#gasp its solar making shit after a year

[unlucky-corvid]

Losing his spark: Cayde-6 x Solar Guardian reader

so, my first actual full fic. Don't get your hopes up, I've no idea if this is any good or makes any sense, tried to keep it as in character as possible. It's barely proofread and I'm only like 4 hours sleep so excuse any typos but fingers crossed it all makes some sense.

as always, have a good day lovlies and I hope you enjoy xoxox

WARNINGS: Death, injury detail, angst and violence under the cut, if you can't handle these please scroll away, I promise I'll write something fluffy and sweet.

Well, this wasn't going as expected.

Cayde and yourself had been trusted with what was supposed to be a simple in and out mission. Into the cabal stronghold, grab the intel (maybe shoot a few bad guys and look good doing it) then back to the tower in time for some piping hot ramen. His plan was flawless. or as you had called it "winging it".

Praise was reserved for quiet moments, whispers about how you were his favourite, how he had never seen such a bright solar spark in all his years at the tower, just so he could watch the blush bloom onto your cheeks and your smile. Oh, your smile, he would set aside what little pride and dignity he had to see it just once. You could point at any star in the night sky and if you asked, he would retrieve it for you. If only he had the guts to tell you this. He would eventually. He had plans, a clear summer night, hot ramen, something strong to drink with a nice kick. Just the two of you.

Well, you had always been overly cautious, but it worked surprisingly well for the pair of you. Cayde, the man with the plan and a slightly headstrong attitude and you, cautious and always with 6 back up plans. That's what he loved about you, of course, he wouldn't say that out loud, no, he had a reputation to maintain.

The mission was going well. the pair of you had crept into the cabal's stronghold unseen. Suspiciously easy. That's when all hell broke loose. The plan was lock tight. They shouldn't have known you were there but now both of you were up shit creek without a paddle...or a boat...or a life jacket. Someone must have tipped them off. Legionaries, phalanxes, gladiators, centurions, and war beasts surged out of every doorway and corridor. It was nothing either of you couldn't handle.

He thought.

As bullets flew the pair of you slowly drifted apart, swamped by cabal, the well-oiled machine the pair of you were when fighting started to rust. Soon you were just a distant blur of solar energy. His little firefly, his solar flare. He couldn't stand and watch though, as shot after shot was fired from his trusty hand cannon into the swam of red.

The ambush was thinning, he knew the pair of you would pull through you always did.

Then he felt it.

As if a part of his own light was ripped from his very being. A tidal wave that rocked the whole room, he had to catch himself from being thrown against the wall as the pure light that surged through the area bowled him over, knocking the wind out of him. No. Not you.

The red tide didn't stop, but the surprise of the explosion gave him the perfect window to see the despair as your ghosts shattered shell, lightless, scattered across the floor. The scream trapped in your throat as the gladiator speared you onto its cabal serverus blade, the stench of searing flesh permeating the air, the way your legs buckled, and body thudded against the floor as the gladiator kicked you off its blade.

The war beast that clamped down onto his left arm causing him to drop his hand cannon was first to feel his retribution. Snapping out of his trance he grits his teeth, throwing the war beast with such force it dented the steel wall behind him and grabbing ace he reloads and unleashes hell. Shot after shot echoed over the roaring screams of the cabal. Bones crunched, tendons snapped and popped until all that was left was the gladiator, your body at its feet in a gasping crumpled mess.

Cayde saw red. He doesn't know how many rounds he pumped into the gladiator. He doesn't remember ripping its jaw apart as he screams in pure unbridled anger. He doesn’t remember being beating it into a bloody unrecognisable mess.

The red tide was now a red sea. Cayde had spilt enough blood in his lifetime, and he would spill more in future. But now wasn't the time to dwell on his crimson-stained past.

It was Sundance who snapped him out of his anger, his body tense, chest heaving. "Cayde....they need you" Sundance says quietly.

Cayde is at your side in an instant, hand barely able to cover the ragged wound in your abdomen as he pulls you onto his lap. "No no no no no" he mumbles his hand instantly soaked in your blood. You had always been a paragon of strength, the pair of you often rough and tumbling in the tower, sparring in the training room, but now in his arms you felt fragile, body trembling as you gulped for air.

"h-hey" you rasped weakly a pained smile on your face. "We...we sure showed them."

He choked on his words "Yeah, we sure did”.

"I’m sorry"

Why were you apologising? You shouldn't be apologising. He should have been beside you; he should have been better; he should have done more. It should have been him. His thoughts fly a million miles an hour.

"Don't you dare apologise" he rasps, his voice synthesiser becoming more staticky.

"I'm sorry we couldn't have been more" you whisper, his hands stroke your hair as he rocks you gently.

"Wasn’t supposed to be like this. Was supposed to take you back home, treat you real nice" he growls in frustration. He couldnt loose you, not now. Not after there was so much he wanted to do, so many words left unsaid. He had saved so many cheesy pick up plines, so many date ideas, crimson day, festival of the lost, the dawning festival.

He had plans for every single one with you beside him. He removes your helmet, if he was going to say this if he was going to hold you in your final moments, he wanted to see those eyes he loved so much. the ones he would think about late at night, the ones he longed to see when he would turn in bed to the emptiness of cold sheets. Sheets that would remain cold. That would never see your warmth.

"Oh yeah? tell…Tell me about it" You begin to cough, and his arms tighten around you, he can feel the visceral rattling gurgle that accompanies each breath and he knows it will haunt him.

"Was gonna take you to that ramen spot in the city, you know, the really nice one in the city, has the pretty lanterns outside? yeah, I’d get you whatever you wanted, on me, really spoil you. Then I’d take you to our spot-"

"That little overlook on the city wall?" your voice, quiet and scratchy barely reaches his audio receptors.

He nods smiling through the pain to keep you relaxed, he had time to scream and shout and cry later, right now you were the only important thing "that's the one. Bring with us a little something to drink and watch the sunset. Maybe we would have a little slow dance under the stars. Always said I’d take you dancing one day didn't I?" the static in his voice was becoming more prominent as he had to force the words out, willing his body to stop trembling, trying to comfort you.

“Sounds nice”

“Then I'd tell you everything, everything I should have told you months ago” he mumbles burring his face in your hair, if he could cry he's sure he would be in floods, just another reason he despised his exo body.

“It's okay, I knew”.

“You knew?”

You weakly nod and struggle to put on a smile, bloody lips barely managing to up turn, your face was pale. You were fading fast, trickling through his fingers like sand and no matter how hard he tried it was like trying to catch water with a siv. “Always knew. I love you to”.

He can feel your faint heartbeat getting harder and harder to pick up under his blood-soaked fingers.

“I love you”.

Sundance didn’t have the heart to tell him they were already gone before he said those three words. She wasn’t ever going to tell him.

You knew.

You had always known.

Traveler help the poor bastard who tipped off the cabal about their arrival. Because no force within the known galaxy could protect them from Cayde-6

#destiny 2 #cayde 6 #x reader #cayde-6 x reader #angst #cayde 6 x reader #fanfic #reader dies #reader insert

[dear-solar]

#wip #ts4 #ds #theboyz #the stealer #gasp its solar making shit after a year

[angellesword]

YOUR EYES TELL | JJK (SPECIAL CHAPTER)

⇒ a glimpse of life with Jeon Jeongguk now that you can see colors.

Pairing: Dad!Jungkook x Mom!Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Genre/Warnings: established relationship au, fluff, soulmate au.

Note: This is a special chapter for YOUR EYES TELL so it contains spoiler from said fic.

drabble: your eyes tell - special chapter part 2

The total solar eclipse, a black pearl necklace being auctioned for nine hundred two thousand dollars, and you glaring at Jeon Jeongguk.

These things were rare occurrences, but it looked like the last event you had mentioned would happen more frequently.

"I said no, Jeongguk."

Jeongguk. After being together for half a decade now, your husband still shuddered with fear every time you called him using his given name.

Why couldn't you just call him Gukkie? Did he fuck up so bad that you refused to coo his favorite nickname anymore?

"But—"

Your husband tried to reason out; however, when he saw how your glare became angrier, he stopped for a few moments.

Your cheeks were flushing. This didn't look good. You were making Jeongguk nervous.

"I really wanna move back to Seoul," he tried pouting his lips since he knew you could never resist his cute face.

He knew his plan was working when you suddenly clamped your eyes shut, refusing to look at him.

"I-It's not easy to just go back to the capital, Gukkie. Our life is literally here."

Here as in Busan. You and Jeongguk decided to settle down in his hometown the second you found out that you were pregnant.

You two figured that it would be best to raise your kid in a place where she could interact with nature. Busan was known for its beaches and mountains, unlike in Seoul where you would only be surrounded by tall buildings and hustlers.

Your kid shouldn't be in a stressful city at a very young age. Jeongguk knew this too, this was why you couldn't understand why he wanted to buy a house in Seoul.

"No, it's not." Jeongguk was still pouting while shaking his head. "You're a corporate lawyer and most businesses operate in Seoul. You barely have clients here."

He was right.

"Besides, Red wants to form a partnership with you. You know it's a good offer..."

You stayed quiet for a while, only biting your lower lip because you were aware that he made a point—a good point. But then again, you also knew that he wasn't saying these things for the advancement of your career.

He only wanted to go back to Seoul because "you want Chae-won to be close to Beomgyu, right?"

Chae-won. This was the name of your four year-old daughter. Chae meant color while won meant beginning.

You and Jeongguk thought that the name suited your daughter since Chae-won was made out of love, and love in your world signified the time you began to see the pretty hues.

"W-Well yeah..." Jeongguk was stuttering, trying so hard to find an excuse. "B-But it's also because I miss city life! I miss our friends! Don't you miss Jimin-hyung? Seokjin-hyung? Red?"

Jeongguk mentioned the Kim couple as if he was implying something. Admittedly, he had been trying to include them in literally every conversation you two were having, and the reason behind this was because of Beomgyu, the first born of Seokjin and Red.

Beomgyu and Chae-won were born in the same year. The former being three months older than your daughter. The two of them only met once since the Kims lived in Seoul—which was also the sole reason why Jeongguk wanted to move back to the capital in the first place.

Chae-won and Beomgyu met two weeks ago, meaning it had also been fourteen days since your daughter started seeing colors.

You could never forget that day.

Chae-won came crying to her father, hugging his left leg as if her life depended on it.

"B-Baby...what's wrong?" Jeongguk's face was pale. He could feel the tears pricking at his eyes.

He had always been like this. Jeongguk would cry when he saw his loved ones crying too.

"Appa! My eyes!" Chae-won used her free hand to rub her eye. She was doing it vigorously, as if she wanted to get rid of it.

"What happened to your eyes, my love?" You kneeled beside your daughter, stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her down.

It was obvious that your husband was losing his shit. At least one of you should try to stay calm, right?

"I-It's too bright, Mam..." Beomgyu was the one who answered on behalf of Chae-won.

You switched your gaze at Beomgyu, amazed because of how respectful he was. He was the only kid who called you Mam.

"Oh, my God..." Red suddenly gasped, covering her mouth when she realized something.

"D-Do you think they're..." Seokjin's wife stared at you, eyes widening as she trailed off.

"They're what?" Mr. Kim raised a brow, looking at his son and Chae-won.

"Soulmates?" Jeongguk supplied, unsure.

The four of you remained quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were Chae-won's sobs and Beomgyu's ragged breathing.

The four year-old boy didn't understand why his heart hurt so much just because Chae-won was crying. He wanted to wipe her tears away.

"Jeongguk..." You were the one who broke the silence. You glared at your husband because you felt like he just uttered the most absurd thing ever.

Sure, Jeongguk became a romantic when he finally accepted the idea of soulmates, but...wasn't he being a little too much?

Chae-won and Beomgyu were still young.

"I mean...it's a possibility, right? Chae-won started to cry when I told her to go play with Beomgyu." Jeongguk said, squatting to carry his baby girl.

You stood up, feeling a little uncomfortable with your position.

The six of you were inside the Kims' mansion. Red and Seokjin invited your family for dinner when they learned that you were in Seoul to attend Ji-eun's birthday party.

Actually, you would be staying here in Seoul for three days because Namjoon said he couldn't plan his daughter's birthday on his own. Even after four years, Namjoon was still chaotic as ever.

He refused to date, already happy with his life with Ji-eun.

"So are you saying that the world is so small that the daughter of my ex and my husband's former lawyer is the soulmate of my son?" Red chuckled, amused.

She wasn't sure whether to side with Jeongguk or not. But then again, they just couldn't ignore the mentioned possibility.

Fate always had its way of confusing the shit out of people.

"We can bring them to a doctor, if you want..." Seokjin blurted out, pulling Red closer to him as he patted his son's head.

Beomgyu was still staring at Chae-won, contemplating whether he should embrace her or wipe her tears away.

In the end, the little boy chose the former option, causing Jeonguk's heart to swell with so much happiness.

His happiness turned into joy when later that day, they found out that the kids were really soulmates.

"Of course I miss our friends," you finally answered Jeongguk's question after remembering what happened at the Kims' mansion two weeks ago.

"But I'm happy here, babe. Chae-won's friends are here. Her life is here. You know how much she likes visiting her grandparents whenever she pleases. She's born here, Gukkie."

Jeongguk bit his lower lip. He was the one who couldn't answer now. You made a point too.

"I say we let her decide where she wants to live. Chae-won is smart. She will know what her heart truly desires. Besides..." You went near Jeongguk, wrapping your hands around his neck.

He instantly encircled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.

"Our daughter is still young. Let her be a kid, babe. We can't force her to seek romantic love just because she found her soulmate,"

Jeongguk looked sad, his lips trembling.

"I-I know that..." He heaved a deep sigh. "I guess I'm just scared. I don't want Chae-won to go through the pain you had experienced because of me. I met you a little late, love. I don't think I can handle seeing our daughter cry because her soulmate is in love with someone else..."

"Oh, Gukkie..." You nuzzled his nose, kissing his cheek.

Jeongguk was left craving for more, and so he placed a kiss on your sweet lips.

"Chae-won and Beomgyu are meant to be together. I'm sure fate will find a way to bring them together..."

"Just like what happened between you and me?" Your husband's eyes were wide and sparkling, like he was seeking your approval.

"Yeah, maybe even better. Maybe Beomgyu will love our precious baby more than we love her..."

"But I am the one who loves Chae-won the most!"

You chuckled because Jeongguk looked so adorable, like he was competing with a four year-old kid.

Typical Jeongguk.

"I know. I love you..."

"I love you too." Jeongguk smiled, kissing you once more. "And I'm so glad you're my soulmate..."

MORE JJK FICS WRITTEN BY ME: EUPHORIA or check MASTERLIST

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #ficswithluv #jungkook soulmate au #jungkook x reader #jungkook roommate au #jungkook enemies to lovers #jungkook fantasy au #daddy jungkook #husband jungkook #your eyes tell #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

I Caught One Last Sight

Pairing: Christopher Pike x Reader Rating: T Notes: I am meaning for this to be a one-shot... I’m usually well-intentioned like that. Update: It was not a one shot. Masterlist is here Inspired by this song by P!nk: Beam Me Up Warnings: Cursing; some angst; unrequited love Summary: It wasn’t that Christopher Pike was accident prone, he just had liked to have a little fun, make a little noise (you also considered him to be something of a trouble magnet, but you’d never tell him that).

After four years on the Enterprise as a chief security officer, you’d been on your fair number of away missions, had seen your fair number of mishaps, issues, anomalies. They were par for the course. As far as space travel and technology had come, things were still tricky. It didn’t help that your captain had a penchant for getting in trouble. It wasn’t that Christopher Pike was accident prone, he just had liked to have a little fun, make a little noise (you also considered him to be something of a trouble magnet, but you’d never tell him that). Since returning from Discovery, though, he’d been particularly… Daring might’ve been the word he’d use, but ridiculous was the word on the tip of your tongue.

