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pinnithin-writes · 7 days

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Star-Blessed

Scene expansion from episode 27 of the Live and Let Fly podcast. 3809 words. Read on Ao3.

The wind on the mountain was cold enough to burn. Roland Mons Gelidus narrowed his eyes and tucked his muzzle into his scarf as he surveyed the horizon. Dusk approached and the sky was a freezing cobalt, the dying sun sinking rapidly out of sight. Behind him trailed nine other vlakas, breaking through the snowdrifts in single file.

Their journey was tethered by constant contact. Thick pelts of moon and ice, shot through with the bleak blue black of the darkening sky, brushed, connected, parted and met again as they trudged along. It wasn’t a time for speaking, conserving energy for the hike through silence and stilled hands, but each knew how the others felt about their trek. Heads ducked and ears flattened against the chill, emotions sparked between their fur like static in the cold, dry air. The scent of their nerves and exhaustion swirled on the wind.

The Lajok wilderness in early spring was a dangerous beauty. Its stillness couldn’t be trusted; every motionless mountainside held the promise of an avalanche, every too quiet night the careful inhale before a snowstorm. Soaring peaks of sheer gray stone funneled the pack into a saddle between them, the boughs of spruce and fir offering sparse shelter from the elements. As Roland studied their formations, heavy with ice crystals as they grew into the unforgiving wind, he wondered if he, too, would freeze in a bizarre shape if he stood still for too long. Even in spring, the cold was enough to sting his eyes and crust his eyelashes with frost, the air so frigid it hurt to breathe.

He turned to face his traveling companions. “It’s getting dark,” he said, signing as he spoke. “Let’s find a spot to camp.”

The Lajok Leadership Academy had dropped Roland and his squad in The Space Between approximately twelve hours ago, leaving them with nothing but basic survival essentials and their thick woolen uniform coats. Their assignment was simple: make it back to campus alive. Roland had been excited by the challenge in the beginning, stepping forth as he often did to take charge, as none had officially been assigned as squad leader. Finally, a chance to test themselves in a real life scenario, something he had hungered for after the negligible stakes of so many simulations and exercises.

Roland knew it would take all of them working together to survive the task. Each member of their squad had a unique set of skills and experiences to lend to the collective whole. This particular group he was quite close to; all third year classmates of his, all with intrinsic knowledge of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Where Kedric lacked orienteering skills, Alyn covered him, and where Alyn struggled with trapping, Hoyt covered her, and so on.

He rapidly grew disillusioned as he hiked through the snow, realizing that their wilderness assignment was simply beleaguering a point. It was all very pedestrian to him, a lesson taught time and time again since the moment he was born. Cooperation is key, no man is an island, and only a team succeeds. It was inherent to any vlaka anywhere on the planet, an interdependence ingrained in every facet of their society.

Roland knew they shouldn’t be in their third year at the Academy and still learning something so elementary. He hadn’t enrolled to learn teamwork. He was here to learn leadership, and he was beginning to suspect the Lajok definition of leadership was just another way to keep vlakas like him planetside.

As the group dispersed to set up camp, a familiar touch on Roland’s elbow drew him out of his thoughts. At his side was Zuri, a deafblind squadmate he often defaulted to as his deputy. If we keep this pace, they signed, we should reach Lajok in three days’ time.

“Thank you, Zuri,” Roland replied aloud, taking their paw in his and signing his words against their palm. “How are the others faring? Have you noticed anything I should take note of?”

Their eyes, pale pink and wandering, couldn’t see Roland as they conversed, their expressive ears unable to pick up the cadence and timbre of his voice, but Roland knew they understood the intention behind his words better than most. Zuri gathered it in his scent, the pressure of his touch, even the resonance of his footfalls. It was a much needed reassurance, to have someone by his side who not only understood what he meant when his words failed him, but could also mediate between others just as successfully. They had an extrasensory talent for understanding others, as if they could smell the very words their emotions translated to.

So far so good, Zuri signed, though some think we should press on through the night. The Space Between in early spring makes them uneasy. They want to be back within the city’s rings as quickly as possible.

Roland’s snout wrinkled with disagreement. “I told everyone it would be unwise to push ourselves,” he stressed. “We know how to survive in an austere environment, and we won’t come to harm if we take the journey slowly and carefully. Who is saying this?”

Zuri offered a small, sympathetic smile as Roland expressed his concerns into their paw. Skinner and his usual clique, they signed back. Just something to keep an eye on. You know how he can get.

Roland did know how he could get. Gaius Skinner Valens, who went by Skinner amongst his squadmates, was often at odds with Roland Mons Gelidus. He was an irascible, opinionated vlaka whose headstrong leadership style clashed with Roland’s thoughtful, meticulous approach. Troubled, he turned his gaze to the horizon again. The temperatures would drop from dangerous to deadly come nightfall, and they couldn’t afford to lose a single vlaka if they were to survive the journey. Something to keep an eye on, indeed. Perhaps he should speak to Skinner early before this came to a head.

For now, camp setup took priority. Starting a fire, thawing provisions, and divvying rations was the simpler matter, while the majority of the group’s efforts went toward excavating a snow trench to shelter against the elements. Tempers in the camp were tense but subdued, packmates conversing through low whuffs and tactile signing. Occasionally, a brief spat broke out and dissipated in moments - a harmless vent of anxiety.

Regardless of what their opinions might be, everyone contributed to the chore, tolerating Roland’s hovering. While he was confident in the squad’s ability to survive in The Space Between, the unpredictable spring weather made him nervous, and monitoring the particulars helped him maintain a sense of control. Thankfully, he had Zuri to soften things when his orders came out unintentionally abrasive.

He took his own turn clearing out the trench, his paw pads stinging with cold. He could hear his own labored breathing and the howling wind as he worked, but underneath that was the faint nocturnal call of birds, the sparse patter of prey animal feet. If Lajok’s smallest creatures could survive out here, so could they. Not to mention dozens of lone vlakas survive in The Space Between year round, doing whatever it is they do beyond the city walls. Roland and his classmates had survived their adolescent journeys through the wilderness in valai, after all.

His breath clouded the air as he appraised the work, questioning himself. This was no longer valai, though. And they were no longer children.

As he contemplated this, his ears picked up the low tones of a grumbled conversation. A short distance away, Skinner huddled with a few of his friends, paws jammed in his coat pockets. Even without signing his words, his scent was enough to convey his dissatisfaction. It stained the bitter wind with a thick yellow anxiety.

“...Wasting time out here digging ditches,” Roland heard him mutter. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

“I’m sorry, Skinner,” Roland interjected, brushing snow from his palms. “If there’s something you’re concerned about, please do tell me.”

The other vlaka scoffed at the interruption, turning from his huddle with a reproachful look. His eyes were the same ice blue as frost in moonlight. “Oh, now he knows there’s a problem,” he sneered.

Roland had no idea what Skinner meant. If he was so bothered by making camp here, why hadn’t he said something about it earlier? Zuri told him Skinner was uneasy, but this level of hostility was unexpected. “I… apologize,” Roland said, “I was unaware you had a grievance. If you have input that would better serve the group, I’d love to hear it.”

“Don’t play ignorant. I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d only pretend to listen,” Skinner snapped back. “Then you’d just go on ahead and do what you were planning on doing anyway. Tyrant.” As he spoke, the two other vlakas with him reflected his attitude, shifting their weight from foot to foot and raising their hackles.

Roland exhaled heavily through his nose. He really tried with Skinner. Even if he didn’t like him, he still respected him for his boldness. When it came to making quick, decisive action, he was the best of them, and Roland had full confidence he would make an excellent battle tactician someday. Matters of caution didn’t suit him, however, and he became agitated at anything that made him wait. He should have expected opposition from the likes of him.

Skinner’s coat, streaked with indigo, bristled as he continued. “The longer we wait out here, the more we risk getting injured or worse. We don’t have enough rations for a three day trip. We’re practically buried in snow. Spring is here, Roland. What if there’s an avalanche?” He gestured to the nearby mountainside, where its sheer face hung heavy with snow.

