner, and begins sifting through its contents. She doesn’t have long to look, however. There is a folder labeled “S. Royston.”

She clicks on it, and is greeted with a video of the interior of some kind of ADVENT facility. At the far end of the room is a tank with a figure suspended inside of it.

“…calibrated wrong! It is extremely unlikely the subject could be conscious after all this time. Of course we know how critical this is to the Avatar project! But with the accelerated timeline you’ve placed upon us …”

The feed fizzles out.

There are other documents, too: scans and reports. She recognizes what she believes to be a control chip, and what the reports describe as “heightened neural activity.” They confirm her worst suspicions, that the figure in the tank is XCOM’s missing commander.

Each and every one is emblazoned with the red Avatar seal.

She plays the clip on air that night. “It’s hard to fully describe this,” she begins. “I must have watched it ten times, trying to glean something from it.”

She feels something encouraging, but not intrusive, at the back of her mind.

“Between this and the additional data included, we can now conclusively say that Commander William Weir is alive, that ADVENT is holding him for some purpose related to the Avatar project, and that the Avatar project, whatever it is, isn’t going away.”

“Very astute, Miss Royston,” a voice cuts in.

“Hello?” She asks.

“You’ve come so far. But you still can’t quite put it together, can you?”

“Listeners, I don’t know who this is. They’re not with me.”

“That’s apparent.”

The presence at the back of her mind grows anxious.

“Why are you on my ---“

“Your little show? Only to give you what you’ve been looking for. Your precious answers.”

“…Who are you?”

“Montreal quarantine zone. Tomorrow evening. 5 PM. Palais de Justice.”

The presence gives her a strong sense: Absolutely not.

“You heard them,” she announces. “Special broadcast. Tomorrow night. Five PM.”

“There are some places even we will not tread,” Betos says. “If you will not reconsider, then I wish you safe passage.”

Her signal carries clear and strong, her proof that she is not alone.

“This is … probably a trap,” she says, her voice shaking. “But it’s the only way we might find out. So. We’re gonna do that. Together.”

Gingerly, she picks her way along the side of the building. “For those of you who, like me, never saw one of these lost cities when they were whole, they’re … kind of cool, actually. They don’t look anything like the city centers. I mean,” she pauses. “They kind of do. There’s these giant buildings, and they’re mostly glass, but there’s other kinds too. There’s … there’s more variety. They look like they might have been a nice place to live.”

She shivers.

“They’re way, way too quiet, though. And something’s definitely here.”

She stops dead, her voice dropping to a whisper. “ADVENT. ADVENT is here. With what looks like … flamethrowers? Everybody, this is really strange. They’re not interested in me.”

“Miss Royston?” A voice asks from behind her. “Come with me. Time grows short.”

“Who are you?”

“Peter Van Doorn. But that’s not really the answer you want now, is it? You’ve come a long way, Miss Royston. And you’ve got bigger questions. Come along. I promise, we won’t leave your audience hanging.”

She follows him down into a basement; the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She should not do this. This is how her life ends, here on live radio.

She has not come this far to give up now.

The door shuts heavy behind her. Van Doorn gestures her to a seat, and takes one of his own, across the table from her.

“Alright, Miss Royston,” he says. “Ask away.”

“Who do you work for?”

“These days? I’m retired. I’m an old man.”

“Who did you work for?”

He sucks at his teeth. “Could answer you any number of ways.”

“Most recent employer,” she grinds out.

“I serve the great and glorious Elders.”

“ADVENT.”

“Naturally.”

“What did you do for them?”

“I assisted in strategic operations against known collaborators.”

“You murdered innocents.”

“Those who cannot be swayed to the Elders grace will be brought to heel by their wrath.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s life, my darling girl.”

“ I’m not your darling anything. What the hell is ADVENT doing with the civilians they’ve abducted?”

“They’ve been called to a higher purpose.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It most certainly is. D’you mind if I smoke?”

“I didn’t come here to play ping pong.”

“You don’t know what you came here for.”

“I came here for answers.”

“And that’s what I’m giving you.”

“I’ll take my chances elsewhere,” she says, standing and walking for the door.