“Nov O-62,” Number One read the planet name off to the other attendants in the ready room, “Class-M, with few inhabitants.” You rested your chin on your hand, raising a brow. She opened a hologram of the planet, pointing to a highlighted section at the top of the planet, “There is one colony - right here. Pre-warp, fairly primitive, so General Order One applies. We’re planning on beaming down here,” Una directed your attention to a spot to the right of the colony, “There’s a deposit of dilithium there. We’ll be able to restock - shouldn’t take too long.” “We’ll be quick enough,” Pike added. “You always say that,” You reminded him, arching a brow. “Maybe one of these days it’ll be true.” He retorted. “There’s a solar storm set to hit within the next two hours,” Spock reported, “It would be prudent of us to beam down before we have a problem.” An argument was poised on your tongue, but Pike nodded before you could say a word. “Suit up, get ready to beam down.” -- “You’re worrying.” He wasn’t asking. Pike could always read you like a book. “I’m a security officer. It’s my job to worry.” You didn’t bother to turn to him from where you were leaning against the wall, looking out of the window in the ready room. “You remember the last solar storm we went through?” You added. It was back when you and Pike were both test pilots, commissioned by the Academy. Pike’s vessel had almost gone down; you’d been horrified, unable to help him. “That was a long time ago,” He pointed out. “Hm.” “And the Enterprise isn’t some vessel that we’re testing. It’ll be fine.” His hands settled on your shoulders as he stopped behind you and added, “We’ll be fine.” You turned your head back toward him a bit, “As fine as it was when we faced catastrophic system-wide failure?” You heard him sigh, “You know, sometimes I don’t think you trust me.” “Of course I trust you,” You turned to face him finally, peering up at him, “But it is possible to trust someone and still be worried for them. I am still talking to the man that apparently had a phaser go off in his chest while I wasn’t around.” “I couldn’t have let it go off anywhere else--” “I’m sure there were alternatives--” “There were people around--” “You could’ve pointed it at-- No, no, you know what? I’m not having this conversation again,” You waved Chris off before stepping around him. You walked over to the hologram of the planet, eyeing the colony and the place that the away team would be beaming to. “You know what amazes me?” You heard Chris ask as he came closer. “What?” “Somewhere out there, there might be a universe where you don’t worry this much.” You huffed, shaking your head. “That is only possible if, within that same universe, you do not get yourself into so much trouble.” “Where’s the fun in that?” He was teasing, trying to cheer you up, and damnit, it was working. You smiled a little bit, shaking your head as you continued to look at the hologram. “...It’ll be fine,” Pike insisted again; his tone was a little more soft now, and you could feel him watching you. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of your whole-hearted concession, but it didn’t matter; you knew you would follow that man anywhere, and he knew that, too. “Whatever you say, Captain,” You sighed. -- You were concerned the second you stepped onto the transporter pad. It was the way the operator was frowning at the console. “Is everything alright, Ensign?” Number One had asked, and the ensign had nodded and insisted that, of course, everything was fine, there was just some interference from the solar storm. You’d glanced at Pike, but he was staunchly refusing to meet your gaze. “Any concerns regarding transport?” “No, Captain.” “Energize.” -- You didn’t need to be commed by the ship to know that you were in the wrong place. What you did need to do was take a deep breath and swear to the universe that you were never going to have anything to do with a solar storm ever again. Nov O-62 was a desert planet, but you were surrounded by lush, green grass. You looked around and found yourself alone, without the rest of the away team. “It’ll be fine,” You muttered to yourself, mimicking Pike’s voice, “I’m Christopher Pike and solar storms are fun and not at all dangerous.” You pulled your communicator out of your belt. “Enterprise, come in, Enterprise.” You were met with nothing but static. “Great. Awesome,” You grumbled, looking around. You pulled out your handheld PADD - maybe you could get a fix on where exactly on Nov O-62 you were and start working your way back toward the rest of the away team. You frowned when the device wouldn’t get a fix on your location. The map indicated that you weren’t located in any quadrant in the known universe. That-- That had to be a mistake. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you began to look around. Higher ground. Maybe if you found higher ground, you could get a better signal and make contact with the Enterprise. You were careful and quiet as you began to walk, looking around. Wherever you were, it was beautiful - quiet, apparently uninhabited-- And then you froze, hearing a child’s laugh from nearby. You plastered yourself against a tree, holding still. The sound was close, but not right up beside you. You listened for it again, frowning when you heard a familiar voice calling, “Willa Jane Pike, get back here! You need to wash up before supper!” You frowned deeply. You knew that voice, you knew that name. You peered around the tree, curious, and you gasped softly. That was… That was you. Well, it wasn’t you, but it was someone that looked exactly like you, that sounded exactly like you-- Had you hit your head when you’d beamed down? … No. No, you’d been on your feet, alright. What was this place? Who was that person? You watched as a little girl ran back to this other you and reached down, tousling her hair and murmuring, “Go on,” Before turning to watch her go. You crept closer, weaving through a few more trees to get a better look at your-not-self. “I think that’s the fastest she’s ever gone in without an argument,” You heard. Your heart dropped through your stomach to your feet. “Well, she’s been out here all day, I think she’s too hungry to argue,” The not-you answered the man that was coming closer. It couldn’t possibly be him. The man was on another planet in another system in, apparently, a ‘known universe’. A known universe… Shit, shit. Fucking solar storms. “Makes for a faster wash-up,” He said. You could see his face more clearly now, and you knew his face as well as your own. That was Pike. That was a Pike. He wasn’t your Pike, no matter how much he might look or sound like him. “It certainly does,” The not-you chuckled. “Think she can be trusted to wash her hands without flooding the bathroom?” He asked. “Why?” Not-you asked. You watched with bated breath as not-Pike’s arms wrapped around not-you’s waist. “‘Cause I’d like a quiet moment with my wife.” You felt your chest tighten at the words; so sweet, and reverent, just before he dipped his head for a kiss. You’d had dreams like this, but to see it in front of you this way was almost worse. At least when you dreamt it, you could push it off as something silly, something that you may want, but could never happen. Now, knowing that somewhere out there, there was something like this, something like you? Every time you and Pike bickered now, you would imagine a whole other kind of conversation happening in a parallel universe, where your daughter (who you’d named after his mother) was out in the backyard, where you and PIke could have your quiet moments. Not-Pike had leaned away from not-you now, and was just smiling, this gentle, contented look. You glanced down as you heard your communicator crackle and were barely able to work out the words, “Commander? -- Enterprise-- Copy?” You glanced back up at the couple of them as you raised the communicator to your lips. “I copy.” “Beaming-- Out--” “Wait!” You breathed, taking one last look at Not-Pike’s face, at the way his eyes crinkled as he smiled. You swallowed thickly before saying, “Beam me up.” -- Number One was in the transporter bay when you were beamed in, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” You felt like you had. -- “Door.” You glanced back as the door to your quarters swished open and Pike strode in. The dilithum had been extracted, and the Enterprise was on its way. You were glad of it. “Are you alright?” He was still walking toward you, and you nodded a little bit, rising from your desk. Chris folded you into his arms and you went willingly. “I’m fine,” You grumbled, even as you leaned into him, “Boyce checked me over and everything.” Chris leaned away, holding you at arm’s length and searching your face. “... You gonna make me wait for you to say it?” He asked. You frowned. “Say what?” “‘I told you so’.” You couldn’t even muster a smile as you huffed a tired laugh. “I’m saving it for another time,” You shook your head, “Everyone else is alright?” “Yes, though I’m sure Una already told you that.” She did, but you were glad to hear it again. “And you’re--” “I’m fine-- Where the hell did you go? Transporter room was able to get a lock on your location, but the coordinates are jumbled, they’re having a hell of a time deciphering it.” You stepped out of Pike’s arms, walking over to your bed and sitting on the edge of it. You rested your elbows on your knees, steadying yourself before you answered, “It wasn’t anywhere in this universe. I don’t care if they work out wherever the hell I was, I’m just lucky I made it back.” Pike’s brow furrowed. “You mean…” You nodded. “Alternate, somewhere. I tried to use my PADD to find you all but it couldn't place me anywhere.” Pike drifted closer, sitting on the bed beside you and frowning. “Maybe it was a PADD malfunction.” “It wasn’t.” “How do you--” “Chris, I know.” You felt him turn his head to look at you. “...What happened?” He asked quietly. It took you a few moments. “Nothing bad.” You sighed, and raked a hand through your hair like that’d push whatever this was away, and glanced in his direction, not quite meeting his eye. “Doesn’t matter, anyway,” You added, “We’re all in one piece, we’re leaving, and I’m never letting you do anything during a solar storm again.” “I’d already come to that decision myself, Commander.” “Well, then it was all worth it, Captain.” You did look at him then, and he was giving you this soft smile, one that made his eyes crinkle. You had to look away, and quickly. “I’m uh-- I should get some rest--” “Of course,” Chris agreed, getting up from your bed, “Ping me if you need anything.” “‘Course. Same goes.” You glanced up as you heard the door closing, and caught one last glimpse of Pike smiling at you. Let it go, you told yourself as you settled into bed, the computer powering the lights down, That woman wasn’t you, that man wasn’t him. You blinked into the darkness, waiting for sleep to come. There was a whole other conversation going on, somewhere out there. One of you, with one of him. One of you, curled up in his arms. You rolled onto your side, closing your eyes. Enough now. General tag list: @angels-pie​ ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta​

#I Caught One Last Sight #Captain Pike #captain pike x reader #Captain Pike x You #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike/You #Christopher Pike #Chris Pike #christopher pike x reader #christopher pike/reader #Christopher Pike/you #christopher pike x you #Captain Pike Imagine #Christopher Pike Imagine

[justheretobreakthings]

Hold On Loosely

So, this was originally in the process of being written for a zine, but I wound up dropping out due to aphobia in the project. Which, well, sucked, and was one of the contributing factors of my less-than-great mood these past few days.

But, I wound up finishing the fic as its own thing, so I hope y’all enjoy. Have some pre-canon broganes fluff to lift the spirits.

Word Count: 2,545 Characters: Keith & Shiro Read on AO3 My house, my rules, my ko-fi

“Ooh, you know what looks good?” Shiro said, looking up from the table’s menu to grin over at Keith. “The chocolate lava cake. What do you say, you wanna split it with me?”

Keith shrugged, tilting his head to glance at the menu as well. He swallowed his bite of steak before slowly replying, “I dunno, it’s - it’s kind of expensive.”

“I told you, Keith, tonight’s my treat. Come on, if you don’t split it with me, I’ll just order it and eat the whole thing myself, and I will definitely get sick. So…”

“All right, fine, I’ll have the cake.”

“Great!” Shiro’s grin broadened as he waved their waitress down to place the order. “Every celebration needs cake,” he added to Keith as the waitress left. “Anyone who tries to limit it to birthdays is just close-minded.”

“I still don’t really think we, um, need to be celebrating,” Keith said.

Shiro huffed in mock exasperation. “Bud, your grades were great, you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I didn’t even get all A’s or anything. And I had a C in Professor Antonsen’s class - ”

“Keith, I assure you, her class is the hardest in the whole academy. Matt didn’t even get an A in it. Chin up.” Shiro reached across the table with his fork, the last bite of his salmon still on the tips of the prongs, and tilted Keith’s head up to look at him. “Hey. I’m really proud of you. I mean it. You did great work, and you deserve to celebrate.”

Keith stared at him for a moment, as though mulling his words over, then a tiny smile escaped him as he tilted his head down and ate the bite of salmon off of Shiro’s fork, too quickly for the latter to move it out of the way.

“Barbaric,” Shiro gasped. “Have you no manners at all?”

Keith just smirked, making a show of chewing loudly before he swallowed and said, “Still, we didn’t have to go somewhere all fancy like this. I would have been fine with just burgers or pizza or something.”

“Well, sure, but I was really in the mood tonight for a place with tablecloths, you know? It’s a big night.”

“They’re just grades.”

Shiro shrugged and set his fork down. “All right, time for me to confess. The reason I decided to go fancy is that we’re actually celebrating two things tonight.” Keith raised a brow, and Shiro went on. “I actually got some pretty big news today. And since Adam’s busy until tomorrow and my parents are in another time zone, you, my dear friend, get to be the first to celebrate it with me.”

“What is it?” Keith asked.

“Now, I will tell you, they’re not officially announcing this until Monday, so don’t go spreading the word to your classmates before then and ruining the surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“So if anyone asks, you don’t know anything about it, okay? You’re gonna be just as excited by the announcement as - ”

“Shiro,” Keith groaned. “Now you’re just doing this on purpose.”

“You caught me.” Shiro smiled. “So. Guess who has been officially selected as the youngest pilot ever to lead a Garrison exploration mission.”

Keith’s eyes slowly widened. “You - you got the Kerberos spot?”

“I got the Kerberos spot.”

“That’s awesome!” Keith breathed. “Holy - you’re going straight to the edge of the solar system! Oh my god, you’re gonna be in textbooks, Shiro! You’re gonna be, like, a legit historical figure. That’s huge.”

“We always knew Earth’s atmosphere couldn’t contain me forever,” Shiro said with a smirk. “So, you’ve managed to get settled into the Garrison pretty well by now? Fitting in with your class? I know you’re doing well grade-wise so…”

“I guess, yeah,” Keith said with a shrug. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Shiro said, waving his fork dismissively. “I’m going to be pretty busy for a while, is all, and then I’ll be gone for the mission after. Just wanna make sure you’re ready for that.”

“Oh.” Keith's smile flickered, the corners of his mouth drooping for half a second before returning to their place. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I’m ready. I mean, I - I knew you were gunning for that spot on the mission, so it’s - so, yeah, you know, I knew this was coming. I mean obviously it was coming, you’re the best pilot in - you’re, um, you’re definitely - ”

“Keith?” Shiro raised his brow. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t really thought about, uh, what I would be, um - ” He drummed his fingers against the table, then moved to lift his knife and fork and start carving up what remained of his steak. “But that’s - that’s not important. It isn’t. We’re celebrating. And - and - and you got the Kerberos spot, and I got my grades, and that’s good, this is good news, it is, I’m happy! I’m happy for you. I’m very - ”

Gently Shiro reached across the table and laid his hand on Keith’s arm. “You’re starting to carve up your plate, there, bud.”

Keith blinked down at his knife, then, with a slow breath, he dropped the cutlery and pulled back. “Sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t… paying attention. Shit, hang on.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and mumbled, “I’m okay. I’m fine. Got a little… overwhelmed… by the good news. Just need a minute to, uh, to process.”

“Everything all right here?” came a soft voice behind Shiro’s shoulder, and he jumped in his seat, banging his knee on the table and whipping his head around to see their waitress, their cake in her hands and her face apologetic. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Shiro said. “You’re fine. Thanks, it looks delicious.”

“Can I, uh, get you anything else?” the waitress asked, glancing toward Keith who was hastily trying to scrub at his eyes as she set the cake down on the table. “A drink refill or… some tissues, maybe?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Shiro replied. “Uh, take your time with the check, please.”

The waitress nodded and hurried from the table. Keith, meanwhile, pushed his chair back, his head down and hair falling into his face as he mumbled, “I think I need the restroom…”

“Hey, hang on,” Shiro said, holding out his arm again as Keith stood. “Keith… you know, it’s okay if you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Keith snapped.

“Uh-huh. I’ve told you before, bud. If you’re upset - or any other emotion - ” He added when Keith opened his mouth to protest - “You can tell me. I’m not gonna judge you for it, you’re not gonna be punished. It’s not good to bottle things up. Come on, talk to me.”

“It’s… nothing,” Keith said. He sighed and collapsed back into his chair. “It’s stupid. Sorry, I’m ruining tonight, aren’t I?”

“You’re not ruining anything.”

“Yes I am. You took me out to celebrate and I’m freaking out on you and raining on your parade and - and I should be happy about this. I am happy about this, I’m happy for you, so there’s - there’s nothing even to talk about.”

“Mmm.” Shiro tapped a finger thoughtfully against the edge of the cake plate. “You know, you’re allowed to feel more than one thing. You can be happy for me and still be upset. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Sure, but - ”

“Want me to start?”

Keith frowned. “Start what?”

“Sharing.” Keith still looked just as baffled, so Shiro continued. “I’m thrilled about the news, and I’m excited about the upcoming Kerberos trip, and I’m really proud of myself for having made it this far, especially so early in my career.”

“You should be,” Keith said with a fervent nod.

“But I’m kinda freaking out too. It’s a lot of pressure and responsibility, and I’m scared of messing up. There’s a ton of prep work that has to be done before the mission, which is going to be stressful and exhausting. And the mission is going to last for months, so I don’t know how claustrophobic or homesick or lonely I’ll get. I know I’m going to miss you. You, and Adam, and everyone else on Earth.

“I’m happy, yeah, but I’m all those things too. It’s a lot. But, I gotta admit, putting it all out there, out loud, it’s a bit of a relief. It’s on the table instead of on my shoulders, so now I don’t have to think so hard about what I’m dealing with, I can move on to actually dealing with it. And now it’s your turn”

Keith paused before saying, “I feel like you missed your true calling as a psychologist.”

“I’m young, I’ve got time to chase a bunch of callings. No changing the subject.”

Shiro waited patiently as Keith fidgeted in his chair, chewing at his bottom lip and focusing intensely on the dishes in front of him. Finally, though, he spoke up, so softly that Shiro had to strain to hear him: “I guess I’m… not ready… for you to go.”

Slowly Shiro nodded. “That’s understandable, Keith. I - ”

“It’s not, though,” Keith bit out. “It’s not like I haven’t been on my own before, right? And, hell, I’m a couple years off from being an adult, I shouldn’t - I shouldn’t still be - and it’s selfish, right? This is, like, your dream, Shiro, and all I’m thinking about is how I’m gonna - how I’m - ”

“Hey, hey,” Shiro said, keeping his voice low and soothing as he watched Keith bunch up the edge of the tablecloth in his fists. “It’s not selfish. Okay? I don’t want you thinking that for a moment. It’s you feeling your feelings, and there’s nothing selfish about that. If you were selfish, you wouldn’t be nearly so concerned about how your reaction is making me feel, right?”