Work around the camp ground to a halt as their raised voices drew the others’ attention. Roland caught movement in his periphery, but it was only Zuri, signing to ask a squadmate what was going on. Though Skinner and Roland were only verbally disagreeing, the deaf members could read lips well enough to gather the dispute. Uneasiness rippled through the pack, their fear scent betraying an erosion of faith.

Roland scowled. The name calling was a little juvenile, but he had heard worse. Sowing discord among the squad he wouldn’t stand for. He cut his eyes to Tiber, a classmate whose wilderness skills he trusted the most. “Is there risk of an avalanche?” he asked, signing out the words along with his question.

Tiber studied the mountainside carefully, checking her own work, then gave a reticent shake of her head. “Snowpacks look stable, no recent displacement, still too early for rapid melting,” she responded, also signing. “There’s risk, but it’s low.”

Her words confirmed aloud the reasoning in his head. If the choice was between an avalanche, which might kill them, and subzero temperatures, which most definitely would, he was picking the avalanche.

Roland turned a justified stare on his opposition, hoping the public address of Skinner’s concerns would be enough to quell the squad’s anxieties. “Pardon me, Skinner, if I trust the words of our most experienced mountaineer over yours,” he said, unable to keep the disdain from his tone.

Skinner rolled his eyes. “They’ll say whatever you want to hear because they know you’ll walk all over them if they don’t,” he said. “I should be leading this squad, not you. Everyone agrees.”

Did they? Roland wanted to pass a glance at his pack to verify, but he forced himself to hold eye contact with Skinner, even as doubt stormed his heart.

“This is challenging for all of us,” he shot back. “It’s going to be a hard couple of days. If you’re afraid, just admit it.” He meant it without malice, but like many things he said, it came out insultingly. “We’ll get through it together.”

“Afraid?” Skinner repeated. His tail lashed with agitation. “The only thing I’m afraid of is your stupidity. I’m putting an end to this.” He took a challenging step forward, eyes bright and alert. “Duel me. Winner takes charge of the assignment.”

The gall! Roland bared his teeth. “I’m not fighting you, Skinner,” he snarled, “have you lost your senses?”

The hot, impulsive side of him wanted desperately to accept the challenge. Prove his capability, vent his aggression, and put an end to this ridiculous argument all at once, so they could get back to more important matters.

Roland swallowed back the growl in his throat. He shared Skinner’s fear of dying, out here in the Lajok wilderness where the elements leached the very life from your blood, but it was eclipsed by a something greater. The onus of their survival rest upon his leadership. If anyone succumbed to cold, hunger, exhaustion, or injury based on his decisions, it would be no different than if he’d killed them with his own two paws.

He couldn’t risk hurting a packmate, no mater how badly he wanted to. He held his ground. The other vlakas flanking Skinner shifted indecisively, and all around them the temperatures continued to fall.

Skinner was dauntless. Steam and fear scent rising from his body, he showed no indication of backing down. “I thought you’d say that, coward,” he spat. “It always has to be your way, on your terms.” He pointed defiantly at Roland. “I’m not letting you dig your heels in this time. You aren’t fit to lead this troop. Step down. I won’t say it again.”

Roland was beginning to gather that this stemmed from more than just the present situation, but he couldn’t examine how many times he might have unintentionally slighted the other man that very instant. “These are unacceptable terms-” he tried to protest, and Skinner charged him.

Reflex kicked in and he ducked, unable to fully dodge the claws aimed at his face. The blow came first and then the pain, a stinging, hot gash that ripped down the length of his snout.

He clapped a paw to his muzzle and staggered back. The scent of his blood drenched the air, soaking through his fur and spattering scarlet on the snow. If he hadn’t moved in time, Skinner could have taken out one of his eyes. Panting, he felt a growl vibrating his chest, his nervous system flooding with the instinct to defend himself.

“Calm yourself, man!” Roland barked, both to himself and the opposition. Skinner was already preparing for another attack, his lithe body low and stanced to strike.

As Roland braced himself, the pack surged around him, forming a barrier between him and Skinner. Backed up against him was Zuri, as vicious as he had ever seen them, teeth bared, hackles on end, head ducked and ears pinned against their skull. The others snarled and snapped at Skinner, scolding him for disrupting the order of the pack. It was a chastisement beyond words, coming from a primal place before the vlaka had developed language.

Roland was stunned. Both at Skinner’s audacity and the loyalty of his squadmates. He was tempted to resist their protection, to order them to step aside, to tell them this wasn’t their fight. But enveloped as he was by the animal congruence of his team, he allowed their support to wash over him. He realized, with a tiny thrill of vindication, that the pack took Skinner’s challenge as a threat to them all. A leader spoke for the group and the group spoke for him. His successes were their successes, his failures their failures. His squad would not stand for hostility from a wolf who would rather endanger them than trust their collective capability.

Skinner backed off, breathing hard, as his brethren rebuked him. He flicked his eyes questioningly to his usual supporters, but even they were unwilling to take his side against the rest of the squad. Fear and fury billowed off him and curled into the frozen sky; Roland could smell his humiliation even from behind the resolute wall of his squadmates. Skinner let out a snarl and set off, disgraced, away from camp.

“Skinner, wait!” Roland called, watching the indigo coat lose itself amidst the pines and snowdrifts. He tried to shoulder past his team to pursue him, but Zuri caught his arm.

Let him go, they signed, their hand motions quick and sharp with their remaining agitation. You can’t get yourself killed going after him. We need you here.

As much as he hated to admit it, they were right. If he ventured into the polar darkness, he was just as foolish as Skinner. All the bravado and self assurance left him in a rush and he took a step back, reeling from what had just happened. Blood dripped from his wound, glittering rubies congealing in the snow.

The phalanx dispersed, his packmates murmuring and signing amongst themselves. One of them offered Roland a clean cloth, which he gratefully pressed against his muzzle until the bleeding stopped. Though the cuts stung, resentment found no purchase in his heart as he stared at the place where Skinner had fled. The squad finished digging out their shelter and turned to other matters: eating and drinking, checking their paws for blisters, patching over minor injuries, wrapping hands and taping feet to protect against the next day’s strenuous hike. As night swallowed them, they huddled against the deadly temperatures inside the snow trench.

Roland posted himself at the entrance, watching the darkness, an anxious, guilty dread gnawing at his chest. Ordinarily, he would take this downtime to check on everyone, but the habit escaped him as he stewed in his emotions. He was furious with himself for allowing the argument to happen, for letting it escalate to violence, for losing a member of the team. It didn’t matter that he had successfully avoided a fight. If Skinner died out there, it was Roland’s fault.

He pressed his shoulder against the cold trench wall, listening to his companions slumbering at his back. He talked himself down from searching for Skinner over and over again, and as he did so his gaze wandered heavenward. Cradled by the mountains, away from the light and haze of the capital city, the night sky was a sprawling, starlit invitation. Roland found himself momentarily breathless, entranced by the glimmering cosmic expanse above him. There were entire worlds beyond the Vast, mere pinpoints of light from his small, insignificant vantage on Lajok.

Why he was doing this? Attending the academy, honing his leadership, striving for achievement - it all felt so meaningless under the infinite sky. The Circle of Lajok only fought amongst themselves, wasting time deciding what was best for the planet while Sota continued to die. Did his dispute with Skinner portend his future? Was their assignment supposed to teach him acceptable loss? This couldn’t be the life he was meant for, to lead his people confidently to their end.

Rest, the stars sang him, and Roland felt a profound quiet overtake his troubled heart. Rest, yes. He needed to rest. He still had to lead the remainder of the squad safely out of the wilderness, and he was doing no one any favors wasting precious energy on penitence. With one last look at the sky, he ducked inside the snow trench, pressing himself amongst the furry bodies of his squadmates. He thought he would be too anxious to sleep, but exhaustion took him the moment he closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how much time had passed - minutes, hours - when movement stirred him awake. Roland startled, expecting an intruder, but the familiar scent of Skinner quelled his alarm. Wordlessly, he moved aside to allow room for his wayward teammate. Skinner settled sullenly against him, shivering from his solitary trek through the cold. Any impulse to scold him for his rashness was erased by a relief so powerful it made Roland dizzy. Together they nestled in close, sharing in the warmth of the pack.