“The Avatar project is an attempt to give the Elder Ethereals a more suitable physical host, one that is less prone to tissue degeneration. In order to manufacture these vessels, the most psionically gifted members of the human population, people like yourself, Miss Royston --- yes, we know about your little talent --- were culled. Their genetic material was harvested, and reborn into something greater.”

“How?”

“You’ve never availed yourself of a Gene Therapy clinic, have you? Ah, I suppose you’re too young.”

“You’re saying the Clinics are a front?’

“They bring all into the light of the Elders --- just not in the same way.”

She shudders. “I don’t believe you.”

“You want proof?” He asks, gesturing to his own datapad, now resting on his leg. “I’m happy to provide it.”

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s see.”

He keys in a few buttons. “It’ll take a few minutes. We’ll be done by then anyway.”

“Is that what you’re planning to do to Will Weir?” She is almost afraid to ask.

Van Doorn’s lips curl back. “Oh, no. Commander Weir has come to serve a very special place in our organization.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sally spits.

“A lot of faith in a man you’ve never met.”

“I trust my mother.”

“You trust memories that aren’t yours. Memory is so malleable.”

“He was the first,” she says. “He was the first one who disappeared.”

“Neither the first, nor the last. But I’ll give you that. His … aid was not given of his own volition.”

“What did you do to him?”

“We’ve given him a place of honor. He’s integral to the Elders’ vision for humanity.”

“A place of honor while you decimate the world he tried to protect?”

“What a rosy vision, Miss Royston.”

“They can’t get away with this. We’re broadcasting live. Everyone who’s listening knows now.”

“And they will all kneel before the glory of the Elders.”

“There’s gotta be thousands of people missing! Do you really think humanity will just give up now that they know?”

“Millions, Miss Royston. You’re a little late to the party, or did you really think you were the first to have made it this far?” He asks. “Please. You’re a child. You’re just the only one to have left a paper trail. Don’t you wonder why your associates keep ending up dead?”

She swallows hard.

Van Doorn reaches into a jacket pocket and sets two pills on the table. He takes one and swallows it dry. “I’m giving you an option. An out. You have your answers. You’ve broadcasted your cause. You have to pay for it somehow. These pills are the easy way.”

Sally’s eyes dart to the datapad; her signal is still clear. The upload continues unabashed. “I think I’ll take the other option.”

“Oh, they’re coming,” he purrs. “I’d take the pills, Miss Royston. It’s a far less gruesome end than whatever they’ll do to you.”

Her fingers wrap around the pistol in her bag.

“They know now. Someone will stop it. They’ll find Weir.”

“You want his location? I’ll transfer it to you,” he says, tapping his datapad, “but I’m afraid you won’t have much time. And the second you broadcast it, well…” The man offers her a wry grin. “Oh, Miss Royston --- or, should I say, Miss Martin. You don’t have a wing or a prayer. So much like your father.”

Her voice catches in her throat. “You son of a bitch.” Briefly, she entertains the idea of shooting him, but realizes she’ll need the meager bullets she has against the oncoming forces. “Why do this?”

“Because catching you? Is hard. You’ve got better angels looking out for you than you realize. It would seem your ongoing antics have caught his attention. But letting you hand yourself over? Well, that was easy. And someone with your talents? Well. You too will serve a cause. You can feel him, can’t you?”

Van Doorn smiles and laughs, then begins to choke as blood foams from his mouth.

There is a commotion at the door, heavy footfalls and the telltale jabber of ADVENT troopers. The man’s eyes roll up into his head and he slumps forward, dead.

“If you can hear me out there,” she says, “I apologize, but I think our show is about to be cut short.”

The door falls under the blow of an ADVENT trooper’s kick.

“You know what’s coming!” She yells, cocking the gun. “You know what you have to do!”

Troopers pour into the room. Strong arms wrap around her waist, and one of the troopers raises a boot, preparing to smash the datapad, its screen blinking a comforting ‘UPLOAD COMPLETE.’

“Don’t let them win!” She shouts. “You have to keep fighting! You have to ---“

The feed goes dead.

On board the Avenger, John Bradford rises from his seat at the bar. He has work to do.

#xcom #fic #sally's uncle will

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ask-de-writer · 6 years

Text

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : World of Sea : Part 45

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

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“These provisions will enable us to make long, swift runs when necessary.”