Keith only shrugged. “And Keith, what’s this about being on your own?” Shiro continued. “Me being gone doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”

“It - it kinda does,” Keith mumbled. “I, um, I - I may have exaggerated, a bit, um, how I’m fitting in with my classmates.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes. “Are those other pilots still giving you a hard time? If they are, we need to go to your CO, file a report.”

Keith shook his head. “No, they aren’t - there haven’t been any other incidents or anything, just - I’m still not really - I’m not part of the group or anything. We have classes together, but that’s all. And you know I can’t get an ‘Adam’ of my own, I’ve - I told you about that, about how I don’t - so I don’t have friends, I don’t, not really. And I definitely don’t have a ‘partner’ or whatever, so that just leaves family, and - well, that’s you. Just you. That’s all I’ve got. And so if you’re gone…”

He let out a sniff and wiped his nose with the tablecloth. There was only so much the Garrison could do to instill table manners into their cadets. “Forget it. Like I said, it’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, Keith,” Shiro said. “That’s… that’s fair. That’s fair and valid and I’m glad that you told me.”

“Kinda ruined the whole ‘celebration’ vibe, though.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to celebrate before the mission. I, um - did - were you always worrying about this? The whole time I’ve been applying for the Kerberos spot?”

“I dunno. I wasn’t really thinking about it. Was trying not to, you know? It, um, wasn’t important.”

“When am I ever going to finally convince you that your worries are important?”

“More important than Kerberos?”

“Equally.”

Keith snorted. “Shiro - ”

“You know, in the coming months I’m gonna be spending a lot of time preparing for the mission. Maybe we should come up with a game plan so you can do the same.”

“Shiro, you barely managed to convince the Garrison to let me into the academy, you’re never gonna convince them to let me join the mission.”

“Much as I’d love to have you, that’s not what I meant,” Shiro said with a little smile. “I meant that while I’m getting ready to go to Kerberos, we can get you ready to stay on Earth. We’ll go through the things you’re worried about, the things that you need to prepare for, and we’ll start planning for them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like, okay, you’re worried about being lonely while I’m away. So let’s plan for that. We can talk to Adam, and Colleen, make sure you’re able to turn to one of them if you need anything at all. And we can even schedule some weekends out, get you some vacation from the Garrison to wind down. If you’re worried about keeping up with schoolwork while I’m around, we can contact your instructors to let them know, maybe see about any extra credit work you can do while I’m gone.”

Keith nodded slowly. “Okay. And, um, if I’m worried about… you know…” The tips of his ears went red as he mumbled, “Missing you?”

Shiro resisted the urge to tease him about the blush of embarrassment and instead broadened his smile. “I’m gonna miss you too, you know. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t?” Keith bit his lip, and Shiro would bet any amount of money that it was to hold back a smile. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll make sure to get a ton of pictures together before I go, for starters, and I can let you babysit my hoverbike while I’m gone.”

Keith’s mouth dropped open. “You’ll let me be in charge of your hoverbike?”

“Promise not to crash it?”

“I… can’t make that promise.”

“Promise you’ll try not to crash it?”

“That I can do.”

“I’ll take it. So we’ve got a plan in place, and we have plenty of time to come up with more. And if it helps, I swear, I’ll come back from Kerberos as soon as I possibly can. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Keith nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Do you need a hug too?”

“No,” Keith said, spreading his arms out to accept one anyway. Shiro scooted his chair around the table to embrace him, rubbing Keith’s back as the latter sighed into his shoulder, and he didn’t let go of the hug until he felt Keith finally pull away.

“Now,” Shiro said, scooting back into place. “This cake has just been waiting to be eaten, and we should really help out.” He nodded toward Keith’s dessert fork . “Come on, I’ve seen the memes, I know you love cake.”

Keith let out a breath of a laugh as he lifted his fork and started to cut off a piece from the cake. “If you’d seen all the memes, you’d know I also love pizza.”

“Well, in a few years, when we’re celebrating you getting your first big mission and breaking the youngest-pilot record, we can go out for pizza instead. Deal?”

“Deal.” They both took their first bites of the cake at the same time, and Keith rolled his eyes as Shiro made a show of moaning in contentment at the taste. “By the way,” Keith said as he moved in for his second bite, “I really am happy for you. Cadet’s honor, I am.”

“Thanks, Keith,” Shiro said with a grin. “I’m happy too.”

#vldgen #vld fic #keith #shiro #broganes #my writing #fic: hold on loosely

[nanoland]

Title: Besyd the scarcety of bread amowngst us

Fandom: Supernatural 

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester

Summary: In which Dean asks a question.

Warnings: Crowley being Extremely traumatized and kind of oblivious to that fact + SPN demons being SPN demons (i.e. remorseless bodysnatchers) + Dean being his casually misogynistic self + graphic descriptions of starvation + exhibitionism (sorta?) + sexually explicit content because this was MEANT to be straightforward smut and then Crowley happened, the prick.

Also on AO3!

0  

“So how come you aren’t a hot chick?”

The glass stills an inch from Crowley’s pale lips. “I humbly beg your pardon?”

It’s late. The bar’s quiet. He doesn’t need Dean to repeat himself. Just a moment to decide on a response.

Well on the way to utterly shit-faced, Dean gestures vaguely, meaninglessly. “You offer people stuff. Then, ten years later, you drag ‘em to Hell. And – and they know that’s what’s gonna happen if they make a deal with you. Which means that you gotta be real fuckin’ persuasive. Which you are. Grade A Bullshit Artist and don’t I know it. But... uh, what was I gonna… yeah, wouldn’t it be easier, right, just way easier if you were a hot chick?”

Crowley can tell he’s not done, so he keeps his silver tongue behind his faintly yellowed teeth for the moment.

While Dean is usually delightful company, in his surly, macho way, this evening there’s an uncommonly obnoxious edge to everything he says. That almost certainly means his insecurities over what he’s been letting Crowley do to his arse lately are acting up.

Understandable. Still annoying.

So Crowley’s more than willing to let his favourite human dig himself a wee bit deeper before pouring boiling tar into the pit.

After quickly throwing back the last of his drink, Dean goes on: “Now, I didn’t go to some dickslurp business school. I ain’t that brand of asshole. But I’ve seen enough beer ads in my time to have an idea of how marketing works. You got something you want people to buy? Fastest way is to get a hot chick in a bikini to hold it up. Because guys have most of the money in this shitty world of ours and guys think with their dicks. I know I do. So why did you decide to possess someone who looks like a balding, middle-aged banker going through a stressful divorce? That ain’t enticing. That ain’t capturing anyone’s interest. Y’know?”

“Mm,” says Crowley, and stands up.

“Fuck’re you doing?” Dean slurs, watching him take off his tie.

“Ever heard of the Seven Ill Years, Squirrel?”

“Nope. Seriously, what’re you doing?”

Draping his overcoat over the back of his chair along with his tie, Crowley sets about taking off his jacket. “‘The Seven Ill Years’ refers to a particularly shitty time in early modern Scotland; the 1690s.”

He tugs off his costly leather shoes and places them side-by-side under his chair. “I was in my… early thirties at the time, I think. Thirty-two? Maybe thirty-one. Whatever.”

Dean is gaping now. He’s never seen Crowley without his outer layers, much less the growing slice of exposed chest as Crowley unbuttons his shirt.

“For a lot of complicated reasons relating to oceanic thermohaline circulation, solar activity, and a few ill-timed volcanos, the weather turned rotten. These days, it’s called the Little Ice Age. Us pigshit stupid peasants who lived through it didn’t know anything about all that. All we knew was that it was freezing bloody cold and the crops kept dying.”

“Dude,” Dean hisses, red-faced as Crowley sets his shirt alongside his jacket and overcoat. “Stop it! We’re going to be thrown out!”

“No. Look around. Is anyone paying attention to us? Precisely. We’re invisible to them at the moment, Squirrel. One of my little tricks.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s good. But that’s still not an excuse to take your fucking pants off in public oh my God oh my God!”

They’re expensive pants and Crowley takes care to fold them before putting them down. “To cut a long story short; famine struck. And famine, it’s…”

Crowley pauses, thinking, ignoring Dean’s pathetic attempts not to gawk at his dick.

“It’s hard to describe famine to someone who hasn’t lived through one,” he says eventually. “Language – English, at least – isn’t equipped to convey what it feels like to be so hungry you’ll try to boil and eat someone else’s shoes. Then someone else’s children. Then your own children. There are no words for it. Or, if in some distant corner of our monstrous universe there are, then they’re words that would drive a human raving mad to speak them.”

Naked now but for his black socks, Crowley scratches his stubble. “Sometimes I think that’s why I got on so well in Hell.”

He sits back in his chair. Folds his legs. Taps his fingers on the side of his empty glass. “Don’t get me wrong; having someone cut open your lungs, fill them with scorpions, and sew them up again isn’t fun. But – how can I put this? – you can process it. You can grapple with it. You know why you’re suffering; because you’re in Hell, and that’s what Hell is for. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is going about your everyday life and watching all the people around you – the baker, the priest, the prettiest girl in the village – go about theirs while they turn into walking skeletons. And knowing they didn’t do anything to deserve it. Couldn’t have done anything to deserve it, because no crime, no matter how vile, warrants that kind of punishment.”

Dean says nothing.

After a moment, Crowley pulls himself from the dark, sucking well of memory to add, “Anyway, to answer your question; I don’t want to be a hot chick because a. I’m a man and b. hot chicks are skinny, and I will cheerfully burn this world to the ground before I endure living in a hungry body ever again.”

He glances down at his unclothed meat suit and smiles proudly, running a hand up one of its thick thighs. “Also – y’know – I personally think this long-deceased lad of mine is sexy as Hell.”

Gazing at his shoulder, Dean says roughly, “Didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“Oh. Those. Yeah. Can’t stand them. Worst decision the stupid bastard ever made.”

“I think they’re kinda cool.”

“Do you? Well, you do have incredibly bad taste so perhaps that’s not surprising. Now, are you going to get over here and put that erection to good use?”

Oh, bless him; he’s adorable when he squirms.

“Here?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“Here.”

He says it like a challenge, for Dean can never resist one of those. Immediately, those wide eyes become narrow and determined.

The boy stands. Looms over Crowley, who casually flicks both their glasses to the floor and moves to sit on the cool wooden table. It’s clean, more or less, thanks to Dean (for once) agreeing to follow Crowley to a semi-respectable establishment.

“These hands,” Crowley murmurs, running them across Dean’s broad chest, “don’t have a single callous or scar. See? Soft as butter. Not a single day’s honest work, either of them.”

Dean swallows. Leans in to kiss him, hesitant and gentle.

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley likes gentle. Or, more accurately, Crowley likes being pampered.

He goes on: “And these legs…”

A groan escapes Dean’s lips as one presses up against his crotch.

“…these legs haven’t walked more than ten miles, collectively, since I moved in. No muscles. No blisters on the undersides of their feet. Not so much as a splinter.”

“Jesus,” Dean mumbles, drawing him in and latching onto his neck.

“And this stomach is never empty. Never even close. Never once forced to digest anything that isn’t purely, perfectly delicious. I treat my meat suits better than most people treat their family heirlooms.”

“Crowley. Fuck.”

He squeezes Dean’s arse and growls, “Because this is my reward, Dean. I won this. This softness, this safety. This nurtured, nourished flesh. I endured the seventeenth century and all humanity’s horrors. Endured my mother. Endured Hell. Built myself a reputation and a kingdom. All for this. And isn’t it wonderful? Say that it is, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean moans, even though he can’t understand a word; Crowley slipped into Gaelic a while ago.

(The things Crowley wants to tell Dean and the things Crowley wants Dean to know are categories that rarely overlap.)

Crowley takes Dean’s leaking cock in hand.

“Say I’m beautiful.”

Dean’s knees buckle as he whimpers, so Crowley wraps an arm around his narrow, underfed waist.

“Say you love me.”

Dean comes in his palm, gasping and cursing.

“Say you love me more than anyone else.”

“I’m guessing that was all Scottish dirty talk?” says Dean when he has his breath back. “You were – what? Calling me your bitch?”

Crowley smirks, licks the sweat off Dean’s jaw, and gives his backside a pat before reaching for his clothes. “None of your business. Go get me another drink, would you? Ta.”

 the end

NOTES: The title is taken from a quote found in Karen Cullen’s ‘Famine in Scotland: the ‘Ill Years’ of the 1690s’ (you can find extracts via googlebooks). Yes, canonically Crowley WOULD have been about thirty when this happened. Just in case his origin story wasn’t horrific enough wheee :D

#drowley #dean winchester #crowley #supernatural #spn crowley #my fic

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

The New Nihilism

It feels increasingly difficult to tell the difference between—on one hand—being old, sick, and defeated, and—on the other hand—living in a time-&-place that is itself senile, tired, and defeated. Sometimes I think it’s just me—but then I find that some younger, healthier people seem to be undergoing similar sensations of ennui, despair, and impotent anger. Maybe it’s not just me.

A friend of mine attributed the turn to disillusion with “everything”, including old-fashioned radical/activist positions, to disappointment over the present political regime in the US, which was somehow expected to usher in a turn away from the reactionary decades since the 1980s, or even a “progress” toward some sort of democratic socialism. Although I myself didn’t share this optimism (I always assume that anyone who even wants to be President of the US must be a psychopathic murderer) I can see that “youth” suffered a powerful disillusionment at the utter failure of Liberalism to turn the tide against Capitalism Triumphalism. The disillusion gave rise to OCCUPY and the failure of OCCUPY led to a move toward sheer negation.

However I think this merely political analysis of the “new nothing” may be too two-dimensional to do justice to the extent to which all hope of “change” has died under Kognitive Kapital and the technopathocracy. Despite my remnant hippy flower- power sentiments I too feel this “terminal” condition (as Nietzsche called it), which I express by saying, only half-jokingly, that we have at last reached the Future, and that the truly horrible truth of the End of the World is that it doesn’t end.

One big J.G. Ballard/Philip K. Dick shopping mall from now till eternity, basically.

This IS the future—how do you like it so far? Life in the Ruins: not so bad for the bourgeoisie, the loyal servants of the One Percent. Air-conditioned ruins! No Ragnarok, no Rapture, no dramatic closure: just an endless re-run of reality TV cop shows. 2012 has come and gone, and we’re still in debt to some faceless bank, still chained to our screens.

Most people—in order to live at all—seem to need around themselves a penumbra of “illusion” (to quote Nietzsche again):—that the world is just rolling along as usual, some good days some bad, but in essence no different now than in 10000 BC or 1492 AD or next year. Some even need to believe in Progress, that the Future will solve all our problems, and even that life is much better for us now than for (say) people in the 5th century AD. We live longer thanx to Modern Science—of course our extra years are largely spent as “medical objects”—sick and worn out but kept ticking by Machines & Pills that spin huge profits for a few megacorporations & insurance companies. Nation of Struldbugs.

True, we’re suffocating in the mire generated by our rule of sick machines under the Numisphere of Money. At least ten times as much money now exists than it would take to buy the whole world—and yet species are vanishing space itself is vanishing, icecaps melting, air and water grown toxic, culture grown toxic, landscape sacrificed to fracking and megamalls, noise-fascism, etc, etc. But Science will cure all that ills that Science has created—in the Future (in the “long run”, when we’re all dead, as Lord Keynes put it); so meanwhile we’ll carry on consuming the world and shitting it out as waste—because it’s convenient & efficient & profitable to do so, and because we like it.

Well, this is all a bunch of whiney left-liberal cliches, no? Heard it before a million times. Yawn. How boring, how infantile, how useless. Even if it were all true... what can we do about it? If our Anointed Leaders can’t or won’t stop it, who will? God? Satan? The “People”?

All the fashionable “solutions” to the “crisis”, from electronic democracy to revolutionary violence, from locavorism to solar-powered dingbats, from financial market regulation to the General Strike—all of them, however ridiculous or sublime, depend on one preliminary radical change—a seismic shift in human consciousness. Without such a change all the hope of reform is futile. And if such a change were somehow to occur, no “reform” would be necessary. The world would simply change. The whales would be saved. War no more. And so on.

What force could (even in theory) bring about such a shift? Religion? In 6,000 years of organized religion matters have only gotten worse. Psychedelic drugs in the reservoirs? The Mayan calendar? Nostalgia? Terror?

If catastrophic disaster is now inevitable, perhaps the “Survivalist” scenario will ensue, and a few brave millions will create a green utopia in the smoking waste. But won’t Capitalism find a way to profit even from the End of the World? Some would claim that it’s doing so already. The true catastrophe may be the final apotheosis of commodity fetishism.

Let’s assume for the sake of argument that this paradise of power tools and back-up alarms is all we’ve got & all we’re going to get. Capitalism can deal with global warming—it can sell water-wings and disaster insurance. So it’s all over, let’s say—but we’ve still got television & Twitter. Childhood’s End—i.e. the child as ultimate consumer, eager for the brand. Terrorism or home shopping network—take yr pick (democracy means choice).