Abruptly, he returned to the present. He was no longer on Lajok, the wound on his muzzle having long since healed over. The mist clouding the hall wasn’t from his breath in the frigid air, but the steam from Morgan’s shower. His hand hovered over their door, his determined knock utterly arrested by their haunting, bittersweet song.

His fear of losing Morgan was what brought him to their quarters in the first place. The necrograft they volunteered for was a point of contention he didn’t wish to escalate, but concern roiled within him all the same. Skinner had survived his recklessness, but would Morgan? He had come to care for and depend on them, even more so than Zuri back in his Academy days. While he couldn’t afford to lose any one of his crew, he knew he would be especially devastated if something happened to Morgan.

Roland had always struggled with his words, even on Lajok with the aid of all his senses. Now, it was even more difficult to convey how he felt, speaking a language that was not his birth tongue, parlaying with people who couldn’t scent the true emotions behind his stilted words. He spoke as clearly and often as he could, for fear of being misinterpreted, but it seemed the more he said, the deeper he dug himself. He had offended everyone on his crew dozens of times over, and still, somehow, they followed him.

It left him with the same shocked assurance he’d felt in The Space Between, with his squad rallied around him. Surely the crew didn’t defer to him based on rank alone at this point, but it was hard to believe everyone had his back when he fumbled his title left and right. This inexplicable cooperation he owed largely to Morgan.

The song ended, but its echoes rippled around him like ghosts. He lowered his hand, feeling unsettled and wistful and vaguely itchy, his fur saturated with ambient humidity. Morgan’s lyrics had slammed him back in time, back to the mountains of his namesake. A tremendous homesickness overwhelmed him. Rather than tamp it down as he usually did, he took a moment to sit with it, his throat tightening and his eyes prickling with tears.

One day the sun would set on his homeworld for the last time. How cruel it was, to love something so doomed.

He had left his circles - his family - behind on Lajok. The crew he captained now was a naive replacement, a product of fleeing failure. Still, something within him ached for this to work. His leadership was tested and tested again, yet he felt a peculiar fondness for it, every impulse to run outweighed by a deeper desire for connection. This crew was just as hungry for life as he was. He felt privileged to lead them.

Roland drew in a shaky breath. Only after sunset could he see the stars.

He raised his hand and knocked.

#ink #writing #fanfiction #extended scene #character study #starfinder #live and let fly #llf #writers on tumblr #welcome to wolf guy rotc #good luck out there idiot #lajok #vlaka

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cleowho · 1 year

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“I thought highwaymen...”

The Visitation (extended scene) - season 19 - 1982

#doctor who #classic doctor who #classic who #fifth doctor #the visitation #richard mace #michael robbins #tegan jovanka #janet fielding #deleted scene #extended scene

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mckiwi · 10 months

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End of Story

Part of her felt bad for the other dimensions, specifically their civilians. They always succumbed to Dormammu’s power without much of a fight, if any was given at all.

That is until her uncle tried to invade Earth.

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.”

(The story of how Clea and Stephen first meet)

Clea was now 42. She didn’t know her father very well, as he had died when she was very young, only 35 years old. She hadn’t necessarily grieved for him, as it wasn’t in her Faltine nature. However, her Human heritage left her feeling… disappointed? It was an odd feeling, to say the least. Her mother had been nearly 200, or 30 in Human years, when she had gotten pregnant. Her father, an actual Human, was in his early 30s. As Clea grew, she saw how rapidly he aged. She watched as the grey hair at his temples overtook his entire head. It seemed his face gained a new set of wrinkles as each year passed. By the time she was 6 in Human years, he was in his late 60s. Despite the world they lived in, his death was quick and painless. While Clea would miss her father dearly, her mother acted as if she were expecting it. “Humans are mortal. They live, they die. End of story.”

Clea knew her mother only a bit more than her father. She was still alive, just not around anymore. She tended to jump around dimensions, actively trying to ignore the existence of her daughter. It was Clea’s birth, after all, that rendered her mother unable to convert back to her Faltine form in all its glory. Instead, she was stuck in her “weak and miserable” humanoid form. With both of her parents no longer in the picture, Clea’s raising was left to her uncle, Dormammu.

She quite liked her humanoid form. Some aspects of her appearance showed whose blood she belonged. She had her father's hair and her mother’s face, for instance. Others were purely hers, and these things she took the most joy in. Her eyes were blue, a rare thing among her kind. Her humanoid form also hid the Faltine power that ran through her entire being behind a seemingly harmless facade. She was still a child in the eyes of most other creatures, should they have the misfortune to meet her. (They may have entered Dormammu’s home without him noticing, but none ever left). In this form, she could approach other creatures and not have them run away in fear.

Clea was well aware of how Dormammu kept their dimension as stable as it was. In a dimension that actively collapsed in on itself, he needed to constantly absorb other dimensions and worlds to keep the balance. Her Human heritage once again reared its head and part of her felt bad for the other dimensions, specifically their civilians. They always succumbed to Dormammu’s power without much of a fight, if any was given at all.

That is until her uncle tried to invade Earth.

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.” Clea heard a man call from beyond.

“You’ve come to die. Your world is now my world, like all worlds.” Her uncle declared. She discovered the voice belonged to a man, a Human man she realized much to her delight, as he stared up in defiance. She hadn’t seen one of those since her father’s death. Finally, someone that looked vaguely like her preferred form. He wore a blue outfit and a red, heavy-looking fabric at his shoulders. Around his neck, he wore an amulet with a green glow. That same glow circled his arm. Her delight was short-lived, however, as her uncle sent spears flying at the man. Clea’s breath caught as the man flung up an orange shield at the last second. Ah, she thought, this Human was a magician of a sort. She didn’t even know those existed. Despite the magics he held, they were no match against the ruler of the Dark Dimension, and they both knew it. Dormammu’s power tore through shield and Human alike. Clea released the breath she was holding. She found herself frowning at the scorched ground and turned away with a sigh. She shouldn’t be surprised. Yes, he had put up a fight, but ultimately he was Human. They live, they die. End of story.

She was suddenly hit with a wave of Deja Vu as she heard the repeated phrase, “Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.” Clea felt chills run down her spine. She whipped around to see the source of the voice and sure enough, the man was back, whole and not injured save for a cut on his cheekbone.

She found herself in awe as she realized what had happened, as did her uncle. “What is this? Illusion?”

“No, this is real.” The man answered. Clea heard the hint of smugness in his voice.

“Good,” her uncle said, and this time the man didn’t have time to throw up a shield before two spears pinned him in place. He hung there limply as he gave his last wheezy breath. Clea noticed the green glow continued spinning around his arm.

A flash of green. He was back, unscathed.

Once more, the man landed on the small sphere and checked that the green glow was still spinning around his arm. “Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain!”

“You… what is happening?” Her uncle questioned. She’d like to know too, if she was being honest with herself. Never before had the Dread Dormammu killed someone and failed at it, let alone twice in a row.

The man stood tall and proud, “Just as you gave Kaecilius powers from your dimension I brought a little power from mine.” He raised the arm with the green glow, “This is Time. Endless, looped, time.”

“You dare?” Dormammu exclaimed and crushed him under his fist. Clea was not only shocked that this Human was putting up such a fight, she was also shocked at the fact he had elicited such a strong reaction from her uncle. Not even his sister’s abandonment had prompted such anger from him.

This little “weak and miserable” Human withstood Dormammu’s might three times now. Endurance like none she had ever seen. Most other creatures, both living within the Dark Dimension and those who didn’t, would pale at even the thought of facing off with Dormammu. And yet…

Clea was now 56. She returned to see how the human was fairing against her uncle. “Yes, but everyone on Earth will live.” The man said.

“But you will suffer,” Dormammu prompted.

The man smiled bitterly, “Pain’s an old friend.” He was quickly torn apart.