“Like battle intercept runs?” Mord asked brow furrowed with curiosity.

“Like battle intercept runs,” confirmed Sula.

Kurin, who had been listening intently, asked, “Where is he now?”

A runner from the Council located Sula and conveyed their urgent request that she come back. All of the Captains that had left the Council were also being recalled.

“I did see that even the thought of war bothered her,” said Master Juris, looking up from the mold and press that he was fabricating.

“Thirty six,” said Kurin, concentrating on a bit of tricky detail in her sketch. “She has damaged and captured fifty three and taken the surrender of a hundred and twenty-one. While I was on board the Dark Dragon, I was allowed to read what I could in Sula’s library and sailors will talk. Most of her books are written in Winternight. I can't read it but I did look through quite a few of them anyway. They had pictures that I could understand. I know what war is, now. It scares me.”

In the Council Pavilion, Master Juris’ prediction was being borne out. Captain Sarfin was addressing both Sula and Huld.

Huld was sitting cross-legged on the deck. Sula turned to him and crouched down to his level. “Honored One, this is not my decision alone. May we do this thing?”

Huld did not open his eyes. He replied quietly, “We must.”

“Set up a large table and bring me maps showing your territories. I will need sailing data on all of the ships that will be in the search. In particular, I will need your wind nomograms.

Seeing his reluctance, Sula asked Skua directly, “Do you want to be a part of this search?”

He scowled, “Not really. The Fauline really isn’t up to this sort of work. Our schooner rig is handy but it’s not very fast. We should be going to our Spring waters and fishing.”

The Fauline gathered her crew and left, ostensibly for the Arrakan fleet.

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

#SEA DRAGON’S GIFT #World of Sea #Written by De Writer #Part 45

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pocketseizure · 7 years

Text

The Museum of Hyrule, Chapter Three

All the Stories Not Told

In this chapter, Zelda attends a fundraiser held in the museum. Fed up with the party, she leaves and is approached by Ganondorf. He suggests they continue their conversation in the archives, where they can finally be alone.

Chapter 3 / 4 ☆ 3,100 words ☆ SFW ☆ (Also on AO3)

* * * * *

The council member raised a supercilious eyebrow at Zelda. "You will be sure to tell Prime Minister Nohansen about our conversation, yes?"

"Of course, sir. I'll be sure to give my father your regards."

Zelda flashed a bright smile, but the old man had already turned away from her and started to talk to someone else. As she stepped away from the conversation, she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass covering a display of old rupee coins. Her sleek black dress fit perfectly, and not a strand of her hair had come loose from the updo that had taken her stylist almost two hours to construct. Her sapphire earrings glittered brilliantly, and her makeup was immaculate, but her face was clearly tired. She looked simultaneously much younger and much older than she actually was.

Perhaps this was an effect of the pretentious and stuffy atmosphere of the event, a charity fundraiser held in the museum. Zelda assumed that all the proceeds from the tickets went to a good cause, but it had not been made clear what that cause might be. The actual purpose of the evening was to form and solidify connections, as a new rotation of parliament members had just been inducted into office. The parliament floor was nothing more than a stage; this was where the real business of government took place, in lavish venues that were accessible by invitation only.

I can't deal with this nonsense anymore, Zelda thought.

She left the smaller gallery and proceeded through the main hall of the museum's east wing, avoiding the clustered groups and pretending not to see the glances and waves in her direction. The buzz of conversation faded behind her as she moved farther away from the party. She eventually reached the central rotunda where she had come to get out of the heat a week ago.

Although she was more than comfortable working with people in a professional context, Zelda disliked large and informal functions like this, where the only goal seemed to be for older men to drink and make grand pronouncements regarding the future of people other than themselves. Her father had dragged her along with him to numerous events like this when she was younger, and they never became any easier to bear. She had no desire to attend this particular fundraiser, but her boss had asked her to, and she had agreed without thinking when she heard it would be held in the museum. There was no sense in concealing the truth – she wanted to see Ganondorf.

She hated herself for the way she'd treated him. Why did she leave his office? Was she really so stuck up that she thought she was too good for him? Was she really so high and mighty that she didn't want to risk being seen at a hotel bar with a museum curator?