Since the death of the Historical Movement of the Social in 1989 (last gasp of the hideous “short” XXth century that started in 1914) the only “alternative” to Capitalist Neo-Liberal totalitarianism that seems to have emerged is religious neo-fascism. I understand why someone would want to be a violent fundamentalist bigot—I even sympathize—but just because I feel sorry for lepers doesn’t mean I want to be one.

When I attempt to retain some shreds of my former antipessimism I fantasize that History may not be over, that some sort of Populist Green Social Democracy might yet emerge to challenge the obscene smugness of “Money Interests”—something along the lines of 1970s Scandinavian monarcho-socialism—which in retrospect now looks the most humane form of the State ever to have emerged from the putrid suck-hole of Civilization. (Think of Amsterdam in its heyday.) Of course as an anarchist I’d still have to oppose it—but at least I’d have the luxury of believing that, in such a situation, anarchy might actually stand some chance of success. Even if such a movement were to emerge, however, we can rest damn-well assured it won’t happen in the USA. Or anywhere in the ghost-realm of dead Marxism, either. Maybe Scotland!

It would seem quite pointless to wait around for such a rebirth of the Social. Years ago many radicals gave up all hope of The Revolution, and the few who still adhere to it remind me of religious fanatics. It might be soothing to lapse into such doctrinaire revolutionism, just as it might be soothing to sink into mystical religion—but for me at least both options have lost their savor. Again, I sympathize with those true believers (although not so much when they lapse into authoritarian leftism or fascism)— nevertheless, frankly, I’m too depressed to embrace their Illusions.

If the End-Time scenario sketched above be considered actually true, what alternatives might exist besides suicidal despair? After much thought I’ve come up with three basic strategies.

1) Passive Escapism. Keep your head down, don’t make waves. Capitalism permits all sorts of “lifestyles” (I hate that word)—just pick one & try to enjoy it. You’re even allowed to live as a dirt farmer without electricity & infernal combustion, like a sort of secular Amish refusnik. Well, maybe not. But at least you could flirt with such a life. “Smoke Pot, Eat Chicken, Drink Tea,” as we used to say in the 60s in the Moorish Church of America, our psychedelic cult. Hope they don’t catch you. Fit yourself into some Permitted Category such as Neo-Hippy or even Anabaptist.

2) Active Escapism. In this scenario you attempt to create the optimal conditions for the emergence of Autonomous Zones, whether temporary, periodic or even (semi)permanent. In 1984 when I first coined the term Temporary Autonomous Zone (TAZ)

I envisioned it as a complement to The Revolution—although I was already, to be truthful, tired of waiting for a moment that seemed to have failed in 1968. The TAZ would give a taste or premonition of real liberties: in effect you would attempt to live as if the Revolution had already occurred, so as not to die without ever having experienced “free freedom” (as Rimbaud called it, liberte libre). Create your own pirate utopia.

Of course the TAZ can be as brief & simple as a really good dinner party, but the true autonomist will want to maximize the potential for longer & deeper experiences of authentic lived life. Almost inevitably this will involve crime, so it’s necessary to think like a criminal, not a victim. A “Johnson” as Burroughs used to say—not a “mark”. How else can one live (and live well) without Work. Work, the curse of the thinking class. Wage slavery. If you’re lucky enough to be a successful artist, you can perhaps achieve relative autonomy without breaking any obvious laws (except the laws of good taste, perhaps). Or you could inherit a million. (More than a million would be a curse.) Forget revolutionary morality—the question is, can you afford your taste of freedom? For most of us, crime will be not only a pleasure but a necessity. The old anarcho-Illegalists showed the way: individual expropriation. Getting caught of course spoils the whole thing—but risk is an aspect of self-authenticity.

One scenario I’ve imagined for active Escapism would be to move to a remote rural area along with several hundred other libertarian socialists—enough to take over the local government (municipal or even county) and elect or control the sheriffs & judges, the parent/teacher association, volunteer fire department and even the water authority. Fund the venture with cultivation of illegal phantastice and carry on a discreet trade. Organize as a “Union of Egoists” for mutual benefit & ecstatic pleasures—perhaps under the guise of “communes” or even monasteries, who cares. Enjoy it as long as it lasts.

I know for a fact that this plan is being worked on in several places in America—but of course I’m not going to say where.

Another possible model for individual escapists might be the nomadic adventurer. Given that the whole world seems to be turning into a giant parking lot or social network, I don’t know if this option remains open, but I suspect that it might. The trick would be to travel in places where tourists don’t—if such places still exist—and to involve oneself in fascinating and dangerous situations. For example if I were young and healthy I’d’ve gone to France to take part in the TAZ that grew around resistance to the new airport—or to Greece—or Mexico—wherever the perverse spirit of rebellion crops up. The problem here is of course funding. (Sending back statues stuffed with hash is no longer a good idea.) How to pay for yr life of adventure? Love will find a way. It doesn’t matter so much if one agrees with the ideals of Tahrir Square or Zucotti Park—the point is just to be there.

3. Revenge. I call it Zarathustra’s Revenge because as Nietzsche said, revenge may be second rate but it’s not nothing. One might enjoy the satisfaction of terrifying the bastards for at least a few moments. Formerly I advocated “Poetic Terrorism” rather than actual violence, the idea being that art could be wielded as a weapon. Now I’ve rather come to doubt it. But perhaps weapons might be wielded as art. From the sledgehammer of the Luddites to the black bomb of the attentat, destruction could serve as a form of creativity, for its own sake, or for purely aesthetic reasons, without any illusions about revolution. Oscar Wilde meets the acte gratuit: a dandyism of despair.

What troubles me about this idea is that it seems impossible to distinguish here between the action of post-leftist anarcho-nihilists and the action of post-rightist neo-traditionalist reactionaries. For that matter, a bomb may as well be detonated by fundamentalist fanatics—what difference would it make to the victims or the “innocent bystanders”? Blowing up a nanotechnology lab—why shouldn’t this be the act of a desperate monarchist as easily as that of a Nietzschean anarchist?

In a recent book by Tiqqun (Theory of Bloom), it was fascinating to come suddenly across the constellation of Nietzsche, Rene Guenon, Julius Evola, et al. as examples of a sharp and just critique of the Bloom syndrome—i.e., of progress-as-illusion. Of course the “beyond left and right” position has two sides—one approaching from the left, the other from the right. The European New Right (Alain de Benoist & his gang) are big admirers of Guy Debord, for a similar reason (his critique, not his proposals).

The post-left can now appreciate Traditionalism as a reaction against modernity just as the neo-traditionalists can appreciate Situationism. But this doesn’t mean that post-anarchist anarchists are identical with post-fascism fascists!

I’m reminded of the situation in fin-de-siecle France that gave rise to the strange alliance between anarchists and monarchists; for example the Cerce Proudhon. This surreal conjunction came about for two reasons: a) both factions hated liberal democracy, and b) the monarchists had money. The marriage gave birth to weird progeny, such as Georges Sorel. And Mussolini famously began his career as an Individualist anarchist!

Another link between left & right could be analyzed as a kind of existentialism; once again Nietzsche is the founding parent here, I think. On the left there were thinkers like Gide or Camus. On the right, that illuminated villain Baron Julius Evola used to tell his little ultra-right groupuscules in Rome to attack the Modern World—even though the restoraton of tradition was a hopeless dream—if only as an act of magical self-creation. Being trumps essence. One must cherish no attachment to mere results. Surely Tiqqun’s advocacy of the “perfect Surrealist act” (firing a revolver at random into a crowd of “innocent by-standers”) partakes of this form of action-as-despair. (Incidentally I have to confess that this is the sort of thing that has always—to my regret—prevented my embracing Surrealism: it’s just too cruel. I don’t admire de Sade, either.)

Of course, as we know, the problem with the Traditionalists is that they were never traditional enough. They looked back at a lost civilization as their “goal” (religion, mysticism, monarchism, arts-&-crafts, etc.) whereas they should have realized that the real tradition is the “primordial anarchy” of the Stone Age, tribalism, hunting/gathering, animism—what I call the Neanderthal Liberation Front. Paul Goodman used the term “Neolithic Conservatism” to describe his brand of anarchism—but “Paleolithic Reaction” might be more appropriate!

The other major problem with the Traditionalist Right is that the entire emotional tone of the movement is rooted in self-repression. Here a rough Reichean analysis suffices to demonstrate that the authoritarian body reflects a damaged soul, and that only anarchy is compatible with real self-realization.

The European New Right that arose in the 90s still carries on its propaganda—and these chaps are not just vulgar nationalist chauvenist anti-semitic homophobic thugs—they’re intellectuals & artists. I think they’re evil, but that doesn’t mean I find them boring. Or even wrong on certain points. They also hate the nanotechnologists!

Although I attempted to set off a few bombs back in the 1960s (against the war in Vietnam) I’m glad, on the whole, that they failed to detonate (technology was never my metier). It saves me from wondering if I would’ve experienced “moral qualms”. Instead I chose the path of the propagandist and remained an activist in anarchist media from 1984 to about 2004. I collaborated with the Autonomedia publishing collective, the IWW, the John Henry Mackay Society (Left Stirnerites) and the old NYC Libertarian Book Club (founded by comrades of Emma Goldman, some of whom I knew, & who are now all dead). I had a radio show on WBAI (Pacifica) for 18 years. I lectured all over Europe and East Europe in the 90s. I had a very nice time, thank you. But anarchism seems even farther off now than it looked in 1984, or indeed in 1958, when I first became an anarchist by reading George Harriman’s Krazy Kat. Well, being an existentialist means you never have to say you’re sorry.

In the last few years in anarchist circles there’s appeared a trend “back” to Stirner/Nietzsche Individualism—because after all, who can take revolutionary anarcho-communism or syndicalism seriously anymore? Since I’ve adhered to this Individualist position for decades (although tempered by admiration for Charles Fourier and certain “spiritual anarchists” like Gustave Landauer) I naturally find this trend agreeable.

“Green anarchists” & AntiCivilization Neo-primitivists seem (some of them) to be moving toward a new pole of attraction, nihilism. Perhaps neo-nihilism would serve as a better label, since this tendency is not simply replicating the nihilism of the Russian narodniks or the French attentatists of circa 1890 to 1912, however much the new nihilists look to the old ones as precursors. I share their critique—in fact I think I’ve been mirroring it to a large extent in this essay: creative despair, let’s call it. What I do not understand however is their proposal—if any. “What is to be done?” was originally a nihilist slogan, after all, before Lenin appropriated it. I presume that my option #1, passive escape, would not suit the agenda. As for Active Escapism, to use the suffix “ism” implies some form not only of ideology but also some action. What is the logical outcome of this train of thought?

As an animist I experience the world (outside Civilization) as essentially sentient. The death of God means the rebirth of the gods, as Nietzsche implied in his last “mad” letters from Turin— the resurrection of the great god PAN—chaos, Eros, Gaia, & Old Night, as Hesiod put it—Ontological anarchy, Desire, Life itself, & the Darkness of revolt & negation—all seem to me as real as they need to be.

I still adhere to a certain kind of spiritual anarchism—but only as heresy and paganism, not as orthodoxy and monotheism. I have great respect for Dorothy Day—her writing influenced me in the 60s—and Ivan Illich, whom I knew personally—but in the end I cannot deal with the cognitive dissonance between anarchism and the Pope! Nevertheless I can believe in the re-paganaziation of monotheism. I hold to this pagan tradition because I sense the universe as alive, not as “dead matter.” As a life-long psychedelicist I have always thought that matter & spirit are identical, and that this fact alone legitimizes what Theory calls “desire”.

From this p.o.v. the phrase “revolution of everyday life” still seems to have some validity—if only in terms of the second proposal, Active Escapism or the TAZ. As for the third possibility— Zarathustra’s Revenge—this seems like a possible path for the new nihilism, at least from a philosophical perspective. But since I am unable personally to advocate it, I leave the question open.

But here—I think—is the point at which I both meet with & diverge from the new nihilism. I too seem to believe that Predatory Capitalism has won and that no revolution is possible in the classical sense of that term. But somehow I can’t bring myself to be “against everything.” Within the Temporary Autonomous Zone there still seems to persist the possibility of “authentic life,” if only for a moment—and if this position amounts to mere Escapism, then let us become Houdini. The new surge of interest in Individualism is obviously a response to the Death of the Social. But does the new nihilism imply the death even of the individual and the “union of egoists” or Nietzschean free spirits? On my good days, I like to think not.

No matter which of the three paths one takes (or others I can’t yet imagine) it seems to me that the essential thing is not to collapse into mere apathy. Depression we may have to accept, impotent rage we may have to accept, revolutionary pessimism we may have to accept. But as e.e. cummings (anarchist poet) said, there is some shit we will not take, lest we simply become the enemy by default. Can’t go on, must go on. Cultivate rosebuds, even selfish pleasures, as long as a few birds & flowers still remain. Even love may not be impossible...

#hakim bey #Nihilism #t.a.z. #anarchism

[lovemissmini]

I Found you

Synopsis: We all need a friend. Sometimes you have to find one to gain one. Especially in this post-apocalyptic world.

Pairing: Taehyung X Reader

Warnings:  Post-apocalypse, reader might not be 100% sane, hints of death, not much action. PG13

Length: ~2k

A/N: I would go crazy if I was all alone for 6 months, no questions asked.

All works here are purely fiction. Everything I write is my intellectual property and therefore belongs to me. Lovemissmini © . Do not copy, rewrite, repost without my permission. That is illegal and you are stealing no matter if you give credit or not.

“If it weren’t for you, Tae, I would have gone crazy a loooong time ago. Hmm?” You spare a glance towards your companion before you continued your babbling. “It’s just, six year, who wouldn’t go insane in that amount of time. All alone. No one to talk to.”

You nod to yourself, sinking deeper into the worn-out armchair, letting the cheap cushioning quickly engulfing your thin form. Human interaction had become a strange topic for you, just like the concept of keeping track of time. Did it really matter what day of the week it was? It’s not like you had a job or anything. So, what did it matter if you woke up at 1 in the afternoon or ate during the deadly hours of dawn? Hell, why do you even care about the number of times the sun rose before it ultimately set to make the end of the day. One day or six years, tomato tomato.

You should stop. Your mind was wandering off on a tangent even whilst you continued to hold a conversation on a separate matter, yet again. Your thoughts always did that, wander off, that is, into an incoherent multitude of ideas. That’s just how your brain worked. Or maybe that’s your insanity talking.

“But I’m lucky to have found you, yeah?”

You look out of the window of your new living room, into the streets and the cars that haphazardly littered the cracked roads and pavement. Room, that’s quite an interesting word choice. It might be too generous a word for the space where you were seated as of now. A room would imply an enclosed area with a roof above your head and at least three connected walls and some form of a door or partition. Right?

But your choice of temporary lodging was, to be honest, not quite the conventional image you would associate with that word. The best you could truly say about said room was that it was once a room. All that was left was remnants of a living room; the lone standing section of the street facing wall decorated with a broken window frame, piles of brick from the other less fortunate walls scattering the surrounding chaos, broken scraps of furniture thrown around you in a disordered arrangement.

At least it had a mostly intact armchair and couch. Right? Yeah, so who care. Life is good.

“I mean, you’re lucky I found you. Hella lucky at that.”

The lack of a roof let the evening sun beamed down on you from the sky, heating up your skin and leaving a warm tingle as your fingers played with the loose threads of the chair, twirling them around your finger absentmindedly.

“Hey, are you just gonna keep ignoring me? I said I was sorry for nearly leaving you behind last time. I even got you a new shirt to make up for it.” You huff in frustration, glaring at said shirt that fitted around your partner; a black and white abstract collage of spikey leaves artistically decorating the thin material, beautifully trimmed into what was now button up shirt that sported a deliciously deep v neckline. It was slightly revealing but not quite, just enough to give a hint of what was underneath but leave you wanting more.

“That shirt is in so much better condition than anything I’m wearing right now.” A scowl pulled at your lips as you regard the tattered t-shirt that clung to your skin, dirt discolouring the once yellow fabric into a murky brown and the pair of barely held together ripped jeans, denim threatened to fall off your thin waist even after being tied tightly by a belt.

You abruptly get up, palms slamming down on the arms of your chair, sudden movement causing ancient dusk to explode from deep within the fibres and into a thick cloud that surrounded you. You push past the brown haze of floating particles- ignoring the need to cough from the putrid smell- and close the distance between you and your companion.

“Listen here you ungrateful piece of shit! You don’t get to ignore me. I found you so I make the rules. I can leave you when and if I want. Capish?” Your voice breaks through the otherwise silent atmosphere before dissipating into the distance. Your eyes were hard with anger, veins bulging in your neck from the strain, as you glared at the unseeing eyes of your companion.