Clea was now 91. Every so often over the years, Clea would return to this spot to watch Dormammu’s prisoner, though at this point he seemed to be more of Dormammu’s jailer . Some of the man’s “loops” would last a short time, such as when her uncle simply stabbed him or obliterated him. Others would last longer, going on hours or sometimes even days. A few times Dormammu would simply leave the Human to die of thirst. It was during one of these loops that Clea got her first good look at the Human.

He was propped up against a rock, wincing slightly as he prodded at the cut on his cheekbone. He sighed and let his hand fall into his lap. The red fabric over his shoulders moved of its own accord and stroked at the injury. “Stop,” he muttered, jerking his head away from its reach. His face was rather narrow, but then again, it could be a perfectly normal look for a Human since her only experience with a Human was her father. He wore deep blue robes that seemed warm if the sheen of sweat was anything to go by, which made Clea wonder why he was shivering so much. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the rock, pulling his legs up to his chest. She briefly wondered how long a human could last without sustenance. She didn’t even know how long this loop had lasted already. His breathing deepened and she saw his head fall slightly to the side. She could say that he almost looked content if it weren’t for one of his legs bent at the wrong angle. “Can I help you?” He asked behind her.

She yelped and turned around to face a slightly transparent version of the Human in front of her. She gasped, “Are you dead?”

“Not quite,” he answered. “What’re you doing here, kid?” There was such concern in his voice that it startled her. He didn’t even know her. He certainly didn’t know she was the niece of his murderer.

“I’m not a kid,” she countered, “and that shouldn’t matter to you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, “I may not be a practicing doctor anymore, but I think I know a teenager when I see one. Are you okay?”

She swallowed and nodded,“Yes. Are you?” She gestured to his physical body.

He huffed a laugh and parroted, “That shouldn’t matter to you.” He blinked heavily. It was then she realized his eyes were blue, like hers. “Were you spying on me?”

“It’s not very often we have visitors,” she said, not admitting the fact that yes, she had been spying on him this entire time.

“No more, okay? I don’t want you watching when things go south. Though, I imagine you already have.” He speculated. She nodded. He blinked heavily again and sighed, “In fact, you probably need to be going soon.”

His hands were shaking yet he was sweating. She couldn’t help but ask, “Are you afraid?”

He set that piercing gaze on her, “Answer for an answer?” She nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid. I thought making Dormammu agree to my bargain would be much quicker. But it’s been… how many years now? 7 years since I’ve started this loop?”

“I was 42 when you first came here, and now I’m 91, so that sounds about right.” She agreed. His face twisted into one of pure confusion. Before he could ask, she reminded him, “Only one question, remember?”

He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before settling on, “Do you know of anything that might make Dormammu more willing to take my bargain?”

She pursed her lips in thought, “Well… Dormammu is the ruler of this dimension. He’s always had the freedom to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. With you here, he can’t do that. You’re not his prisoner, anymore. He’s yours.” She handed him the knife she kept with her. “Here, take it as a gift of gratitude if not good luck on your mission.”

“Promise me something,” he started, taking the knife, “You’re not to watch me die anymore. No more spying.”

“I promise. In return, I get one more question.” She compromised. He gestured with permission. “What’s your name?”

It had been a few hours later, but she couldn’t help but notice that the loop had reset again too soon. She didn’t quite know what that entailed. What she did know, however, was that she was incredibly proud of Strange when she next saw the loop.

Strange had taken a pretty hard hit and was trying to recover when Dormammu spoke, “You will never win.”

“No,” the doctor agreed and struggled to get himself upright. “But I can lose. Again, and again, and again, and again forever.” He stood not quite as tall and proud as he had been, but no less defiant. “And that makes you my prisoner.”

“No-”

Clea was now 105. She kept her promise, and at that, kept her distance. She heard rumors of Dormammu’s sudden absence. Some suggested that he and his sister had fought. Some thought he had taken a prisoner if the occasional scream of agony was anything to go by. Only she would know it was the other way around. Every so often she would leave some food and drink out for Strange, should he ever revisit where they had first met. The food and drink were always gone when she came to replenish it.

Clea was now 126. At the brink of adulthood in Strange’s eyes if he were to ever see her again. He’d still think her a child. It’d been long since Clea started to find the food and drink she’d left for him go rotten. Still, she left a new batch. Every time she came back, it was in the same place she’d left it.

Clea was now 147. The citizens of the Dark Dimension had begun demanding a new ruler to be named.

Clea was now 168. The Dark Dimension thrived under her rule. She’d discovered a dimension that projected enough energy to keep her dimension fed for decades if not centuries, while also preserving its own. The food and drink she had been leaving was once again gone.

Clea was now 203. Her mother had returned and begged forgiveness. She hadn’t granted it. Instead, she went to sit propped up against a rock. She pulled her legs up to her chest and watched as pests ate the food she had left out.

Clea was now 238. She’d begun to wonder if Strange had given up on the loop, or if he had somehow managed to kill her uncle.

Clea was now 273. She looked to be about the same age as Strange when they had met.

Dormammu returned as a failure. The Earth had been saved by Doctor Strange. This marked the first time someone had entered Dormammu’s home and lived to tell the tale.

Clea was now 343. Incursions had started appearing throughout the realms. She almost breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him. “Doctor Strange?”

He turned around slowly, warily. The grey at his temples had spread only slightly. There were a few new wrinkles on his face. His eyes were still the same blue she remembered from her youth. He looked at her skeptically and asked, “Can I help you?”

#clea strange #stephen strange #doctor strange #multiverse of madness #dormammu #time loop #extended scene #first meeting #fanfic #doctor strange fanfic #stephen strange fanfic #marvel #dr strange #mckiwiwrites

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homeb0ys · 1 year

Text

Homelander’s Believe Expo Speech - Extended Scene

(Y’all aren’t ready for this. It’s WAY different. We have giggling, joking, playfulness. He’s a literal babygirl for almost 4mins.)

#antony starr #homelander #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys series #the boys #extended scene #the lil laugh at the start! I CAN’T #also you can hear Ant’s NZ accent filter through now and then bless him

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cajon-desastre · 2 years

Video

Outlander. Dressing extended scene 1x02

#Outlander #Claire Fraser #Mrs. Fitzgibbons #season 1 #1x02 #extended scene

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httyddragonfox · 1 year

Text

Hunter fighting back

So did anyone see that extended cut of him fighting the possession? Let me break down the dialogue at least.

Belos: "That's right, you don't want me hurting your precious palisman, do you? Then again, I don't care what you want. Goodbye, Evelyn." (Impales Flapjack)

The first part is Belos making a mock threat, like 'Stop attacking me and getting in my way or I'll hurt the palisman.' Then is like, 'Oh wait, I don't like any of you, and won't give you anything.' He hates the bird, so he's going to impale it anyway. This bird (and that witch) took his brother away, now he's getting revenge.

This allows Hunter to gain control, probably screaming and impulsively flailing in his mind. Protective instincts allow him to tackle Belos with the first bit of control he has, making him let go of Flapjack, saving Flapjack's soul. This implies Hunter was awake for the entirety of Belos attacking his friends, and the shock of Flapjack being impaled allowed him to wrestle back control.

Later, we see that same hand punch Belos across the face. Hunter is angry with him, attacking him the best way he can. He has overcome his fear of Belos. This gives him the strength to wrestle back full control.

Hunter: "You know what I'd like Belos?" (Hand contorts painfully)

Belos is still in there, fighting to get control back. Yet, Hunter is going to give Belos a piece of his mind. Yes, Belos may not care about what he wants, but he should care and Hunter will let him know.

Hunter: "I'd like to leave the Emperor's Coven, and never set foot in that Throne Room again."

He is disowning Belos in this line. He's basically saying 'I want nothing more to do with you.' Mentioning the throne room, he no longer thinks Belos is a great man, no longer venerates him. Not only is he saying 'You are garbage to me,' he is also saying 'I will no longer carry out your orders." or "You can not control me anymore." This is open defiance; he's saying, 'try possessing me, will you? Guess what, I'm not your property anymore; this will not be easy for you."