When she'd gotten back to her apartment, she left the file Ganondorf gave her on the living room table. It was certain to be messy business, and she needed a cold shower to clear her head. She washed her face over and over again, her mind running through the same set of thoughts in the chilly water: Who is this man? What am I doing? When will I see him again? She finally emerged from the bathroom to find Midna sitting cross-legged on the floor, the contents of the file fanned out on the carpet in front of her.

"This is some heavy shit, Zel," she'd said, not even bothering to look up.

Midna was a policy wonk of the highest order. She came from a good family, which was all that mattered to Zelda's father when he'd signed as a guarantor on their lease several years ago. More importantly, Midna was a freshly minted PhD who had already joined the ranks of the best and brightest. She was a member of several think tanks that worked behind closed doors and soundproofed walls in the brightly painted townhouses of the university district. Despite pulling in an unimaginable salary, she seemed to feel no urge to move out of their apartment. Zelda valued her company, and she valued her opinions as well.

"Why don't you break it down for me while I get dressed?"

"You mean you haven't seen this?" Midna asked, slapping the back of her hand against the photocopies she was holding. "Where did it come from?"

"Pants first, questions later."

"I don't think you need to bother, because this is going to knock your pants off."

"I'll wear an extra pair then," Zelda yelled from her bedroom. "Tell me what we've got here."

"Where do I even begin? You know how there were two earthquakes a hundred years ago? Most people are aware that the Gerudo were blamed for the fires that spread after the first one, but get a load of this – what I'm looking at are corroborating documents saying that there were royal orders for the soldiers to spread those rumors and then organize civilian groups to hunt the Gerudo down. Fuck me, there are pictographs and everything."

Midna paused and then called out, "You still listening?"

"Yes, I'm listening!" Zelda answered as she quickly pulled on her Sheikah-style athletic pants.

"And it doesn't end there. So the Gerudo got kicked out of the west district, and a bunch of people were brought in for the post-earthquake reconstruction. This is where shit gets real. I've got another bunch of documents here that suggest that these people were purposefully unregistered so that they could be severely underpaid and then conveniently made to disappear when they were no longer useful. I'm holding a bunch of etchings and diary entries that seem to suggest that they were no better than slaves. And meanwhile, full citizenship was being revoked for other groups who were labeled as undesirables so that they basically became nonentities. Did you know there were actually still Deku in the city during the second earthquake? This is wild.... Hey, Zelda?"

"Yeah, I'm still listening," Zelda responded as she walked back into the living room. Her head was spinning, and she felt unsteady on her feet. Instead of trying to navigate through the sheets of paper spread out across the floor, she sat down on the couch behind Midna.

"So this is the craziest thing," Midna said, passing a copy of a photograph of a woodblock print back to Zelda. She took it but didn't immediately understand what she was seeing. There seemed to be a large monster rising above the roofs of the city, which was wreathed in stylized flames.

"I'm not so good with turn-of-the-century Hylian, but it seems as though the second earthquake was blamed on some sort of monster, can you believe that? People genuinely believed it was real, and that it was unleashed on Hyrule by the Gerudo. Putting this together with everything else, I would say that this is more propaganda to drive the remaining residents of the west district away. Judging from its poor quality and what looks like heavy wear around the edges of the printing block, it seems like this was produced quickly and distributed on a wide scale. It's strange that I've never seen anything like it before."

Midna turned to Zelda with a concerned look. "Farore give me courage," she said. "Who put this together?"

Zelda was about to answer her, but right at that moment her cellphone rang from her bedroom. She knew exactly who it was, but she couldn't bear to talk to him, not with this paper sea of destruction right in front of her.

"It's them calling now, right?" Midna asked after studying Zelda's face for a moment. Zelda nodded.

Midna frowned. "I don't think you should answer it."

Zelda nodded again. The ringing stopped, but it immediately began again. Zelda waited with Midna in silence until it was over.

The two of them had ended up spending the night passing the photocopies back and forth, trying to make sense of them. Midna eventually retrieved one of her laptops from her room and ran extensive searches on databases Zelda had never seen in an attempt to find records and duplicates of the documents. Despite her considerate skill, she was unsuccessful.