You blink, veins running cold as you realise your sudden outburst. It was uncalled for. Regret slowly filtered into your system, weighing you down like lead. You take deep slow breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and the roar pulsing in your ears.

“I’m sorry.” You voice is barely a whisper when you come through, a slight quiver at the last syllable and thick with guilt. The crimson in your cheeks fading as you settle down next to your companion on the couch, eyes shifting to gauge their reaction- or lack of one in this case.

“I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.” You joke, a small chuckle trying to defuse the tension that hung heavy in the air. Your hands betray the cheerfulness mask you donned, thumb rubbing the barcode inked into the skin of your left wrist, in a nervous habit that first formed in the lab. “I- uh- well, I forgive you too. Just because I like how handsome you and your stupidly symmetrical face are.”

There was no response. At least none out loud. In fact, there never was a reply out loud from your companion since you found them five years ago, and never would be. The only replies you earned were ones spoken to back of your mind, a deep voice echoing your subliminal thoughts back to you, answering your conscious questions. You companion, the top half of a male mannequin, would never grow a set of vocal cords to voice the replies you longed to actually hear.

If someone were to ever talk to you, question who it was you were talking to, you would have simply stated it was to yourself. Because that would mean you were never alone to begin with, never needing to talk to a humanoid piece of plastic. Right?

But there was no one else.

There no one left, no one ever since that happened six years ago.

“Anyway, let’s go. I want to see what that blinking light was from last night.” You announce as you get up from the two-seater, tossing on your backpack as you stand waiting for your partner to get up with you. You roll your eyes at the lack of movement in your peripheral view, head turning to throw a glare at its plastic form still seated on the couch. “Get up you lazy ass. Get up or I’ll carry you.”

You stand there for a moment longer, waiting for its plastic muscles to twitch under the heavy weight of your gaze. But your effects are yet again fruitless, the only signs of motion par your breathing was the dust dancing weightlessly in the air, illuminated by the setting sun as the specks float carelessly around you.

You sigh, giving up your side of the stalemate and pick up the oversized plastic excuse of a friend. The weak muscles of your arms ache under the burden, straining to produce a strong grip as you walk out onto the streets.

As you venture further into the deserted mass of torn buildings, further into the what could barely be recognised as Seoul, you reach the glass doors of a seemingly intact corporate building. The name of the facility standing tall and proud on the metal door frame, as if in celebration of its survival, almost unscathed par from the broken glass and a missing letter, the skyscraper was rather untouched.

“B-um-Bigit. HA. Sounds a lot like bigot, doesn’t it, Tae?” You muse, as you shift the plastic deadweight in your arms to a more comfortable position.

After exploring the bottom floors of building, going through countless office draws and lab cabinets, you filled up the most of your backpack with expired food items and multiple water bottles. Still, you had yet to find the source of the blinking lights you had seen last night.

“Maybe its further up?” You question out loud.

“Yeah, you’re right Tae, it must be one of the top floors. How else would I have seen it amongst the other buildings?” A grin splits your dry lips, tongue darting out to wet the cracked skin- ignoring the lingering taste of dirt.

“You’re so smart, bud, what would I do without you?”

You continue your journey up, scavenging through every nook and cranny of each floor before arriving at the top landing. A gasp leaves you lips, eyes widening as you look out from the doorway of the staircase and into the concrete floorplan. A glint of excitement sparked in your eyes, much like it did when you found a can of peaches.

The 16th floor was so different to the lower levels, barren like a construction site but shielded under large planes of glass and metal frames in a greenhouse-like roof. Moonlight filtered through the clear glass, illuminating the area in a milky wash of pale white and harsh shadows.

The grey concrete floor was littered with giant solar panels, all scattered methodically around three capsules that laid in the middle of everything. Walking forward, you trotted down the empty path that connected the doorway directly to the capsules, careful not to touch the electronics barricading you on either side.

The capsules were large, large enough to fit a person, you note to yourself as you walk past the first two. Or maybe a giant alligator, you never know.

You don’t bother inspecting two pods, both dark and most likely damaged as a large piece of metal beam speared the centre of one, a thick layer of dried green mould covered the cracked glass panels of the other, obscuring the view of what you assumed was the face of whoever it coffined. Not that you cared.

They were not of interest to you. Especially not when the last capsule vibrating with a low electronic hum. Small lights that were attached to the surface of pod pulsing, bright reds and whites flickers in the darkness as if demanding attention. And attention if caught.

You place Tae on the floor, hands steadying its plastic frame whilst your eyes were still glued to the flashing lights. “Wait here, Tae.” You tiptoed closer to the pod like a moth to fire, neck shifting as you crane you head to see above the capsule before you carefully approached it.

A yellow screen blinked on and off at the centre of the capsule. Bold black lettering fizzing from sparking pixels. You narrow your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration as you focused on trying to decipher the message. After a handful of seconds, you make out the warning.

Emergency- press red button for capsule ejection. Subject -

A hand moves to lift a clear plastic cap, hovering over the large obnoxiously red button, hesitant to push it as instructed.

Instead, you hand reaches to swipe off the sheet of debris covering the glass face panel. Eyes sweeping the sleeping form of the person trapped in the metal pod. The moonlight casting soft lighting against their prominent features. Their eyes were closed, long eyelashes fanning high cheekbones, thick brows tucked under gently tousled hair. Corking your head to the side, you continued to admire the pillowy shape of their plush lips, imagining the way the heart shaped flesh would move as it talked.

“Kim Taehyung.” The name from the screen rolling off your tongue seamlessly. Your lips twitching into a soft smile, your friend of five years long forgotten in the mass of solar panels. “I found you. Will you be my friend?”

#kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #btsfanfic #bts #taehyung imagine #taehyung scenarios #taehyung fanfic #kpop fanfic

[ligit-squid]

The Fall of Pullux

Written in early 2018

I'm likely going to rewrite this.

The twinkling of crystals glittered around the large cavern. Beautiful just like the stars on the outside world. The air in the cavern was a mix, one of dirt, metal, oil, and grease. The whole city of the underground world was lit by the entire city, with such little daylight coming through the tunnels to the outside world, someone of the light also came from bioluminescent creatures that wandered. Steam Work was a fascinating city, a truly beautiful place. The whole cavern filled with the heat that was naturally released from the planet and the exhaust from the machines busies at work every cycle, making the city remain at high temperatures through all the stellar cycles since the cavern was created into a safe hold for a city.

This solar cycle was different. The whole planet was at peace that it had been at as it always had been, ever since the Cursed King disappeared and the death of the previous Queen. Now, a fair Queen was in power since she became of age. The kingdom of Althena, the one place in the entire planet that can get into Steam Work without death. It would be dangerous to take any other way in or out of the underground city.

One workshop held one of the Queen's most loyal allies. The one and only, stubborn and almost insane best friend since they were younglings. Chemical was in another experimentation. So curious about what really made the natural crystals grow. They only grew during certain times, it was almost impossible to grow a fake one.

Chemical was brought out of her work when her workshop shook. Glass vials fell from shelves and shattered on the floor, and other tools and machines fell onto the ground.

“What in Primus…” Chemical muttered, heading towards the door to look out. The sight that was brought to her golden optics was horrific. The caverns stalactites were falling loose from the ceiling and fire was raging all around. What she also saw were other citizens attacking and killing mechs, femmes, younglings, and ripping sparklings away from their creators. Then did she realize they were not from Pullux. From Cybertron. Though the femme did not want to admit it, she was afraid. The Cybertronians, after millions of years of peace, the treaty had been broken. Chemical knew Cybertron was at civil war, but why were they invading their planet? One that had been declared neutral for millennials.

“What a pathetic race,” someone said near her. Her optics flicked to see a much taller mech than herself. He had blue armor that was mixed with a light grey and piercing red optics. She had never seen Cybertronians with red optics before, just blue, or the rare yellow and green. The mech was glaring directly at her smaller frame. True to say Chemical wasn’t the tallest femme out on the planet.

“Why to let something so pathetic continue to live,” he hissed.

“Why are you invading our planet? We’ve done nothing!” Chemical hissed back.

“Your contribution to the Autobot cause was enough to make your allies with them, all allies of Autobots must be destroyed,” the mech growled, his servo shifting into an ion cannon. It charged up and was aimed at her. A red glow bounced off the femme’s armor.

“No!” A mech, a few feet taller than herself, orange armor with piercing golden optics, jumped in front of her with a menacing growl.

“Sire, get to safety, now!” Chemical demanded.

“No! I did not save Gliff, I won’t let that happen again,” the mech said. He protectively stood in front of his creation, his youngest. Around them the cavern was collapsing, soon there would be no Steam Work to remember.

“It’s been ordered by Megatron to eradicate all natives who resist,” the cybertronian hissed, suddenly firing the cannon. It hit Chemical’s sire, the force knocking him onto the ground.

“Whatever your designation is, you fucking filthy piece of Cybertronian shit, you're disregarding the treaty set up between our planets for shit. This is worse than treason!” Chemical snarled.

“The femme has such colorful words, mech. Is this how Pulluxians are raised? A shame to be looked down upon,” the mech said.

“No, it’s not how we are raised,” her sire groaned, ”We are trained with honor and with courtesy. My sparkling just has a colorful nature with it, along being one of our Queens highly trusted.”

“Then I shall take her as a trophy for Lord Megatron,” with one more blast, Chemical’s sire was shot through the spark-chamber. The bond she had with him shattered and caused her and her siblings a great pain. A pained scream ripped through her vocalizer, the pain making her claw at her chassis plating.

“So weak,” the mech scoffed.

“I knew Cybertronians were no good,” Chemical spat. Through her subspace, she got two of her poisonous mixtures. Each from some of the poisonous plants on the planet. With careful aim, she got him in the chassis. He simply blinked at her like it was nothing.

“Your race is weak, for you to just throw something so harmless,” he scoffed.

“Ah, but that's where the bitchy joke is on you, Chemical laughed, ”What I threw at you are Prewshim-berry and Jackleplumb. Our bodies can simply adapt to its toxins, or if it’s processed properly, it can be digested. However, your Cybertronian body cannot handle the poison in the fruits.”

The mech had started to continuously flinch before clawing at himself. Chemical watched as the mech slowly broke down in just a pile of poison covered armor pieces and burnt protoform.

“I’m sorry Sire, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” she ran to the back tunnels of the cavern, one of the dangerous ways. However, it wasn’t the first time she had done something like this. Once she pulled herself out of the hole that now just led to the devastation of her home city, what she saw next she wasn’t prepared for. As far as she could see, only devastation and fire raged around. Many frames had littered the ground as well as energon stained everything. Chemical’s spark was rattled. Never in her existence had she ever thought something like this would ever happen. Never to a planet who had been declared free from war ever again, after the first and last war with the Quintessons.

“By the Allspark, what have they done,” Chemical gasped.

The plants, the buildings, everything, all of it was on fire. In the distance, Chemical could see the Kingdom of Althena ablaze, crumbling to the ground. It seemed like everything was coming to an end with her planet. Everything was destroyed.

“Chemical! Is that you?” a femme’s voice called out. Chemical looked behind her to see the familiar black frame that was striped with yellow and green. Even with her black armor, Chemical could see the scorch marks. Behind the Queen was the Princess Paladin. Her armor in the same condition.

“We need to evacuate the planet!” Knight commanded. Somehow through the commotion, they had managed to save only one other Pulluxian. A minicon from Parivar. Chemical took the minicon in her pod while the other two took their own. As they left, Chemical released more bloody screams of pain, feeling her last two bonds shatter. Her siblings had perished like everyone else.

“I vow I will find any Cybertronian involved with my homes genocide, and I will tear them apart.”

Devastation continues to rain down on the planet. Till nothing was left standing and they had killed the source of life for the planet, killing the very core. Whoever was alive, could have felt this disconnection from their planet, being so connected to their planet through the many generations. The Traditions of Old wouldn’t even save the core now.

I'll give prize to whoever guesses the decepticon Chemical killed.

#original characters #oc story #Chemical #Knight Prime #paladin #Thunder #written in 2018 #old writing #transformers oc #transformers #transformer oc #tfp

[dumbwaves]

words mean more at night

jeremy knox/jean moreau (1.4k)

the english is shit, there are a lot of mental health trigger warnings but it’s my firstborn and i’m proud // read it on ao3

Jean Moreau woke up in a cold sweat. His chest ached as if someone had repeatedly bashed a racquet against his solar plexus. His lungs were burning like hell fire, and he couldn’t for the life of him breathe.

It was so dark. The kind of darkness that made him believe that there never would be light again. At least for him. He gasped, but all it did was make him feel daggers all over his chest. He felt torn open. ‘This is how I die’ he thought desperately ‘this is how it all turns to nothing’. 

And then Jean saw him -- it. Standing at the darkest corner of the room. It was mean-spirited and horrendous looking. It wanted Jean, and it spoke to him in the deepest crests of his mind. And Jean took its words like gospel.

‘Your master will return soon’ the shadow-figure spoke in a cruel, mocking tone ‘He will return and take what is his by right’ its words were prophecy-like.

Dread curled in Jean’s spine. His lungs still gave their last struggle to breathe. It hurt so much. His eyes were hot with tears, his tongue felt made of cotton inside his dry mouth.

“Il est mort” Jean choked out, his skin crawling “He is rotting in hell”.

It laughed darkly, and Jean could feel in the tips of his fingers the impending doom of what was coming for him. And he felt it all: the darkness, the pain, the hopelessness, the sorrow. His chest was going to combust, and he’d die. And Riko would be there, waiting for him in hell with a sadistic smile and the promise of blood on his lips. Jean wailed a desperate, broken sound.

And as if in a holy revelation, there was light. A faint thing, in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head so fast to see what it was that his neck ached. The bedside lamp had been turned on. Its faint yellowed glow illuminating the golden fingers attached to its button. Jean’s tear-blurred eyes watched the fingers move, the hand withdraw, the wrist flex. The long arm curled forward, trying to reach Jean. He looked at the strong shoulder, the freckles in the naked chest. Jeremy’s worried face greeted him like an old friend.

“Baby” Jeremy whispered “Baby, hey.” he tried again, frowning at how Jean’s eyes were unfocused and his breathing erratic.

Jeremy took Jean’s stone cold hand. And his touch was so tender and so warm it made Jean want to cry. Jeremy guided Jean’s fingers to his tanned chest, placing them on top of his heart.

“Lets breathe together, shall we?” Jeremy offered “Feel my heart, feel my lungs”

Jean shut his eyes tight and focused on the steady beat of Jeremy’s heart. It thumped in a bold rhythm. At that moment, Jean could’ve sworn he heard the drumming of that man’s heart inside his own body. He let out a long, painful gust of air. Jean tried to tune the faint whisper of his heart to the steady beat of Jeremy’s.

His other hand was guided to Jeremy’s belly, which fluttered with each slow breath he took. Jean tried to focus on mirroring Jeremy’s breathing while the constant symphony of his heartbeats soothed his thoughts.

Jean didn’t know how long they stayed like that. It could’ve been years, or even centuries. He felt a never-ending sense of belonging.

“You did so great, baby” Jeremy gave him a kind smile, placing his hands on top of Jean’s scarred ones. He displaced them, squeezing them a few times “I love you”.

Those words felt like a punch to his gut. Jean let out a heart-wrenching sound. His throat ached from how much he had already struggled for air, and now Jean’s crying punished it a bit more. He pushed his arms out and embraced Jeremy so close, so tight. Their chest collided with a hollow sound and Jean tucked his nose in Jeremy’s sweet-smelling neck.

“It’s all right” Jeremy’s sweet southern drawl assured him.

Jean felt fingers lightly tracing the bumps of his curled spine, the soft pads brushing against his thorn skin. Jeremy held the back of Jean’s neck with his other hand, playing with the short wisps of Jean’s still growing hair. It was in an awkward length after having to buzz it all off to treat the patches of skin where Riko had ripped his hair out. His hair was now a few inches long, at least long enough to curl wildly around the nape of his neck and stick up from his temples.

“Hey” Jeremy held Jean’s soft, swollen face in his hands.

“Hello” Jean croaked. “I’m sorry for waking you up. Again” guilt soared through Jeans chest like an arrow.

“I know you are” Jeremy said with a sad smile “And I won’t ever get tired of telling you that I don’t mind. I love you” he repeated like a prayer.

“I love you” Jean whispered.

Jean was still scared that he’d been living in delusions, that Jeremy didn’t really love him, that all the love he was being given with such open-hearted devotion was a byproduct of his trauma and his psychotic symptoms. Everytime Jeremy said something like that to him, Jean looked at his lips, to see if they were really moving. To check if it was all real.

Jean layed back down on their small shared bed, feeling the softness of the sheets against his still trembling body. He tugged Jeremy with him, so they were facing each other. Jeremy tangled their ankles together, and pressed a hand to Jean hair, petting it lovingly.