Hunter: "I'd like to study wild magic, and learn how to carve palismen."

Ever since we first met Hunter he wanted to create Palismen and study Wild Magic, but Belos always told him no. Now that he's free he will be doing what he wants to do.

Hunter: I'd like to attend Hexside as a regular student, and play flyer derby with my friends.

This is Hunter proclaiming that Belos kept him from a normal life, which was all he wanted. Belos kept him all to himself, and didn't let him do what he enjoyed. Hunter is declaring that he doesn't belong to him, he belongs to his friends. He wishes to spend forever with them.

Hunter: "But most of all (picks up vial of titan blood), I'd like to make sure you never hurt anyone AGAIN!"

Despite everything Hunter wants out of life, the future he wants with his friends, he'd give it all up to protect them. He'd give it all up to stop Belos. In the extended scene he is smiling at his friends before he does the deed, showing he doesn't regret sacrificing himself. He is probably aware neither him nor Belos can swim, so he is attempting to drown Belos with him. In the final cut, he is near crying before he does the deed, as he knows he will be throwing away his desired future for this, he knows he's going to sacrifice himself, and dang it it's scary. As Hunter said, he wants this more than those other things, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want those other things.

Belos was creeping up his face in the last line, as he was starting to gain control again. Hunter probably knew he had little time left before he had to act, and he would have liked more time.

TL;DR; In Hunter's rant to Belos, he describes everything he desires out of life, but before all of that comes stopping Belos. He is scared, sad, but willing to sacrifice himself if it means stopping him.

#the owl house #hunter #belos #extended scene #thanks to them #flapjack #toh evelyn #toh caleb

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the-tomato-patch · 7 months

Text

The Hand that Serves You ( oneshot )

Summary:

"An infinite galaxy filled with infinite possibilities, yet their destinies had crossed more than once. And even then, it went deeper. This was the Jedi from his vision."

Scourge awaits the day his Jedi will break free of the chains that bind her.

Pairing:

Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge ( Pre-relationship )

Word Count:

4.6k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50029708

Purple lightning surged forth from the Emperor's hands, a cascade of power seeking to shatter the Jedi's indomitable will. In all things, the Emperor sought subjugation. Another puppet on a string. A visage to splinter and reshape to his image, his agenda. Scourge's gaze did not falter, watching dispassionately as bolts danced across the Jedi's lithe form. The Emperor was meticulous, methodical. This was not his first victim or his last, but one of the few who had the subconscious resilience to withstand such a mental assault. To bend but not break.

Scourge knew this Jedi; their paths had intersected before. On Quesh. Now here, in the dark heart of the Emperor's fortress. An infinite galaxy filled with infinite possibilities, yet their destinies had crossed more than once. And even then, it went deeper. This was the Jedi from his vision. Or at the very least, remarkably similar. A creeping sense of something akin to doubt stirred in the recesses of his mind. A prophecy three hundred years in the making. This Jedi was the one foretold to slay the Emperor. She had to be. Scourge had been certain of this. Yet that certainty eroded away with every electric bolt lashed. Every scream torn from her lips. Her body was strong - she endured the assault, her will unbending. Yet Scourge recognized the subtle shifts in the Emperor's tactics. Physical torment would bring most to their knees. But the Emperor refined his approach, probing the Jedi's mind, her soul, seeking a different weakness.

Scourge watched silently as the lightning finally ceased. Thoughts of ifs, whos, and whys snuffed out. Perhaps destiny. Perhaps coincidence. Scourge cared little for mysticism or philosophy at the moment. Logic and reason were his guides, cold and hard. Emperor Vitiate lowered his hands, a subtle furrow creasing his brow. Scourge waited expectantly, aware of the Emperor's prying eyes. Searching. Reading the Sith like an open book.

"She endures," Scourge said.

"For now," came the Emperor's intruding response. Scourge did not flinch. The Emperor's intrusions were expected. Intended.

"Her pain amuses me. For the moment. Yet I tire of these games," the Emperor continued, flicking his wrist in dismissal.

Scourge did not wait to receive further acknowledgment; he knew his role. He strode forward, halting beside the Jedi's limp form. Her red skin charred, welts seared into flesh. She was barely awake. Conscious. But Scourge knew she would offer no struggle. She had none left to give. Scourge stooped, lifting her weakened body with ease. She slumped against him, head lulled to his shoulder, her shallow breathing a labored rasp against his armor. Scourge paid her no heed. No acknowledgment. This was his role. Nothing more.

Scourge carried the Jedi toward the kolto tanks reserved specifically for Vitiate's pets. The Emperor cared little for healing them fully - enough to keep them alive, functioning to a point until they could be repurposed. Scourge understood this tactic well, hastening back to his days spent in the torture chambers. It was his specialty, as was his master's. Pain, the Emperor's favored tool, one of many at his disposal. Yet even one could grow used to pain until even the very sensations of life grew dull. A sentiment Scourge understood very well. The Emperor, too, was privy to this familiarity. He treated each victim like his own pupil, taking the time to instruct and train, in his own twisted way. To master an art. To give his victim an understanding of their place. If they did not die to fuel his power, then they learned how to endure and persevere. If only to better serve him when the time came.

Scourge placed the Jedi within the kolto tank carefully. She did not stir. Without his assistance, she was sealed within, encapsulated within the murky green waters that would aid her recovery. Then her light amber eyes opened, searching his face. Scourge did not falter. He could not help her. Not now. Even so, Scourge wanted her to have something. An assurance that even this was part of his grand design. The Jedi stared at him, her presence in the Force muted for the moment.

Silent.

Gleaming eyes reflecting him, speaking something he did not understand. Comfort? Trust? Or even just an image for her comfort. A face that she could anchor upon, if only as a crutch. Another force of habit that would see her through the harrowing times ahead. Scourge supposed there was wisdom in the notion. Cling to what gave hope, even in its faintest guises. Had the Force granted her an incentive notion to trust in him? To recognize him as a means of salvation, as his prophecy foretold. Or was it simply her feeble attempt to seek an oasis amidst the desert that was her life now, to somehow find the slightest glimmer of reassurance? Or perhaps she is simply recognizing that she is alive, and therefore she must find some measure of hope in that fact?