At a certain point Midna went to the kitchen to brew some coffee, and Zelda got up to check her phone. It had indeed been Ganondorf calling, and he'd sent her two text messages as well.

"I assume you've looked through the file," the first read. "I must apologize. I meant to discuss this with you, not upset you. Please forgive my actions."

Zelda's heart stopped as she read the second message. "I couldn't help myself. You do something to me, Zelda. You set something inside me on fire."

She couldn't bring herself to respond to him that night, and she slept so late the next morning that she had to rush to get to work. Her office was busy, as usual, and she didn't have time to text him during the day. With every hour that separated her from their encounter in his office, it seemed increasingly strange, like something that hadn't actually happened. If she had never met Ganondorf, and if he had never kissed her, then the contents of the folder he'd given her could not be real.

And yet Zelda had searched for him at the party. It wasn't unreasonable to think that a curator would attend a fundraiser held at the museum, but she hadn't seen him. She hadn't realized how disappointed this would make her, as if the entire evening was a waste. Soon the small groups of people that filled the galleries would begin heading off to their own private events, and she didn't want to be caught sitting alone in the rotunda as they left.

I should really get back, Zelda thought as she drained her drink.

"You look like you've had a long evening," a familiar voice said from behind her. Zelda turned, and Ganondorf stood beside her, holding a champagne flute filled with sparkling water.

"Ganondorf." She smiled at him, concealing her surprise at how quietly he had moved as she accepted the glass. "How lovely to see you."

"You look beautiful," he said.

"And what brings you here to flatter me on this fine evening?" she asked him, taking a sip of water. She had been talking for hours, and she hadn't realized how thirsty she was.

"Did you not expect to see someone like me at an event like this?"

Zelda looked up at him. He had on a red shirt with a seafoam green tie under a dark suit. The colors were garish, but he wore them well. It was odd that she hadn't seen him during the past few hours, especially given how tall he was.

"I wouldn't think that anyone comes to these things unless they have to," she remarked dryly.

He smirked. "I thought you'd be used to this, Zelda Nohansen."

"How did you know?" Zelda felt a chill pass through her. She used her mother's maiden name on her business card precisely because she didn't want to be associated with her father's family.

"It's not like it's a secret that you're the prime minister's daughter. An alias won't put off a dedicated researcher."

Zelda was annoyed by his casual admission that he'd done a background check on her. Had this been before or after they met the second time? Was this where his 'you set something inside me on fire' line had come from? Did he really think that would help him get closer to her father?

"Well, I did some research on you, too," she snapped at him. "Apparently you didn't leave grad school after all. What I heard is that you got kicked out."

To her surprise, Ganondorf laughed. "That's a kind way of putting it," he said. "My department chair stole my research and destroyed my chances of renewing a grant, and so I destroyed his face. I told you I wasn't suited for academia. Besides, I prefer to let the objects from the past speak for themselves without mediation. History is such an inappropriately straightforward way of telling stories, wouldn't you agree? No one would ever mention the conversation you just had with the council member in a textbook, for instance."

Zelda refused to look away from his arrogant smirk. "I make no apologies for the way politicians go about their business. If you have objections, it's your responsibility to do something about it. You tell me that you find history distasteful, yet you lurk silently in your museum and judge other people for not putting the missing pieces together themselves. If you were less of a coward, you would find some means of saying something."

"Courage was never one of my virtues," he responded, narrowing his eyes, "but I will act when the time is right. The blows I strike will be decisive, and no political maneuvering will save your father."

Despite herself, Zelda was impressed by the strength underlying Ganondorf's words, which were so different than the soft and rounded prevarications of the men who had sought her attention all evening.

"What do you have against my father?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Do you even need to ask? The crimes of the past are still perpetuated into the present."

"That's a bold claim. You say you're a researcher. Where's your proof?"

"Let me ask you a question instead, Zelda. When you spoke to the parliamentary committee last week, how did it go? Did they seem in any way interested in the data you presented, or was the hearing merely perfunctory?"

Zelda was taken aback. "How did you know about that?"

Ganondorf shrugged. "It's a matter of public record, and one that I happen to follow very closely. Have I given you the impression that I say things without having considered all of the available information?"