“You have this wild look on your face” he said carefully “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Jean gulped. Jeremy knew about his trauma and some bits of what happened in the nest. He knew about Jean’s diagnosis. The PTSD and the depression with psychotic features. Hell, he was the one who suggested Jean should look into a mental health professional. He knew about the voices, the paranoia and The Shadow. But it still hurt to tell him, because it felt like he was crazy and flawed and hopeless and… Wrong.

“A nightmare I don’t really remember. Panic attack. Then, The Shadow came to have a nice little night-time chat” Jean muttered bitterly. He felt pressure at the back of his head, like he was about to start crying again. This time it was out of embarrassment.

Jeremy hummed, brushing Jean’s hair away from his face.

“At least I know he is dead, you know? It doesn’t get me as paranoid as before.” Jean added.

He had talked about it with his psychiatrist/psychotherapist in their last session. The meds seemed to be working alright to subdue his psychotic symptoms, mostly the delusions and the paranoia. But at night he hallucinated a lot. The meds for his depression were helping as well, making the numbness and anedonia a little less overwhelming.

And the man laying beside him helped too, a lot. Jean had never been loved in his entire life, and experiencing it for the first time was like a never-ending sky-dive which he wasn’t afraid to hit the ground. Jeremy had so much love and kindness in him that it bewildered Jean. At first he thought the man was one more penance he would have to get through in life, with his sunny smiles and jokes. He seemed ignorant to what life was really about.

But he was not. Jeremy despite his young age was wise. He seemed one thousand years old, he felt god-like. He talked with passion, he had a sparkle in his eye and quirk in his mouth. He knew about love and friendship and family. He sang and he laughed and he enjoyed life with a ferocity that was foreign to Jean. He tugged at Jean’s heartstrings like he was poorly tuned chord instrument. ‘Dieu du Soleil’ Jean often thought. He was golden all over, freckled and glowing by the sun’s hand. He carried joy in his words and hope in his hands. He was a divine intervention in Jean’s life.

“I feel like I know you…” Jean confessed faintly “From a lifetime ago”.

“You are a very silly man, Jean Moreau” Jeremy teased, his eyes crinkling with delight. Jeremy loved any kind sweet talk.

“I might as well be, mon coeur” Jean conceded, indulging Jeremy “I might be silly. And psychotic. But I know what I feel. There’s a lifeline between us. You pull on my heart like the moon pulls on the sea”.

Jeremy gave a weak laugh, his cheeks pinking prettily. His hand never stopped petting Jean’s hair.

#jerejean #jean moreau #jeremy knox #jerejean fic #aftg #mine #wrt

[thedistantstorm]

Dawning Delights 10: Dawning Surprise Pt. 1

Summary: Hawthorne invites her newfound family in the Tower to experience a City-Style Dawning with the family that took her in years ago. The holiday is not without it’s charm, or aggravation, and certainly has plenty of surprises in store. A season-inspired, trope-tastic story about a family forged by something greater than blood, finding reasons to enjoy the season - and cherish each other. Main Post

Pairings: Hawthorne/Zavala, Sloane/Amanda, Devrim/Marc

Zavala rolls over as the sun’s light begins to brighten the horizon, bright eyes opening without the pressing of his Ghost for once. And, as if sensing his gaze upon her, Suraya shifts down into the blankets he’s displaced in the movement. No conscious thought dictates how his Light responds to her, but it does: a warm, comfortable tangle that’s not quite Arc, Solar, or Void in particular. She presses herself into his embrace without so much as opening an eye or twitching in an attempt to wake.

Today is the day.

He smiles into her short hair, sliding his hand down her arm to loosely take her hand in his. A sluggish swipe of her fingers, aiming to soothe, convinces him to close his eyes once more. He has time, for once, to enjoy this quiet, peaceful moment. So he does.

Until the even, deep breaths of his partner lull him back to sleep.

-/

More than anything, Amanda wants to be excited for this.

And she is excited for this. For a lot of reasons.

It’s like a family gathering, but a fusion of her strange version of normal and the kind of normal she's dreamed about. She gets to spend the night at Marc’s place tonight, to celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of the other with her found family. It's a balm against the yucky feelings that come, the thoughts of people she's lost, the family that has passed on without her.

But, this time of year is just hard. She misses her parents and Cayde, and in a different way she misses Sloane. Sloane knows she struggles. And it's for that reason, as Amanda sits in the Hangar, arms crossed, waiting for this delivery Ikora insisted could not wait, that Sloane is messaging her back with nearly no delay.

Bitterly, Amanda bites back the thought of asking her why she can't just be there, if she's going to be free for most of the day. She knows Sloane takes her duty seriously, Amanda admires that about the Titans in her life.

It just sucks, sometimes.

She scoffs loudly into the empty Hangar. Everyone in Tower Control is squirreled up in one of the offices, and of course, Amanda is the only one on the ground in the Hangar so there's not even anyone to shoot the shit with and distract her.

Just Sloane telling her that whatever Ikora needs her to receive certainly must be important.

She types back a snarky, "She's lucky I'm not drunk off my ass on your Dawning Present, making me come down here at first light."

Sloane's reply is a steady, insistent, "It's nine in the morning. That's a late start."

"I know," She keys back, grousing, "But I either sleep til noon or I wake up at 04:00. You know me."

The next time her tablet beeps she can hear the warm sound of the Deputy Commander's voice in her mind, a simple response. "I know."

Amanda tries to wrap that comforting tone around herself like a blanket, to let it ease her grumpy irritability. It works, for a bit. But the cold is bothering her leg, and without the traffic (thrusters sending jets of warm air through the half-open space) it will never warm up, and she'd really like this to be over sooner rather than later.

Luckily enough, a cargo ship docks and unloads rather quickly, its crew staying with the city swapping out with a new team headed out despite the holiday. At least she wasn't one of them, she thought, watching a broad-shouldered woman with a dark tinted visor head toward the Tower proper. One of the techs unloaded a crate - not too large, still manageable - onto her workbench.

"That the package for Ikora?" She drawls to the tech.

"Yes ma'am."

She gives him a mock salute, never quite getting with the military's formalities, even when she served. "Thank ya kindly. Now get on outta here, I'm sure y'got better places to be."

The tech nods. "Happy Dawning."

Amanda's already hefting the crate into her arms, intent on getting out of this Tower before noon. Ikora is the hurry up and wait type - Warlocks - and Amanda has places to be. "Happy Dawnin'," She calls over her shoulder, and despite the fact that she's rethinking how manageable this crate is (she's sure it's full of books now and she's not particularly thrilled about it), the sentiment is heartfelt. Genuine.

Across the Tower, however, Ikora is livid. She understands that people want to go home to their families, she's… looking forward (and she can all but feel the enthusiastic encouragement radiating from Ophiuchus at such a thought) to her plans, too.

But!

The delivery was supposed to happen at approximately noon. They knew better, everything was on a strict timeline. Zavala and Suraya weren't due at the Kay household until around noon, and she had to keep Amanda occupied until at least one. To give everything a chance to happen naturally. To do it right, no interruptions.

And, Zavala insisted, to give Suraya a moment to process, good or bad - Ikora scoffs at that, she doesn't understand why he has it in his head that she'd even consider refusing him - all the emotions that will certainly overwhelm her.

So when Amanda drops the crate, unimpressed, at her feet at a quarter past ten in the morning, Ikora blinks in surprise before channeling her fury into sedate composure. It’s not Amanda’s fault.

"It's early."

"Yeah," Amanda barks "It's a good thing yer not busy, then," She continues, annoyed, gesturing to the Bazaar. It's empty. Even the Ramen Shop is closed. “I’m gonna go. I was originally supposed to meet Zavala and Hawthorne earlier so it works out.” She waves, not bothering to wait for a response. “See ya tonight,” She calls, turning away.

“Wait!”

-/

Most lazy mornings, for them, are defined by the time of day alone. Suraya would take an extra hour to lay in bed - even against his advice that she should rise and get ready for the day - when he came home at dawn, or he’d force himself awake early when she came back from a civic emergency, as cool and radiant as the streaks of light that would soon become the dawn.

This is far slower than usual. Where normally he’d have her bare and panting beneath him from teasing touches, he hasn’t stopped touching her face. Fingers trail across her jaw, and while it’s not terribly erotic, the effect it has on her is beginning to bleed into exactly that.

First, however, she pulls back - it’s more like pushing her head further into the pillows - to look up at him, her own fingers finding his jaw, meeting his gaze. It’s heavy. Serious but not sad, almost dazed. “Are you okay?” She asks, her features flickering with concern.

Blinking in surprise, he nods. His fingers trail down her neck, across her sternum, the backs of his knuckles pressing ever so slightly into the warm skin above the neckline of her shirt. Over her heart.

“I love you,” She whispers, cutting through whatever thoughts are running through his head. “I’m excited to share this with you.”

His lips quirk up, showing her the slightest hint of his teeth. For a man who smiles mostly with his eyes, she cherishes these moments in which she can see his unveiled expressions in their entirety. But then, his eyes slide shut, and instead of seeing his emotions, she can very nearly feel them. The Light is funny like that, like an extension of self, molding to his will. She gasps against it, the way his hands seem to pulse - electric, expressive - and lend to his feelings. This is not the playful Arc energy he pulls out to reduce her to a sobbing mess when she’s wound up and bratty. This is pure emotion. Deep-seated, unadulterated feelings channeled into a current that translates into the hair on the back of her neck standing on end when he hauls her against him as though she is weightless, thanks to the pads of his fingers sliding down the skin beside her spine.

She pushes up against the hand that’s covering her heart, away from the one he’s wrapped around her back and she’s kissing him back. It’s not the same as two Guardians sharing their Light in some kind of intimate feedback loop, but she hears the broken gasp, the half-buried sound in the back of his throat and it reaffirms what she knows. This is no battle for superiority. Their differences are what balance them, what brings them to even ground. He is attracted to her as she is, for her simple humanity, and the complex feelings she can inspire without showering him in the Traveler's gifts.

They take their time. After all, they have plenty of it, with only abstract plans during their well-deserved reprieve. Suraya misses the pale white blink of a notification on her tablet nearly an hour later when Zavala rises, a question in his gaze as he tilts it towards the shower. She's too busy, abandoning the sheets to follow with a grin.

The message goes unanswered.

-/

In their younger years, or at least his, Devrim thinks, stretching his back, Marc never used to get up before ten in the morning. Even when they were having a dinner party. He'd stay up until dawn preparing the night before if he had to, though he'd eventually got it down to a science (having a child does wonders for developing time management skills).

Now, Devrim reaches for the other side of the bed - such a far cry from a patched up cot in a secluded nook - to find it cool and can't help but smile to himself. The clock reads half eight. It's late for him but still early.

The hardwood floors betray the weight of his husband's footsteps. "Planning to sleep the day away, darling?" Marc asks, arms crossed as he leans in the doorway.

"You'd come wake me eventually, I'm sure," He lilts back.

Marc nods, words clearly failing him. It spurs Devrim into action, pulling back the blankets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He doesn't bother to slide his feet into the slippers waiting for him, instead opening his arms to pull his husband in. Letting Marc rest his head on his shoulder, breathe deep to smell sleep and yesterday's cologne on the skin of his neck, Devrim exhales contentedly.

"I've missed this, Marc," He says, and it's meant to sound adoring and sweet, not emotionally compromising as if he's at the end of his rope.

But, to his credit, his husband laughs, and the rumble of his chest against Devrim's soothes him. "I know," Marc agrees. "We're going to do this more often from now on."

"Abusing your new powers already?"

"Please, I've always had some pull," He leans back, fingers cradling the scruff on Devrim's jaw. "Now," He presses a kiss to his lover's nose (as there are rules about kisses before brushing teeth), "Wash up. I'll make breakfast and put the kettle on."

-/

The word leaves Ikora's lips like a whip-crack, harsh and serious. It strikes the shipwright like lightning. She recoils, visibly, as though she’s going to be struck.

"What's wrong?"

"I-" Ophiuchus appears beside her, shell orbiting his small body in momentary concern, "I think I should bring them something, and I'm not sure what."

Amanda's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Ikora, you have a bottle of that fancy dessert wine behind you."

"It's for someone else."

"It's not. That's Marc's favorite."

Ophiuchus rolls his optic obnoxiously and Ikora gives him a scathing glare for it, as if encouraging him to do better than that.

"She's nervous about later?" Ophiuchus tries. He can feel Ikora's wrath, but the Warlock doesn't contradict him. It's not like she had any quick lies available that didn't nearly lead into the truth.

"Uh… huh," The younger woman's arms cross. She doesn't buy it, that's obvious. "What the heck is goin' on?"

"Nothing," Ikora lies, too fast and very obviously. "It's just-"

"Just?" Amanda holds out her hands as if expecting an answer to drop from the sky and into them. When it doesn't, she produces her tablet from a pocket near her bionic knee and sends out a message.

"What are you doing?" Ikora asks.

"Askin' Hawthorne what the heck is goin' on around here. Why can't-"

Ikora sends a panicked glance to Ophiuchus who dips in a nod and disappears without a sound.

"You know I can just call her-"

"No!"

Amanda shakes her head. "What's the big deal? You're acting really weird and honestly, it's kinda freakin' me out. I planned everything with them. Marc won't mind if I come by early, I'll-"

"Amanda." Saladin's deep voice is soft but commands attention. "Stop pushing her. I'll take you for brunch, we can go over together, afterward."

Amanda looks between the two of them, Warlock, Titan, then back again. "You're kidding me."

Saladin, unlike Ikora, does not betray a single emotion on his face, his eyes hard - always eased a bit when it comes to her, but she's always been treated like the Tower's collective kid. Amanda knows he isn't kidding.

But she's also not the fourteen year old girl she was when he'd distract her with ice cream or an errant wolf cub smuggled inside the walls to keep her out of trouble. Smiling far too wide, Amanda nods. Ikora catches on just as the Shipwright opens her mouth, and if Amanda were looking at her, she'd see the comical widening of her golden brown eyes.

"Okay. We can go to breakfast," She gives Ikora a challenging look before turning her beach-glass gaze upon the last Iron Lord. "But only if we invite Shaxx, too."

Ikora closes her eyes and counts to ten in three dead languages before she opens them again. Saladin is still staring Amanda down, and to her credit, Holliday hasn't budged.

"Alright," Saladin acquiesces. "We'll invite him."

She staggers backwards, in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," He confirms gruffly. Though subdued, his aggravation is palpable. "Now go get him before I change my mind."

Scampering off, Amanda leaves the two of them to go get the Crucible Handler for what will likely be the most uncomfortable meal in history.

Saladin is eyeing her with an unreadable expression and Ikora sighs. "My attendance is mandatory, isn't it?"

"You're a sharp ally," Saladin answers.

"It's a yes, then," Ikora retorts.

After a few silent moments, Ophiuchus appears beside her, drifting in a relieved sway. "All taken care of. She was already filtering both their messages, no harm done."

"Good. We're about to go to brunch with Amanda and Saladin-"

"Oh, I cannot wait to find out what little secrets we've been keeping!" Shaxx bellows from the courtyard, disrupting some innocent pigeons roosting on the railings.

"And Shaxx?" Ophiuchus betrays both shock and concern.

His Guardian doesn't blame him. They don't have to look at Saladin to feel him scowling.

-/

Suraya lets herself in, Zavala hot on her heels. He pulls the door shut behind them while she removes her boots and jacket, hanging the latter on a hook. It's warm, the sound of the fireplace in the next room over is quaint and comfortable, and the house is wreathed in warm lights and tasteful Dawning decor.

"Dad," She calls, loud, when Marc doesn't come to the door like she expects, "We're here!"

Turning to Zavala, who doesn't appear flummoxed, she comments at a lower volume, "That's funny, he must be in the kitchen or something."

Zavala hums, non-committal, and Suraya wanders down the hall that runs parallel to the kitchen and into the heart of her family's home.

"Dad? This isn't funny," She says, pausing a beat. Still no answer. "Dad!"

The sound of footsteps at the end of the short hall stops her in her tracks.

"Do calm down, Suraya, I'm right-"

Though she has her back to him, Zavala knows the expression she's making; Can see how her shoulders rise in surprise, elbows angled out. Knows that she's clasped her hands over her chest in surprise at the sound of his voice.

Zavala knows how much she wanted this. She could blame it on the City or on him, for reawakening long-abandoned wants and needs, but he wants her to have this. She deserves to have everything.

Her lips move, words failing her for only a second, and then, far differently from before, hinging on a sob, she cries, "Dad?"

For being a self proclaimed old man, Devrim doesn't falter when she launches herself at him, grunting only at the impact of his fully-grown child tackling him in a hug that sways at the start like a dance.

It evolves into a tighter, closer embrace, and the scant sounds of sobbing.

"Oh, don't cry, darling," Devrim tuts, rearing back to brush away her tears. It does nothing for his own state, to see her so unguarded, in a way she hasn't been with him in years. He clears his throat when he feels it constrict. "You're liable to make an old man join you."

Between shaky breaths she ducks her head, admitting, "I've just wanted this for so long," To the collar of his shirt.