Scourge knew well how powerful a weapon the mind could become when faced with agonizing despair and prolonged suffering. Hope could be a vicious creature. It was a cunning trait that could lead to the deepest pits of desire, to inflict agony on an untold scale. Desperation drove others to extremes. Even the darkest of Sith could not ignore the power of hope. Scourge clenched his jaw. Not the time or place. So instead he remained silent, his words gone unsaid. His message known only to him. The Jedi watched him as her eyes drew closed. She seemed to acknowledge it or could do so only on a baser conscious level. A muted connection formed in the Force. Something just beyond Scourge's own comprehension. Either way, Scourge turned away. He had done his part. His Jedi needed rest.

~~~

Vitiate was gone. He had already departed. Gone to no doubt meddle in other matters. Scourge would leave her as well. Yet he would come again. Eventually, for the inevitable would come. Time would prove otherwise, but all he needed was to trust. Trust in his vision. Time was a seemingly meaningless interval while in the Emperor's fortress. Once it had proven a burden, an enemy. Too swift, too long. Hours had felt like years in a cell; an endless test. Days creeping like molasses. An enemy turned to an idle observer of the affairs of mortals. It was an ambiguous concept at best. His only perception came through in the progress he observed in the Jedi before him. Wounds regenerated, skin knitted back together. Flesh and bone grew anew. Scourge studied her progress through the green waters of the kolto tank. Subtle changes occurred each day, with incremental and steady steps toward recovery. When she succumbed to the final phase of the Emperor's tortures, she sought shelter within the sanctity of her own mind, at least while awake. Scourge returned in the hours of twilight and realized this with a careful probing in the Force.

She had no control in slumber. Scourge recognized a festering despair radiating from her, with nightmarish images he was far too familiar with. He did not allow himself to witness her dreams, regardless of his morbid curiosity, but instead, he sensed her torment, fear, fury, and hatred. Their combined influences in the Force manifested visceral horrors behind her closed eyes. Her subconscious was at the whim of a maelstrom, raging uncontrollably and mirroring her pain. It was no better in the waking hours as the malignant forces of the dark side nipped at her heels like blood-starved hounds, eager to snuff out any recollection of the light side.

So he watched, his gaze always upon her, his looming presence a reassurance as well. She acknowledged him then, numb and distant, seeking a beacon in the shadows that was the Sith Lord, always there to lead her onwards to her next training session, her next instruction, her next step in her personal "evolution." It was a ritual that never changed, a circuit of her life spinning in a vortex, her will recoiling as everything she held sacred was stripped away. Scourge feigned ignorance, replying in cold, curt replies. Any indication of his role was a revelation that could spell her end. Despite the reservations he bore as her unwelcome protector, he reasoned that it was better this way. Still, something prompted her, urged her onward.

Scourge thought on the concept, taking the time to ponder and evaluate his own mind. What was it? Was it his obligation to carry her to her future of impending death? Duty to another he had served? Or was it merely in the name of his own survival? He dwelled long and hard on the implications, delving into the matter as the days dragged on. Questions sought answers that evaded him, forcing him to search deeper, only to reach dead ends. Revelations aside, no answer was forthcoming.

In the moments when he was not shadowing his Jedi or performing tasks set upon him by Vitiate, he checked on the Jedi's crew. They were proving resilient in their own way, trapped as they were. It was a diversion from his contemplations, to occupy himself in matters beyond watching progress. The Chagrian stood resolute with a scowl, the doctor miserable in the corner of his cage, and the astromech droid dysfunctional for the time being. And from what he had overheard from discussions between the advisors that oversaw their dark training, the Padawan had been proving difficult as of late. Perhaps change was among them after all. Were the chains of his Lord Emperor slipping away?

Some days later, Scourge observed the spectacle for himself, the final push she had within her. He and his Jedi had come to the center of the fortress, where it all began for her. He gestured to the war droids with the slightest incline of his hand. At his silent command, the silver and black hulks started forward, unleashing a barrage of stun bolts at the woman. At the last second, the Jedi's lightsaber sprung to life, sending up a spray of sparks in her wake. An arc of purple, the hum of her blade ringing clear, and three metallic sentinels parted asunder. It was magnificent. She leapt into the battle in turn, flinging herself forward, stroke after stroke, relentless in her onslaught. And then she was done, disengaging her saber with a simple flourish and returning it to her hip. She bowed lightly and stood there, awaiting his order.

Submissive, she was a complete rejection of herself and all she stood for, like every time before he assumed he would dismiss her with a silent glance that would send her back to her meditations. Their meetings were routine and orderly despite the connection. But then his focus shifted to something she did. The dullness of her eyes flickered, shifting to hold a fraction of clarity. She stared past him, her head shaking. Tiny movements, subtle, and one sign she showed, outwardly at least, of her will. A hint of fire, not in words, but in her actions. This was different, she had resisted more than what he had expected. On the edges of his vision, an anomaly danced, a haze, darkening at first and then flashing with the brilliance of the light side. It held the silhouette of a man, aged with weathered fissures in his face. He nodded.

"Master Orgus," his Jedi spoke.

Scourge raised an eyebrow at the declaration. The notion that the Jedi Knight's Master had sought an audience at such a place as this, at a time like this, gave him pause. Was it mere coincidence, or did the Force allow the apparition's intervention? Then, without warning, the apparition disappeared, and the Jedi before him collapsed into an unconscious heap on the floor, a frail shell once again, nothing more than what the Emperor had created. He stood over her, silent, pondering what he had seen. Then he took hold of her body and placed her within the chambers she had called her quarters over the duration of her stay.

Change was upon them. For the one he would mentor and instruct would escape soon. There was no uncertainty anymore. This fact was only confirmed later in the following week when he received a message of his own from the apparition, voicing a simple line that spurred him to action. He would serve her. He would assist her. He would walk along the path to his destiny and do what should have been done long ago.

~~~

In the dimly lit corridors of polished obsidian and scarlet hued sconces a figure stalked. Elongated shadows chased along his silouette, stretching out like the very echoes of time itself. The air hung heavy with the weight of the dark side, each step resonating through the silence as if adding another layer to the countless footfalls that had preceded beforehand. For three centuries, the halls of this fortress had been traversed by a shell, the ghost of a man locked in a cycle of monotony. But today, a palpable shift was in the air, an atmosphere electric with the promise of change, as charged as the storms that ravaged the Sith homeworld of Dromund Kaas.

Today was the day. He would make his move. Lord Scourge, however, did not hurry. To rush would be indicative of anticipation, an emotion that had long since been purged from his being. Instead, he stalked, his measured gait predatorial, not hurried, but purposeful.

Amongst the recesses of his mind, the raspy voice of Orgus Din echoed: "It is time." Scourge had dedicated three centuries to what appeared to be a futile mission: betraying the Sith Emperor and realizing a vision that held not only the destiny of the galaxy but also the tantalizing prospect of breaking free from the eternal torment of immortality. It was a fate he had embraced on the eve of a fateful vision, a series of sacrifices made in a desperate bid for self-preservation. These were necessary sacrifices, ones that shattered the bonds of cautious trust, severing the very essence of an unlikely alliance formed with Meetra Surik and Revan, two individuals brought together for the sole purpose of confronting the Sith Emperor. Yet, for Scourge, his motivations ran deeper, veiled in shadows darker than the Force itself.

In the process, he had severed the ties of trust and life, his crimson saber cauterizing the wound it inflicted upon Meetra, rendering her one with the Force. A fatal blow that marked the beginning of a long journey.

As if summoned, two imperial guards clad in ornamental red armor appeared around the corner, marching in perfect unison. Each fell into a crisp salute as he swept passed, wordlessly falling into his shadow, cape billowing out from behind his massive frame. Their synchronized footsteps echoed down the hallway and into the docking bay beyond. The doors opening with swift efficiency as they were greeted by the haggard sight of the prisoners who had been confined in cages.

Upon their arrival, Scourge came to an abrupt halt. With a simple flick of his hand, he dismissed the guards, his deep voice resonating through the silence as he commanded, "Leave us."

Without so much as a nod, the guards obeyed, pivoting in place before disappearing back into the corridor. His business was not theirs to know, not even the Emperor, who would come to eventually learn of his machinations too late. He turned, his sharp gaze carefully assessing each captive. His scrutiny paused, lingering for a fleeting moment upon the whole crew of the Jedi Knight. The rest of the prisoners were comprised of what he considered little more than fodder—a doctor, a Chagrian, and an astromech droid. They were inconsequential.

However, there had been another prisoner, the Padawan, who had remarkably shattered the Emperor's chains upon her mind not long before her own Master. She was conspicuously absent from her designated cell. Scourge reached out through the Force, seeking her presence. His senses revealed her confined in an arrangement he was well too familiar with- a torturer's slab. She was not alone. Accompanied by a lesser and the Jedi. His Jedi. In the grand scheme of things, the extra who had broken free of his Master's influence was neither here nor there. They would be freed. By him or the Jedi.

Scourge's gloved hand tightened over the hilt of his saber with the same mechanical precision that defined every facet of his existence. Something shifted, though it manifested not in sentiment but in a subtle, almost imperceptible change in his unyielding determination. With a hiss that cut through the silence like a serpent's kiss, a crimson blade ignited, casting the cages and walls in a sinister light. The glare bounced off the mirror like surfaces, creating an eerie resemblance to splattered blood, a sinister proclamation of the slaughter to come.

He moved purposefully toward the first cage, the crimson tip of his saber angled downward, its searing heat making contact with the durasteel bars. The resulting ear-splitting hiss echoed through the chamber. The imprisoned doctor inside shouted something in desperation, but he paid it no mind. He executed a swift slash, the bars crumpled and fell away, rendering the enclosure obsolete.

Turning his attention to the second cage, which contained the chagrian, he applied the same precision. The chagrian met his circumstances with hardened resolve, a bitter scowl etched on his face. The human looked over to his companion. No words passed between them—only a pair of bewildered glances when Scourge walked away.