"Well." Zelda took another sip of water, giving herself time to think. She had found herself in a tricky situation, but she had no patience for power games. It would best suit her purposes to have everything out in the open. If this conversation were going to go anywhere, she needed to know Ganondorf's intentions. "I suppose you've done your research on me as well," she prompted.

Ganondorf's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he shook his head. "I must admit that I was careless in that regard. Had I known who you were, I would never have invited you back here. If I had known, I would have..."

"You would have done what, exactly?" Zelda asked. She crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her challenge.

Ganondorf gritted his teeth. "I played my hand too soon. I didn't recognize your name, and I didn't think to dig into your background until it was already too late. This puts me in a difficult situation, but I... "

"You need to know that I am not my father."

"No, you're not." Ganondorf glared down at her. "But you can't deny the privilege you wield through your connection to him."

"I am. Not. My father," Zelda repeated, articulating every word. "Which is why I read through the file you gave me. I couldn't help getting the impression that you assembled it in haste, but I corroborated what I could. I wouldn't have gone through the trouble if I hadn't taken it seriously – and if I hadn't trusted that your intentions were honorable."

Ganondorf stood as still as one of the statues in the gallery at his back as he considered her silently.

"You don't talk like a politician," he finally said.

Zelda met his gaze. "I have no intention of becoming one. My business lies in facts, not convenient fabrications. Clearly you underestimate me."

"I do nothing of the sort," Ganondorf responded, "and I wouldn't have given that file to just anyone. It seems I made the right choice in thinking that I could trust you with it. It's a relief to hear that you took the material seriously."

"I don't see any other way that I could have taken it." She paused for a moment, then continued, "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate response to that sort of information, but I must admit that I'm intrigued. If this evidence is leading where I think it is, you could be on to something earth-shattering."

"Earth-shattering, I like that." Ganondorf grinned. "Would you like to see something interesting, then?"

"See something? Where?"

"Down in the archives. There shouldn't be anyone else there at this time of night."

Zelda returned his grin, relieved to be back on even footing. "How do I know you aren't just scheming to get me alone?"

"Do you want to go back to that party?" he asked, holding his hand out for her glass.

"Not particularly," she answered, passing it to him. He drained it and then set it down on the circular stone bench surrounding the fountain.

"I was there too, you know," he told her as he began to walk toward a grand set of stairs on the other side of the rotunda. "The director of my department asked me to attend, but I would have gone anyway. I'd hoped for a chance to speak with you. It didn't present itself, obviously. You weren't alone for a single minute, not until you chose to leave. You say that you'll never be a politician, but I might dare to suggest otherwise."

Zelda nodded in acknowledgment of his comment as Ganondorf guided her around the cordons blocking access to the stairs leading down. Midna had told her the same thing on more than one occasion.

"You know, if I had been born a hundred years ago, I might have been a princess."

Ganondorf glanced at her over his shoulder. "How noble of you, to associate with someone common like myself."

"I don't think you're common at all."

He stopped and turned to face her. She was on a higher step, so her face was level with his. He seemed as if he were about to say something, and the thought that she should kiss him flickered through her mind. But no, that would be inappropriate. She looked away, embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said simply, and then resumed climbing down the staircase.

At the bottom they came to a series of reinforced metal doors equipped with keypads. Ganondorf proceeded to the door directly in front of them on the landing and punched in the code. Zelda's cheeks turned red as she watched the deft movements of his fingers, remembering how they had felt on her face.

The door opened with a click, and Zelda returned to herself. "After you," Ganondorf said as he held the door open, and she was careful not to touch his body as she moved past him into the archives.

#Zelda fic #Zelgan #Ganondorf #Princess Zelda #The Museum of Hyrule #my fic #this story was supposed to be three chapters but #it got a bit out of hand #I just really enjoy writing these characters #it's a problem smh

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wellamarke · 7 years

Text

twilight's last gleaming

humans challenge, week 2, day 3: crossover/fusion (the 100)

When Mattie arrived at the lab, George was nowhere to be found. That was unusual - he was always there first, usually mumbling to himself under his breath about a file he’d misplaced, or peering at the root code of a synth who’d been brought in for repairs. There were only two models in the lab this morning, and one of them was Odi, who didn’t really count, since he lived there.