Marc peeks from the kitchen, swiping a hand across his cheek to erase a tear from sight before nodding to their other guest. He slips from sight.

"Alright you two," Marc chirps, sunny and bright, the only man Devrim has ever encountered who can laugh and cry all while speaking in complete sentences. "I'm feeling left out."

Three steps is all it takes for their unit to be completed and whole for the first time in nearly two decades. It sets Suraya off anew to have both her parents embracing her without having to court fear that came with sneaking into a City that cast her out, or the anxiety that always bubbled up because she was selfishly endangering her family.

They stay that way, until a timer beeps in the kitchen and Marc scuttles off after whatever he’s preparing for the evening's events. This time tomorrow, he’ll have the kitchen on lockdown, preparing a huge feast, but tonight is a far more casual affair.

Devrim pulls back from her finally, looking at her expectantly. “How?” She asks, the initial shock finally starting to wear off.

“You know how,” Devrim answers, voice dipping lower, eyes flicking to the doorway down the hall, closer to the door that leads to a spacious living room. “I believe he meant to give us privacy.”

“He’s a good man,” Suraya whispers.

“He is.” He pats her cheek once and nods towards the way she’d came. “Perhaps you should see if he’d like a drink?” Her lips part into a smile, and he chuckles, unable to help it. “Off you go,” He says, nudging her on.

Marc creeps quietly from the kitchen. He’s waving his hands in a frantic combination of nerves and excitement, and Devrim gives him an expectant nod. A quiet shimmer happens above their heads. “The other door is cracked,” Zavala’s Ghost says, regal and elegant in her delivery, but also jittery and hyper, like a hummingbird. “Shall we?”

#destiny fanfiction #commander zavala #suraya hawthorne #devrim kay #marc (destiny) #zavala x hawthorne #marc x devrim #amanda holliday #ikora rey #Deputy Commander Sloane #destiny dawning

[rachieandthewaves]

The StarKidverse (conceived from my sixteen year old mind)

so um I saw on twitter that @thatsthat24 was interested in seeing some Starkid multiverse theories. Since the announcement of Black Friday, which takes place in Hatchetfield like TGWDLM, people are pretty excited about the idea of a shared universe of Starkid musicals. I came up with one when I was sixteen and found it in the depths of my OneNote. I decided to revive it for the kicks and I’ve updated it accordingly to recent musicals. Let me know your thoughts!

FIRSTLY

The evidence that Starkid musicals exist in the same universe:

In every musical, characters say "Gasp!" instead of actually gasping.

Whenever there’s a chase scene, they face the audience and run on the spot.​

They each have their own unconventional view on religion (in Starship, they believe God is dead. In AVPM they have "wizard God." " etc.)​

Some characters are aware they are in a musical and can communicate with the audience (Aladdin, Ron Weasley, Ja'far, the Dad in Trail to Oregon etc.)

Without further ado, let’s get started.

ANI 

ANI is the definite proof that some musicals do share a universe with others, as they make reference to Starship (the girls auditioning as slaves make a joke about Bug’s home planet, Geonosis) 

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there was a war of the stars taking place​

This advanced civilization had mastered biological engineering and space travel, as shown in the events of ANI: A Parody

​During this time period, these space-faring people began searching for other systems to colonize.

One of them was our solar system.​Originally, they tried colonizing on Mars, where they built a school, but soon realized that it was unsuitable for life.

FIREBRINGER

The advanced civilization then discovered Earth, which was suitable for life. A representative of the space people was sent down to Earth (Chorn) to live in prehistoric America and see if humanity was worthy of ancient power and knowledge.​

However, humanity in its early stages was violent and chaotic. While leaders like Jamilla advocated for logic, peace and duty, Zazzalil relied on optimism, leisure and hope.

Once humanity realized that progress could not be achieved without both, Chorn bestowed the first community of humans with ancient power and knowledge using a Jedi mind trick.

For many years, the first community of people helped develop humanity into prosperity. While science, logic and reasoning helped us understand the world, wishes, dreams and belief helped us improve the world. ​

After a while, the first community achieved biological engineering and became supernaturally powered beings. They developed devices to harness their powers, called "wands"

​During the Salem Witch Trials, the first community were denounced as "witches and wizards" and their scientific advancements were deemed as "magic." As a result, they lived in hiding in one place in America, where their community continued to grow and thrive.​ 

While these gifted natives became a thriving community of innovation and pioneers, the development of the result of the world became dramatically slower.

THE TRAIL TO OREGON

By the 19th century, humanity's progress had halted.​ Diseases such as dysentery were rampant. ​

While the rest of the world was in shit, there was one state in the world that was rich in scientific discovery; Oregon. ​

This was the place where humanity was first gifted with ancient knowledge and power.​ Firebringer takes place in prehistoric Oregon.

Since Chorn healed Grunt’s arm, the settlers of Oregon had made terrific advancements in medicine that mend ailments almost instantaneously.

This is also why, when Father/Mother/Son/Grandpa crossed the county line after dying of dysentery, they were instantly revived by the sheer power of Oregon.

The natives in Oregon were afraid that if they exposed their magical ways and advanced technology to humanity, they would be rejected.​

Little did they know, more magic people were being born around the world as a diaspora emanated from Oregon

​By 2009, they set up a secret school for these genetically enhanced individuals for their safety.

AVPM/AVPS/AVPSY

For a long time, the witches and wizards lived in peace and secrecy. It was during this time they discovered the early concepts of time travel (the time turner), created advanced artificial intelligence (The Hat and Scarfy) and had mastered space travel to visit and take control of the  Jedi school on Mars. 

This was the First Golden Age for people descended from the Oregon natives, because it was an era of great prosperity and peace.​

In case you hadn’t guessed, Pigfarts was the failed colonization effort on Mars.

In 2012, during the events of A Very Potter Senior Year, Gilderoy Lockhart exposed the wizarding world to humans. 

HOLY MUSICAL B@MAN!

This is when the theory goes a little bit sideways in terms of timelines.

According to my theory, Holy Musical Batman would be set post-2012 but Alfred mentions that the year was 1997. However, the presence of smart phones and Barack Obama contradicts this statement, therefore I’m guessing he was just confused about the year.

 Basically, humanity is very accepting of the wizarding world.

They used their gifts to help defend the world.

This also established Earth as a universal pinnacle for acceptance of the abnormal, attracting alien life such as Superman.

became known as superheroes and supervillains and began to integrate into modern society.

Some superheroes used their innate Oregon-originated gifts to fight crime. However, the widespread usage of Oregon-based technology made crime-fighting possible for billionaires like Batman.

This era became known as the Second Golden Age. After the formation of The Super Friends, it was the first time that humans and superheroes (the Oregon natives) had cooperated with each other.

​But many ordinary people were jealous of their gifts and tried becoming villains themselves; many of them with “shitty” themes as they could not afford Oregon technology. As a result, the villain crime rate went through the roof.​

Humanity blamed the superheroes for the rise of a dangerous new world order and decided to eradicate them​

They tried harnessing their technology for their own malevolent purposes​They started using young people in their experiments and reproduce genetically enhanced individuals of their own, but the experiments had a very different effect on reproductive organs.

ME AND MY DICK

The experiments produced a small community of people with anthropomorphic hearts, dicks and pussies ​

These young people tried living their daily life but they were shunned for their reproductive organs (this is why fictional Joey Richter is afraid of introducing Dick to people and is amazed when he learns Sally has an anthropomorphic vagina of her own.)

​As a result, the reproductive organs were forced to start their own society and warned any human who discovered it against telling anybody in fear of persecution. (These worlds had their own governing systems such as the Council of the Pussies.)

THE GUY WHO DIDN’T LIKE MUSICALS

The original space-faring species that gave humanity ancient power and wisdom saw the bastardization of their gift on earth. 

Their gift had led to mutilation, unethical scientific experimentation, prejudice, corruption and crime. As a result, they decided to return to Earth and correct the mess themselves. 

They thought that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom and decided to enslave humanity using song and dance; a creation originating from Firebringer and something the aliens thought would bring humanity together, just as it did back then.

STARSHIP

Humans eventually responded brutally. They used Oregon technology to develop robots to fight the alien invaders. However, when the alien threat was gone, the robots turned on their creators and ignited a “robot war” with all of humankind.

During the Robot Wars, The Super Friends were defeated. With nobody to protect them, in order to combat the robots, the humans developed a space agency called G.L.E.E., used for conquering and colonizing other planets. The agency was controlled by an evil leader named Doctor Spaceclaw.​

During the events of Starship, Bug and February fell in love and returned to the starship together. On their many travels across the galaxy, they discovered many different relics, such as an sentient carpet and a lamp containing a god-like being called a Djin.​

When they returned to earth, February and Bug hid their treasures and settled down in a cave; an itty-bitty living space far away from the conflict. Only February and Bug could access the cave and the treasure.

Eventually, Doctor Spaceclaw discovered the lovers' treachery. They were captured, experimented on and turned into one golden scarab (a bug.) Therefore, they became the key to the cave.

TWISTED

Years later, the robots were defeated and humanity had to rebuild the earth from the ashes.​

Generations of mating between the natives and ordinary humans had cancelled out the starkids' magic abilities. ​

This new world order of kingdoms was started by corrupt leaders like Doctor Spaceclaw, now known as “sultans.” Therefore, the world became a superficial place full of privilege and poverty.​ The effects of the cheery, delusional alien influence of TGWDLM were still prevelant, as most people valued whimsy and optimism over practicality and reality.

The story of the two lovers that Scheherazade tells Ja’far is the story of Bug and February. They are the golden scarab. 

In the end, Ja'far entrusted the power of sultan to a person who believed in both the value of duty and science and hope and belief; The Princess. She is able to unite everyone and eliminate division in the kingdom by declaring everyone a princess, thus leading to the Third Golden Age.

Bear in mind, I was sixteen when I came up with most of this theory so don’t hold back if you have criticisms.

#starkid #tgwdlm #team starkid #thomas sanders #thomas sanders fanders #thomas sanders twitter #black friday starkid #twisted #avpm #avps #avpsy #a very potter musical #a very potter sequel #a very potter senior year #a very potter trilogy #firebringer #twisted starkid #starship #starship starkid #holy musical batman #holy musical b@man #ani a parody #the trail to oregon #working boys #starkid holy musical batman #starkid ani a parody #starkid the trail to oregon #me and my dick #joey richter #lauren lopez

[redrisingreaper]

Ichor (fic preview)

Here's an excerpt/preview to the time-travel fix-it fic where (most) everyone lives/nobody dies, I'm currently writing. I'm trying to write it in snippets that when slappes together should form a decent-sized chapter (3000-4000 words). Hope this technique will work for me :) also this is totally not so i can give each snippet a title

So yeh Darrow's mind travels back on time into his body when he's buried post-execution, before the Sons of Ares find him. If you think it's written ambiguously, fear not, it's intentional (probably).

I'm not sure on the title yet. might change it later to something equally aesthetic lol

Unburied

Darrow wakes up buried.

Dark, red dirt surrounds him, chokes him. Blind panic engulfs him, but he retains enough sense to claw his way out, breaking his nails in the process. He gasps for breaths when he breaks out, damp air filling his desperate lungs. Through the haze of pain -his neck hurts, his back bleeds, but his head, oh his head is killing him- he sees the old tunnel he's in. The old tunnel. There's a flare next to his grave. The situation, as absurd and unbelievable as it is, slowly starts to make sense.

He's back.

He's back.

Or is he? What if this is some elaborate ruse? What if this is a dream? Darrow doesn't remember ingesting anything suspicious -Obsidian mushrooms, Purple drugs or other weird cosmic shit- but the solar system is vast and he is a man with many enemies, and many willful friends who wouldn't hesitate to mess with him and slip something into his food and drink.

His fingers dig into the red earth. Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Darrow. Calm down and wait to see what happens.

When the tumbler comes with the men in Octobernacht masks, he stays silent, choosing caution over that weird mix of hope and dread it drudges up in him. Shut the slag up and analyze the situation, as Victra once aptly said.

Where once he would've balked at strangers helping him, this time Darrow quietly curses as they haul him by his upper arms in the tumbler. His small, broken Red body is a foreign vehicle. Seeing Harmony again, even with her half-scarred face behind the mask, makes his sword hand twitch, but unlike their first meeting he doesn't say anything.

Silence, he has learned, invited curiosity. Which led to information.

"Lazarus," Harmony says finally, after a long stare, "You're a damn mess."

Darrow takes the scarlet headband out of his pants pocket and clenches it in his fist. He looks down at it and tries to calculate how many years it has been since he last saw it. Decennia. They feel like centuries.

"Home sweet home,” she says after they pass the checkpoint. And when they pile out of the tumbler, “Now time to meet Dancer.”

Dancer is as handsome and as old as Darrow remembers him. It takes all of his control to blink away the tears, to gulp down the words stuck in his throat. If this is a joke, it has to be the cruelest of them all. He's missed his steadfast, eternally burdened friend.

"You must be wondering who we are." Dancer says.

"The Sons of Ares." Darrow answers, and is infinitely glad his voice comes out steady, if toneless. Let them think him still shaken by Eo's death, by his execution. Better than they know the truth.

Dancer studies him, "You need a patch-up. Harmony, take care of him." Then again to him, "We'll talk when you're not bleeding all over the bloodydamn floor."

He ignores all of Harmony's attempts at smalltalk, and when those fail, at provocation. He doesn't know what to think of her, the indirect cause of Fitchner's death, Adrius and Roque's betrayals. Avoidance is working well so far. And her less than gentle treatment grounds him into the present. Present. He barely smothers a snort.

Right.

The antinac and the shower make all aches recede, save for the migraine plaguing him. It feels like his head is being split open. Darrow is gripping his hair when Dancer comes in with food.

"Bet you got a lot of questions."

Darrow frowns and forces himself to think past his headache, tries to remember how past him would act. Grieving. Angry. "Do they matter? Eo is dead. I should be with her in the Vale."

Well, that might be laying it on a little thick but they'll both survive his melodrama.

It's Dancer's turn to frown, "We saved your life, Darrow. So your life is ours. No dying for the dead today. Or tomorrow. Or any day from now on. You owe us. You owe Ares. Your uncle does too and he knows this."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

Darrow nods, but another lump has settled in his throat at the mention of his uncle. Uncle Narol. Long dead, shot by the Jackal. His last words resonate in Darrow's head, momentarily driving away his headache.

Dancer is studying him again. His bright eyes read him like an open book, drawing conclusions from the sorry sight he makes. Hopefully his align with what Darrow wants him to know. Then, like the first time, Dancer proposes the card game.

Darrow wins, although he's tempted to lose. Let another take his burden. Let another suffer in his place. But those are wistful musings, like how he sometimes wishes he could fly, or that he could breathe in space.

Dancer tells him about Ares, about the Conquering, about Rhea. He still uses the same damn flea metaphor as last time. Everything fits, except that this time, Darrow is an old, wartorn soul trapped in his first body.

Dancer talks about Eo, the martyr of hope, the symbol of the rebellion. Of more import in death than she ever was alive. "They call her Persephone."

"She’s not coming back,” he snaps, "So what does it matter what they call her?" Eo doesn't ever come back. But he does. Darrow, the reaper -unworthy, undeserving- does. Not for the first time, Darrow marvels at the unfairness of it all.

And then Dancer takes him to the view that had torn his world apart, once upon a time. "You tried to die before,” he says. “Do you want to do so again?”

"I want..." to go back. To stay. He wants Mustang and his children and Sevro and Victra and the life he fought so hard for. He wants Ragnar and Roque and Cassius and Quinn and Tactus. He wants to change history, wants his dead friends to meet his children. He wants to do it again, but better. Can he? Will he? There's only one way to find out. "I want a world where girls like Eo don't have to die for a dream."

It earns him a sad smile. "Justice. I feared you'd want only vengeance."

He shrugs, careful to not stray from his young, impulsive, brash self, "Whichever comes first."

Dancer shakes his head but continues to lead him towards the upper floors. Finally they reach it. He turns to him when they near a door, the door, "Don't let this break you."

They enter.

And the city of Gold that sprawls before them brings him to his knees.

Darrow cries then, all his pent-up fear and guilt and anger pouringout of him. A dam with its floodgates opened. "A lie," he says brokenly, "It has to be a lie." He means his miraculous disastrous return, the lie he keeps on telling himself, but is grateful when Dancer thinks it's about the lie they've both been fed.

He watches the bright city through hazy eyes -eyes that are so lacking compared to his Gold ones- barely listening to Dancer as the latter explains.

Every Color has a purpose. Every Color props up the Golds. Red lowest of them all.

Darrow is inclined to agree. This body is... less. Nothing is as easy, nothing is as clear, nothing is as good as his Gold carved body. He feels like a wolf trapped in the skin of a rabbit.

The acrid smell of smoke fills his nostrils. Dancer has lighted one. The same bloodydamn Pixie with his gaggle of girls flies by. Darrow makes a stiffled noise. Madness. This is madness.

"What will it take to take it back?" He recites dully from memory.