As the dust settled, only the astromech droid remained. Scourge, his hand outstretched, drew upon the dark side, channeling his power to crush the restraints that had held the droid captive. The droid's metallic frame quivered with relief and vitality as a series of appreciative beeps emanated from it as Scourge disengaged his saber and placed it back on his hip. With newfound freedom, the droid wheeled its way toward the others, joining them on their path to escape.

Scourge pivoted on his heel, turning to the remaining occupants of the room. Lessers watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of concern. Their fear prickled Scourge's senses, the sensation akin to an errant insect. Irritating. Scourge extended his hand once more, exerting a fraction of his will. Like an insect, they would die. A plot three centuries in the making would not be compromised by errant filth and stray blaster fire. Scourge needed no witnesses, no loose threads.

As their fear continued to escalate, it manifested in misplaced bursts of gunfire and frenzied, albeit futile, attempts at organizing themselves. Scourge's hand clenched, and with it, a series of sickening cracks reverberated throughout the chamber. Scourge released his hold, bodies collapsing to the ground in a grotesque heap by the docking bay doors, their weapons clattering to the floor in an unsightly pile. It had been a quick and efficient display of the Force choke. Scourge did not savor it. Nor revel in the violence. It was necessary. A means to an end.

They were coming. His Jedi was coming.

Scourge did not await their arrival idly. He strode back toward the cages, snuffing out the last flames of any remaining lessers in the room with the flick of his wrist. He spared not a glance for the lifeless forms strewn across the floor, nor did he acknowledge the Jedi crew's frantic scrambling. Especially the doctor that attempted to stabilize one of his casualties. The last vestiges of life slipping through her semi-crushed wind pipe. Instead, his attention honed as he sensed their arrival, his deep connection to the Force enabling him to detect their gradual approach, their presence like ripples in a pond of energy.

The Jedi Knight and her companion.

The first emanated an aura touched by darkness—the unmistakable signature of a Sith. It sent shivers down his spine, for it was a touch of darkness he recognized all too well.

The second presence was weaker in the Force, a youngling by comparison. However, there was a spark about her, a tenacity that could prove troublesome.

Scourge's curiosity piqued.Around the corner, they appeared side by side. Their footsteps were guarded, a subconscious hesitation in their physical gait that was mirrored in their Force presence. Scourge stood statuesque, his face revealing nothing. The human companion held no weapon. Her hands outstretched in a defensive stance, her aura was wary, a quiet vigilance at the ready. His Jedi had her saber drawn, her face drawn in a snarl. Her expression alight with a mixture of anger and suspicion. Scourge met her gaze, her fresh visage burned in his memory since Quesh, now tainted with a potent rage leashed by Jedi philosophy. What a shame. Scourge allowed himself the briefest indulgence to lament her current disposition. The Jedi Knight would have proven a formidable Sith. A worthy rival.

"Step away from my ship and my crew. We're leaving," she commanded, her voice carrying an edge of authority.

Scourge chose to disregard her demand, maintaining his stoic demeanor. His intense gaze remained unwavering as he ignited his crimson lightsaber. He extended it towards her, a symbol of defiance. Their eyes locked in a silent standoff, and she continued to approach him, her own lightsaber held firmly in her grip, exuding an unwavering urge to confront the Sith Lord who stood before her. The audacity.

"If I wished to fight, I would not have freed your crew or killed these guards," Scourge retorted, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the Jedi's hostile tone. He maintained his saber's position between them, not as a direct threat but as a clear deterrent, a silent message to dissuade her from impulsively engaging in combat.

The tense atmosphere was disrupted by the astromech droid that had been hanging back in the shadows. Scourge recalled its name—T7—and watched as it rolled forward, emitting a series of electronic chirps, "Sith = telling truth / / Sith = freed us + secured hangar". Her expression faltered, briefly shifting to acknowledge the astromech's words.

A moment's hesitation from the Jedi served as confirmation enough for Scourge to deactivate his lightsaber and return it to his hip. It was a gesture intended to convey goodwill, but not an invitation for unwarranted trust. "More guards will come. Shall we go before they arrive?"

His Jedi still hesitated, her lightsaber held at the ready, her contemplative gaze scanning the chamber as she weighed her options. Scourge observed her shift her stance, taking a cautious step forward. "Where are the other Jedi I came with? Free them, and I'll consider it."

"If they were here, I would have liberated them as well," Scourge replied. He adjusted his stance, a slow and deliberate approach, not as a menacing advance, but rather an attempt to bridge the gap between them. "I could've killed you on Quesh, had I wanted. Did you never wonder why I hesitated?"

His response seemed to elicit a reaction of doubt. Yet she had no time to respond as his red eyes bore into her own. Despite the gray of the world, the orange of them was etched into memory, as fiery as the volcanic fields of Mustafar. "I have waited over three hundred years to see the face that came to me in a vision. Your face."

All emotion drained from her —confusion, recognition, doubt—replaced by incredulousness. Finally, something clicked, and her saber deactivated with a mechanical hiss. She hung back a moment, folding her arms over her chest, measured him, lingering as she struggled with the revelation.

"Why didn't you help me before? If you saw this vision," she challenged. An accusation. "You could have told me on Quesh-- or in your masters fortress!"

Scourge shook his head. "It was vital that you help yourself first," he replied. Her brow knitted, clearly annoyed with his opaque answer. Before she could object, Scourge continued, "Had I intervened, you might never have escaped the Emperor. But today, you will. I needed to make sure the time had come. Only a few beings have ever broken the Emperor's domination. You and that girl are special."

"Kira and I have the power to destroy your master." Her confidence was so assured but Scourge knew well that they were not potent enough in their power to destroy Vitiate. He would not have efforts wasted by over eager Jedi.

"Not yet. Not without my help." Scourge had expected this to be an uphill battle, yet he had no alternatives to offer, nor indeed the time to cultivate a sufficient one. "Though the Emperor seeks to conceal his true plans, I have seen them. That vision has driven me to this..."

Then he fell to one knee, head lowered in the ultimate form of subjugation. It was an act of complete necessity, of absolute capitulation, a gesture he had not made in centuries. Not since he knelt before the Emperor and became his Wrath. He required the Jedi Knight to recognize what he sacrificed today, what could cost him more than everything. Even the galaxy. A heavy moment hung in the air as she stared, disbelieving. Had Scourge had any inclination to the slightest hint of sentiment, he might have grinned. Or grimaced.

He offered himself as the hand who would serve. No longer the Emperor's Wrath. A servant pledging his undying loyalty and unflinching resolve to his Jedi. A bond sealed not in blood, but in an oath. There was no doubt. His choice was unwavering. The future, which hinged upon the Jedi Knight's actions, had been cemented. Their course weaved into the very tapestry of the Force. Whether their fate would be salvation or ruin, neither knew.

"I pledge my loyalty to you. Take me to your Jedi Council on Tython, and I'll reveal why."

His proposal was met with pause, a front hiding the skepticism. She looked away, deep in thought.

"We're not actually considering this? I mean, he's obviously full of awful." Came an objection from Doc.

Kira scoffed beside him, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm with Doc. This is a trap."

Her gaze snapped back to his own, the faintest hint of resignation as the silence beckoned. His Jedi. How curious. Perhaps she saw past the veil of his stoic mask, heard the desperate truth spoken in a subtext of deceit. Or perhaps not. She furrowed her brow, her fingers tightening into a fist. A quickening pulse that signaled an involuntary response in a fight or flight scenario. Scourge would have sighed, if he so inclined. For one accustomed to manipulating the Force, she was being rather transparent.

"I seek to save this galaxy from annihilation. Without my help, your ship will never escape. I can guide you to freedom."

Her eyes drifted briefly to her crew, assessing, then flicked back to meet his again. He tilted his chin, wordlessly awaiting her answer as he rose from his kneeling position. "I believe him," she said finally, "An old friend told me I'd find a dark ally here. He meant you, didn't he?"