Mattie made her way over to the other synth - a female dressed in overalls that suggested she was assigned to Mecha Station, working in the engine rooms, at temperatures no human could withstand for very long. There were burn marks on her clothes and skin, and Mattie absent-mindedly took a casing repair kit down from a shelf, beginning to patch up the worst of the burns while she waited for her holoscreen to load the synth’s diagnostics.

“Where’s George this morning, Odi?” she asked smoothing a finger over the synth’s name label. Hester. She couldn’t remember having any Hesters in for repairs before, which probably meant this one was fairly new. It seemed a shame that she was already so bashed about, in that case. She was only a baby. Sometimes it broke Mattie’s heart to see how badly the synths were treated by their human overseers - partly because it was so easy to imagine them doing the same things to Mia, or one of the other conscious synths who lived secretly among the workforce.

Odi shuffled over to Mattie, his faulty arm still folded awkwardly against him. They’d done everything they could, but he’d need an entirely new limb to fix the problem, and the manufacturing people next door weren’t exactly keen to sink resources into synths who should legally have been recycled years ago. Whenever there was an inspection, George and Mattie had to hide Odi under the floor. Otherwise, he’d have been taken and scrapped long before now.

“George was called to a meeting of the Council,” Odi told her. “He said he would be back as soon as possible.”

Mattie frowned. “What does the Council want him for?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Weird,” Mattie muttered, then returned to her work on Hester. The Ark’s Council didn’t usually call anyone from Synth Engineering to their meetings, and George had certainly never run for office himself. It was enough of a miracle that he’d taken Mattie on as his apprentice, her being the Chancellor’s daughter and all. He’d only softened once he’d realised how much Laura did for the conscious synths, behind the scenes - making sure they were kept out of harm’s way as much as she could.

Nobody outside their very elite circle could find out the truth about Mia and the others. It would cause a panic, and give credence to the crazy ideas of the people who said that the synths would one day rise up and destroy all the humans aboard the Ark, jettisoning the parts of the ship that generated oxygen and taking it for themselves. As long as the synths were brainless, dormant slaves, managing the ship and keeping it in orbit around the ravaged planet below, those people could be ignored, and called conspiracy theorists. But if synthetic consciousness ever became common knowledge, enough people would join their terror-mongering that Mattie actually wouldn’t even blame Niska if she flicked the switch and killed the oxygen.

Which was a great image to have, this early in the designated day-period.

Mattie worked busily on Hester, until the synth was in full working order again. The only sign that she wasn’t brand new out of the box was how dirty her clothing was, but Mattie could hardly do anything about that. Her mum was pretty laid-back for a colony Chancellor, but even she might have questions if Mattie arrived back at their quarters with an armful of synth laundry.

She’d put Hester on charge, and was tidying up her workstation and wondering what to do next when the door to the lab slid open. George entered, his lined face seeming even more drawn than usual. “This is bad, Mattie,” he said, as he approached his own station. “It’s all gonna fall apart, now.”

Mattie was alarmed. She went to meet him. “What? What’s going on? Why did the Council call you?”

George leaned on his workstation, one hand to his brow as if he was getting a headache. “All the qualified engineers were there. They were telling us the plan.”

“What plan?”

“I’m getting to it,” George said, sounding weary. “You’ve heard the rumours, I suppose. Dwindling resources, running out of air, et cetera, et cetera.”

Mattie gave a half-shrug. “Some people say we’ve only got 30 viable years left, but they’ve been saying the same thing since before my mother was born. So what?”

“So, they’re wrong,” George said. “But not in the way you think. We haven’t got thirty years. It’s more like three. Five, at a push. All this time we’ve kept humans running the numbers, but last week they had a synth recalculate them and it turns out the whole department’s been hiding the truth for decades, scared of the ramifications. If we’d known sooner, we might have been able to find another solution, but we don’t have time for that now.”

Mattie felt like she’d been slapped in the face. “Shit. Three years? I can’t believe it.” She paused. “So what, we just wait to die up here?”

“No,” said George. “They’re going to send fifty synths to earth in a dropship.”

“To earth?”