If Scourge were capable of amusement, he would have smiled, but of course he did no such thing. Instead, he nodded, "I will always be Sith-- but that does not mean we can't work together."

His response seemed to appease her for the most part. She peered over his shoulder toward the hangar entrance, aware of the time their exchange had consumed. With the absence of reinforcements, it wouldn't be long before someone eventually took notice of their commotion.

"Time is a luxury we no longer possess. We must go-- now. I will navigate us through the defense grid."

Scourge received no verbal answer, only an affirmative nod from his Jedi, and he immediately headed to the turbolift, toward her light corvette. She followed close behind, the pair maneuvering around her crew who had been understandably reluctant to voice their opinions further. Nonetheless, they had to leave-- there was no other alternative.

From this moment, the die was cast.

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coffeebreath23 · 8 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: June Hart/Tamara "Twig" North, June Hart/Twig, Twig & Candy Characters: June Hart, Tamara "Twig" North, Candy Blue Additional Tags: Extenden scene, Angst, Mention of alcohol Summary:

An extended scene after June’s funeral in episode 7. The always calm and steady Twig, wondering how can she face her night without June for the first time.

#the lost flowers of alice hart #june hart #twig north #twig #junetwig #sigourney weaver #leah purcell #lesbian #extended scene #grief

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heaven-is-in-your-arms-series · 25 days

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: แมนสรวง | Man Suang (2023) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Chat/Khem (Man Suang) Characters: Khem (Man Suang), Chat (Man Suang) Additional Tags: Mutual Pining, Chatra needs to praise Khem, and Khem enjoys it, Light Angst, Khem has flashbacks to his past sexual coercion, but Chatra and Ruang are on a cheer Khem up mission, Fluff and Angst, Extended Scene, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, so many feelings, Chatra and Khem are cat dads Series: Part 2 of ManSuang Moments Summary:

Chatra encourages a downhearted Khem with the help of a white cat.

A reinterpretation of the scene where Chatra sends Ruang to cheer up Khem, after he was humiliated by Mae Phikul due to his Inao performance.

#man suang fic #fan fiction #extended scene #chatkhem #Chatra and Khem will have a romance in man suang even if I have to write it myself ManSuang

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solo-ojo-jojo · 1 year

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Interludes - Ch 1 (Chenford Fanfic) Teaser

Please enjoy this little gif teaser for my newest Chenford fanfic, Interludes.

Chapter 1, “Far too long and not a moment too soon,” drops on Wednesday, May 3!

📸: @chenfordsource (with an edit by me) Original post here

📸: @livelovecaliforniadreams Original post here

📸: @thatonekimgirl Original post here

📸: @tim-lucy Original post here

#chenford #chenford fanfic #the rookie #teaser #tim x lucy #read on ao3 #lucy chen #tim bradford #lucy x tim #tim bradford x lucy chen #Chenford is canon #Missing Scene #Extended Scene #Idiots in Love #Flirting #Episode: s05e09 Take Back #Post-Episode: s05e09 Take Back #by SoloOjoJojo #hiatus girl summer

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bearsinpotatosacks · 6 months

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Broken Halo - Whumptober 2023

Then a scream. Not in the room, in his head. It stopped everything. He couldn’t feel anything. It was white hot yet freezing cold. He couldn't see anything but the white force around him. He felt something being taken from him, ripped away but he didn’t know what.

This was death, this must be what dying felt like there was no other way. He must have died in that crash, it had to have been worse than he thought and this was a weird hallucination as he died alone on a country road. Pain and blood and emptiness all curdled into one.

----

An extended scene of when Billy gets possessed

For day 23 of @whumptober . Also on AO3

Words: 1054

Something rustled in the undergrowth around him. This is why he hated Indiana. Dark, humid and alone. He didn’t want to have to walk to that motel, or home. He didn’t want to hitchhike either, although he could probably just wait until Karen came driving past and hope for the best. If not, there better be a payphone somewhere close by, his head was really starting to hurt.

“Who’s there?” He called into the night.

No-one answered. More rustling, around him, and a distant clanking sound coming from the warehouse. He had the strange feeling that he was being watched.

Catching where the rustling was coming from this time, he shouted “Hey! I said, who's there?”

No answer again. He went to go back to his car to see if it would start when something reached out. Maybe it was the head injury making him sluggish, he’d had plenty of them over the years so knew what to expect, or the fear forming in his stomach that something was off, but he missed exactly what it was before something, or someone reached out and grabbed his leg.

He fell to the floor without grace, his head hitting the wet layer of leaves on the floor and skidded backwards toward the empty warehouse. He didn’t interrupt something did he? Contrary to what Hawkins wanted you to believe, there were undesirables messing up their perfect little town. Billy was probably one of them, and his drug dealer, Eddie, was too. This wasn’t where he dealt to get his stuff was it? He didn’t actually know, he just took the weed, and maybe something stronger when things were really bad, and left.

Broken out of his thoughts again, he managed to grab a doorway as he was pulled more and more downwards. His hands were clammy from the goings on of the night, so he slipped off and bumped down the stairs into even more blackness before he had a chance to come to terms with what was happening.

He hit his head again on the railings as he landed in a basement. No one was in the shadows. And whatever pulled him down here didn’t show itself. Because he was sure now that this wasn’t a person but a thing. It didn’t feel like it had teeth, so not a feral dog or coyote. Did you even get coyotes in Indiana? What about bears? Not the time, Billy.

A radius of pain hovered around his head like a broken halo. He lifted himself off the ground to try and get away but became aware of a sickening weakness dragging him down. The stairs in front of him became blurry as he army crawled his way to them. To escape.

The thing reached out from the darkness again and grabbed his leg. This was a peculiar situation. Creepy and close in a way he didn’t like. The air felt like a cold, clammy breath that somehow made his hairs stand on end and made him sweat all at the same time. It felt like being ill, that feeling of not being able to breath through your nose and shivering with a fever for days on end.

He stopped where it had originally put him. Instead of it pulling away though, the thing that was pulling him made itself known. It was a dark green, almost black, tentacle? What the fuck? That wasn’t a coyote, was all he thought as a mouth opened on the end and darted out toward him.

He didn’t get a chance to dodge it. Didn’t get another chance to escape before it latched onto his face and pulled. Was it killing him? He couldn’t describe what was going on. The feeling of vomiting and choking all at the same time. Like a bad kiss and a bad high mixed into one. The sourness of bile sticking in the back of his throat as he shook and felt something, physical or not, going in.

Struggling didn’t do anything. He tried to reach up, to pull it off, he didn’t want to have any aliens pop out of his stomach like in that film, but it was latched on. It carried on harder, stronger, digging into his face so much he swore it was drawing blood. Maybe that’s what it wanted? Was he food? Was he going to die?

The pain got worse. He couldn’t deal with the sensations and tried to force it off, tried to make it stop as it encroached on him more and more. He was beginning to feel violated in the worst way.

As it got closer, he began to see flashes of something. A house, one he swore he’d seen on his night drives around Hawkins. People without eyes, blood on their faces, body contorted. A lab, a girl, children with tattoos of numbers on their arms. Flashing lights and blood on white tiles. A hole in the wall, no, a portal opened up. A girl struggling in a tank, running in the rain. A kid, that Byers kid he thought, getting pulled away, a monster stalking a party. Dogs, not dogs but something similar chasing Max, Max? Tunnels making things rotten, a stranger world so similar to his own by a dark reflection.

Then darkness. Stillness. Quiet as whatever it was retreated. Billy lent over and vomited. His head hurt more but before he could get up, a voice in his head said ‘Stop’ and the worst thing was that he listened. He listened to it without question. Neil could only dream of this kind of cooperation.

‘Sleep’ was the next command. And he did just so, as the world went dark. He stopped questioning it.

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The prompt was "Who's there?" and my first thought was of Billy getting possessed so here we are. I'm very proud of this, the description especially, I think I captured what was in my head very well. Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive

#whumptober 2023 #fic #stranger things #possession tw #monsters tw #who's there #no. 23 #billy hargrove #stranger things 3 #mindflayer #extended scene #bear writes

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