“They’ll monitor conditions down there, send up their readings. They won’t be able to recharge once their power is gone, but they should last long enough to make a report. Then we can decide if we should land the Ark, or stay up here.” He sighed. “I’d rather suffocate in space than die slowly of radiation sickness on the ground. But that’s just me.”

Mattie took this all in. “Will the synths be able to judge all of this without any humans to observe?” she asked. “They’re not exactly built to measure toxins.”

“No, they’re not,” George agreed. “Those dropships seat one hundred, Mattie. Fifty synths as a failsafe, to send us whatever information they can. And fifty humans for them to study.”

“What?” If she’d been shocked before, Mattie was now somewhere outside her own mind, drifting among the debris that floated past the ship. “No. My mother would never have agreed to this.”

“She did try to stop it. But the rest of the Council was unanimous against her. She could be deposed at any moment.”

“Who are they sending?”

George looked down at his hands, which were clasped on the top of his station. “Prisoners. The fifty healthiest people in the Skybox will be selected.”

“Oh, God.” It was all too much to take in. Mattie felt a lump rise in her threat at the thought of Harun, her childhood friend, who’d been arrested for the possession and distribution of recreational drugs, earlier that year. He was fit and young, especially compared to the people who’d been holed up in the Skybox for decades. Would he be sent to earth with the others, expected to survive in the wastelands, or else die of radiation poisoning? It was unthinkable.

“It gets worse,” said George. “Your mother had already set herself against them before they even proposed sending the prisoners. They’d drawn up a list of synths they deemed least vital to the Ark’s workings.”

“No,” said Mattie quietly, knowing what was coming. Her mother had kept Mia, Niska, Max and Fred safe. They had simple assignments. They worked longer shifts than any human, but not in places where they could be hurt or mistreated. Mia served in the cantine; Niska worked in the archives. Max and Fred were on Farm Station, with Leo as their overseer, designing and breeding genetically modified crops. They supported the agriculture workforce, but they definitely weren’t vital to the practical task of feeding the colony day to day.

“Are they all…?” Mattie began, trailing off when George met her eyes. He didn’t have to confirm it. All four of them were being sent to earth. Perhaps the radiation wouldn’t affect them, perhaps they’d be able to find some way of collecting power, perhaps they’d be alright. Even if all of that came true, she might never see them again.

“We can’t let them go,” Mattie said, though her own voice sounded far away, like she was listening from the other side of the door. “They’re like family, it’s not… we can’t…”

“You need to find Leo and tell him,” George told her, firmly. “I imagine he’ll want to get himself arrested as soon as possible. I can’t imagine him letting them go without him.”

“No, he won’t.” Mattie agreed. She looked around the mostly-empty lab. “Shall I go now? I can take Hester back on my way, give me a reason to be crossing stations.”

George nodded. “Go.”

Mattie powered up Hester and led her to the door. She paused. At length, she turned back and gave Odi a pat on the head. “Bye, Odi.”

George watched her do it, his face solemn. He didn’t flinch when she came and gave him a brief hug as well, before slipping through the doors of the lab. They slid closed behind her, as if she’d never been there at all.

Mattie paced down the corridor outside, Hester in tow. She wondered if George had guessed what she was planning - surely he had. He hadn’t trained her for five years without learning at least a little bit about her impulse control.

Now, she thought as she turned off toward the port that would take her to Farm Station, what’s the quickest way to get arrested around here?

Maybe Leo would have some ideas.

#humanschallenge #c4 humans #lmao what #idek but here is a thing #mattie hawkins #odi millican #george millican #also hester because I've been missing her #whoa i just realised this means I've come full circle #because the first ever humans fic I attempted was a fusion with the 100 but the other way round #jake griffin was a non abusive version of david #bellamy octavia raven and atom were his conscious synths #clarke was leo and wells was her best friend (what else is new) helpin her save them #monty and jasper were like george and odi but brothers instead of father-son #lexa was the leader of the we are people movement after a hacked synth killed her gf #I was actually Super Invested in it!#it had a whole storyline with wells' perceived betrayal that was actually abby etc #I think I was so interested in noting down ways to tie the two narratives together that I didn't actually get far with the real writing #but it was gonna have been Gr9 hahaahaha #best laid plans

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