Dancer smiles, "Blood."

Darrow stares at that smile, fatherly, but hiding a fierce beast. He thinks of what this means, a second chance,or something else. Something damning. A gift? Or a lie hiding behind the farce of one?

"Eo was right. It takes violence." He takes Eo's headband out of his pocket, lost so long ago. He feels the weight of it. Of Eo's dream. Live for more. A burden he thought shed in the years following Virginia's coronation. Now again his task is to bear it and make it come true. He looks up into Dancer's bright eyes, and realizes that it's quiet inside his head. His mind is free of any pain, and when he speaks again, it's with the clearest sight he's had since crawling out of his grave.

"What is my mission?"

#red rising #darrow au andromedus #dancer #harmony #fanfic #timetravel #reaper writes #pierce brown #this fic will probably feature everyonexdarrow #no regrets #also everyonexeveryone #theyre all so shippable i cant choose #i feel like darrow is ooc? #idk man i only have canon to work on #maybe it's the abrupt change to third pov #i dislike first pov #enjoy! #feedback appreciated

[shadeofazmeinya]

Solar (6/?)

Chapter Summary: “I don’t want to go back,” Gavin breaths, quiet and choked as he fidgets. “It’s… Let me just start at the beginning. It’s a whole bloody mess if I don’t.” 

A/N: Yay more story! Don’t worry, this is only the start to Gavvy’s backstory >:) Next chapter should hopefully be updated in two weeks though I’ve fallen a bit behind due to school work and I want to catch up before I’m posting more chapters. Though I won’t delay the next chapter for more than a week. Keep an eye open for updates. As always, reblogs and comments really, really appreciated!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319107/chapters/42643445

The shop closed early after Geoff dragged Gavin upstairs to the apartment, calling everyone else to meet. Gavin sits on the couch with his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he watches Geoff start to pace across the carpet. The glow was faint in Gavin’s hands; he could feel their warmth. Geoff sends a glare over to him and Gavin swallows, shoving his hands further under his arms.

“What’s going on?” Jack says as he slips in, the other two right behind him. “Is someone hurt?”

“No,” Geoff grunts. “But this one has people looking for him. Some fuck dressed as a police officer came in and gave me Gavin’s description. He was determined to find him and I could tell he suspects Gavin’s around here. Have you been getting into shit while you’ve been here?” he snaps the final part at Gavin.

“No, I haven’t done anything!” Gavin says, voice cracking.

Geoff stares then gives a small nod. “Did you know who that was?”

Gavin swallows a bit, glancing to see all their eyes on him.  “Yeah. He’s from… a place I ran away from. I place I had to get away from, Geoff.”

“Did you fucking tell this guy Gavin was here?” Michael interrupts, turning his snarl to Geoff.

“Of course not,” Geoff says, raising his hand nonchalant. “I may not know what’s going on, but I could read enough from the guy. He claimed he was trying to keep people safe, but there was far too much annoyance in him. He didn’t believe the threat he was describing. And it didn’t help that he was dressed like a cop, clearly he wasn’t one.”

“He isn’t a cop,” Gavin confirms. “Or… at least not like a cop in the city. He was just security.”

“Security where?” Geoff raises an eyebrow, pushing a little further. Gavin swallows, not able to look at him and he hears him sigh after a beat of silence. “I know you’re scared. But I just want to know what we’re up against. I want to know how much I need to worry about our safety.”

“You’re entitled to your past,” Jack adds in as he sits down besides Gavin. “But Geoff’s right that we need to know something to help. Tell us what you can, the minimum that is needed to be known. And I promise, if this is a place that has hurt you, we won’t let them take you. Us with Abilities look out for each other, remember?”

“I don’t want to go back,” Gavin breaths, quiet and choked as he fidgets. “It’s… Let me just start at the beginning. It’s a whole bloody mess if I don’t.”

“Hey, don’t worry about us judging you,” Jeremy assures, sitting down carefully on his other side. “We take care of each other here, remember? And most of us don’t have the best of histories as well.” He reaches a hand out, but Gavin flinches away, shaking his head. His hands still burned, light threatening to bleed out. Jeremy frowns, confused, but lowers his hand back down.

Gavin takes a deep breath as they fall silent and wait for him to talk. He closes his eyes, memories hanging in sight as he opens his mouth.

“I was born with these powers, but they only started presenting after I was a few years old. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Don’t relly have a lot of memories from that young. Just faint ones, more feelings than anything else. But when I was young, six or seven, something happened. I don’t know exactly what caused it, hell, it was probably something idiotic and stupid since I was a child, but something upset me. I threw a tantrum. Got worked up. And so I used my Ability. In a way that got attention from those who have… interests in those like us. It’s a bright bloody thing. Hard to keep it hidden, even harder when I didn’t know I should have. Next thing I remember, I was being picked up by some people in white coats and taken to a place called Prome Labs.”

He remembered the lab coat, pristine, bright, as the person held inside it knelt down besides him. “Come with me,” the voice said, soft but firm. Gavin didn’t want to, but he was told he had to. This person looked like a doctor and he can trust the doctor, his mother told him he could trust doctors. They offer a hand and Gavin took it. They lead him out of the small plastic chair, past the big wooden desk and boring tree paintings of the office, and through the carpeted halls that he had been stuck in for what felt like days. Waiting for his family. He looked up again to the person holding his hand, as they stare ahead with determined movement. Maybe this person was going to take him to them.

They glanced down to him as he stares and offered a tight smile. Gavin gave a polite smile back and asked where they’re going. The person took a moment, face screwing like his father’s used to when he was trying to answer all his persistent questions. “A place for you to stay,” they settled on. The sentence made Gavin’s stomach twist in a way he wouldn’t understand until much, much later.

“It’s described as a research facility and what they were researching was us. A handful of kids with powers that either scared parents or their parents didn’t like that their kid could do something unnatural, so they left us in the hands of the researchers of the lab. We stayed there, or at least I did, full time. Some could go home at the end of the day or week if their Abilities weren’t considered dangerous enough. We’d have school there, eat, sleep, play there. And they’d run about every bloody medical test in the world on us. Punish us if we used our powers. Tried every weird new medication or surgery to try to “fix us”. They said they wanted to decrease our powers’ effects. Make it less dangerous. Allow us to ‘properly integrate into society’. They wanted to fix us.”

He was laying down in another MRI machine, but this time the loud grinding was getting on his nerves. He was tired, some new test the geniuses wanted to try involved a bunch of needles and small shocks of electricity given while he was hooked up to electrodes scanning his brain. A test that left him sore, in pain, and exhausted and he just wanted to sleep or do anything other than suffer one more test. It was so loud and he didn’t want to stay perfectly still, he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be gone, he wanted to be in bed and asleep or talking with his friends. Anywhere but here.

He didn’t know why they stopped at first, as the machine’s whir dwindled down and then Gavin was yanked out. As his eyes flew open, there was a flurry of motion, shouting and gesturing over him as the room flooded with people. The room was bright and as Gavin blinked and looked down, he saw those cracks in his skin that let the warm sun out inside him growing and pulsing. Getting deeper and deeper and the light grew bigger and bigger and maybe this meant he was dying. But as he clenched his fists, he had never felt stronger.

He flinched and yelled as a hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him in its roughness. The person screamed back, hand ripped away. The person held it out and blood came from the palm, dripping to the floor. Then, more shouting, the world another eruption of noise that hurt Gavin’s head more than the machine and he gripped his hair, wanting it to stop. Let this all finally stop. He didn’t realize he was yelling until his throat was burning, as he was gasping for air.

There was a prick to his arm, a familiar sting. Gavin thrashed out at it, but then the world felt dizzy. His breath felt heavy as the light flickered and then everything turned off.

Gavin sighs, looking to his hands as they felt cold again, seeing the light gone. “I know they wanted to take the powers away. No matter what, though, they couldn’t. No matter what new idea they had for what caused it, nothing would stop it. Nothing will get rid of them.”

“And you got out,” Jack speaks first through the silence that enwrapped them after Gavin finished. “I take it you escaped?”

Gavin nods, swallowing. “Yeah. Found a hole in their security system. Got some help from one of the teachers. They, um… They had started something that showed progress in suppressing powers. But the kids, now adults, who underwent it weren’t the same afterwards. And I didn’t want to go through whatever they were doing. Not with being the one with the strongest abilities there. So I got out. And ran.”

Geoff lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck me,” he mutters. “I know you’re not lying, but shit this is a lot. How big of an organization are we talking here?”

Gavin shrugs. “There weren’t a lot of kids in it. But I don’t know how many people in total are with the place. There always seemed to be a lot more than just the ones we saw.”

“We won’t let them find you,” Michael says firmly, hands clenched into fists. “No fucking way we’re letting you back into the hands of people trying to hurt you.”

Gavin looks up again, lips turned up to hear the fierce protection in his voice. “Thank you.”

“They might not know for sure that you’re here,” Jack offers. “And we can keep you from being visible to any customers who may walk in. So word doesn’t get out.”

“We need to be more careful, too, ” Geoff says. “But we need to keep our eyes and ears open for these guys too.” He pulls out a card from his pocket, throwing it to the coffee table and Gavin’s mouth goes dry as it lists a recognizable name and logo. “We’ll need to keep an eye out for anything like this. Tear down posters if they start setting those up. And deny Gavin’s here to anyone who asks.”

“We know how to keep quiet,” Jeremy gives a firm nod. “Like hell we’re letting Gav get got. He’s one of us now, right?”

Gavin beams a little more at that, tearing his gaze away from the card to look at their firm but gentle faces. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll stay down. I don’t want cause trouble for you. I can’t go back, though. Please.”

“You aren’t,” Jack says. “We’ll help you.”

Gavin nods, taking in a long shaky breath, staring back down at the card that etches a design that sends shivers down his spine.

--

Despite the other’s assurances, the fear still buzzed under his skin. Knowing that they were looking, that they almost found him. He buries under the blanket on the couch that had become is bed. It’s late, the moon hanging in the window, and the others have all went to bed. But Gavin knows he won’t be able to sleep.

There’s a creak of a floorboard and Gavin jolts up, starting to raise a hand up until he makes out a familiar figure. “Sorry,” Jack’s soft voice whispers. “Just came out to grab some water. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, you’re ok,” Gavin deflates, laying back as his heart starts to beat again. “I was already awake.”

Jack frowns and moves over to him. “Having trouble sleeping?” he says, sitting down onto the couch.

Gavin nods, curling his feet up to give him room. “Too worried.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, I guess I would be too. May I?” he says, reaching a hand to his shoulder.

Gavin glances to it and nods, leaning into his hand, which squeezes reassuringly. Gavin expected Jack to start reassuring him again. Tell him how he’s safe. Jack remains quiet though, a calming presence for a few minutes as Gavin focuses on breathing. Focuses on the grounding of Jack’s touch.

“You know,” Jack says into the silent room. “I think it’s really brave of you to have escaped a place like that.”

Gavin blinks, turning to look to him. “I don’t know. I don’t feel brave. Pretty scared right now.”

“No, you never really do feel brave in the moment. But it was brave, to leave all you’ve known. Even if it wasn’t a good place. And we’re glad you’re here now. The other boys seem to really love your company.”

Gavin gives a small smile at that, nodding. “Thanks, Jack. I’m sorry I’ve brought this too you all. But I promise, if anything happens, I won’t bring them to you. I don’t want any of you getting hurt. You’ve been so kind to me.”

“We’ve been nice because you deserve a little kindness after a life like that,” Jack says. “And don’t worry about us. We can handle our own. We’re pretty tough. And I think you’ve gotten the other boys to not want to give you up without a fight. Though there’s no fighting right now. Right now, you’ll lay low and we’ll keep an eye out. Give it some time and it can all blow over.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” he grumbles, looking down at his hands.

“I suppose I don’t,” Jack relents. “But we will do everything that we can do. Take all the precautions we can. And those boys are strong. And Geoff can be pretty helpful should anything happen. A lot more helpful than he is normally, slacking off and napping in the store when he’s supposed to be watching the front,” he smiles.

Gavin can’t help a small chuckle at it. “Thanks Jack.”

“Of course,” Jack chuckles. There’s a bit of quiet between them, both not really sure what to say next. “You’re not going to sleep well out here alone, will you?”

“I don’t know. It feels a bit too open. The windows are pretty big, the room too.”

“Well, come on then,” Jack says, standing back up. “We can grab the couch cushions and pillows and I’ll make you a bed on the floor in our room. That way you aren’t sleeping alone. We should’ve gotten you a proper bed by this point anyway. We’ll make do until we look into getting a mattress tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to invade in your and Geoff’s space-“

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure. Now, let’s go.”

Gavin bites his lip but at Jack’s big smile, and the pain in his chest at the thought of staying out here, he nods and pushes himself up.

It takes a bit of creativity and wrapping everything in blankets to keep it together, but they build a makeshift bed for Gavin on the floor, disrupting Geoff to make him help until he passed out on the bed again halfway through. Laying down on it felt better already, as he can see Jack and Geoff’s forms besides him. Memories of watching other bodies sleep in bunk beds besides him float around his head. Fond ones, of whispered stories shared in secret, of sharing books to read under a flashlight in the dark, of knowing the others were right there in case anything happened.

“Sleep well now, Gav,” Jack says as he settles on to the bed, clicking off the lamp.

Gavin smiles and this time when he closes his eyes, he slips right to sleep.

#solar #fake ah crew #freewood #ragehappy #fahc superpowers au #superpowers au #yay another done haha #hope yall are enjoying #the plot doesn't pick up much in the next chapter #but its full of fluff to make up for this one #>:)

[hopelesslydimwitted]

so i had an idea. what if the Starblaster never got to Faerun? its an idea, they’d just keep going and going and going. but like... what if they found a plane that coveted a crewmember so much that it just... kept them?

“Man, I’m sure gonna miss this joint,” Taako said, beaming after a long day of being admired by the citizens of the plane they’d landed on for the cycle. “They got everything here! Delicious-ass food, great fashion- not as great as mine but y’know- and, the best part, they need science and work to do their transmuting, they can’t just do it, so I’m like a god to them!”

He and Magnus boarded the Starblaster, closing the doors to the beautiful outdoor scene. High, elegant buildings lined the horizon, far from the grassy plateau Davenport touched the interplanar ship down on. The skyline lights twinkled in the distance, illuminating the dark pink sunset with a soft white-yellow glow. They’d just gotten back from a food run, scoring a mountain of sweet pastries, spices, fruits, and meats.

“They think we’re all gods, Taak,” Magnus reminded him, showing off the elaborate, large golden bangle gifted to him from disciples of the local temple, who fawned over all of them and offered many blessings and gifts.

“I think that’s just because we’re leagues above them in the beauty department, Mags.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” Lup agreed, shouting from where she was lounging on a kitchen cabinet. She didn’t bother to help or move while the two boys unloaded their grocery satchels. “Not to be mean or anything, but they kind of look like if a dwarf fucked a potato.”

“Yeah, the poor bastards. They’ll never know what it’s like to be this beautiful.”

The three continued to joke around at the expense of the potato-dwarves for a while more, before settling into an easy silence. It was hard not to be comfortable around each other, even in silence or what should have been an awkward situation-- it would be hard to be uncomfortable around anyone you’d spent the last hundred years with. It made boredom less lonely and chores, like unpacking groceries, into a sort of dance as they weaved around each other, communicating without speaking.

“Y’know,” Magnus broke the silence after a few contemplative minutes. “Ugly as they are, I am glad we got the Light of Creation before John found it. Hopefully their scientific weaponry gadgets help protect them. Not that they’ll be alone on that front, whatnot with me helping and everythin.’”

“True, but you know those skyscrapers are goin’ down. There’s no way those clowns stay up.”

“Might as well admire the cities as much as we can… How many days do we have left, Lup?”

Lup checked a makeshift calendar they had put up in the kitchen. Each plane had a different definition of a ‘year,’ so they had to change their calendars each cycle. Sometimes a year was 365 days, sometimes it was 420 days. Still, the Hunger always gave them a plane’s worth of a year to prepare. They’d find out that plane’s solar orbit, Lucretia would make a calendar that they could track (divided by 12 to keep some semblance of normalcy, they aren’t animals), and would cross off each day as it passed. Special dates were marked- when John was expected to snoop in on their shit, when they would need to start any repairs or go on supply runs, dates of any deaths of the crew, and maybe the occasional planar celebration if it seemed fun enough.

By the look of this plane’s calendar, they had three days left.

It never got easier to look at. Cycle after cycle, always counting down the days until they had to make a run for the lives of all reality. Preparing for the next cycle of the exact same thing, in a different setting.

That’s why they had to find joy where they could (that, and Merle wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it)-- making fun of planar citizens, enjoying good food, taking in all the beautiful landscapes, or even just fucking shit up in planes that were already decrepit. Sometimes the only joy they had for a cycle was each other’s company. It made everything stay worth saving, and that was something that they couldn’t give up on, no matter what.

Two days passed, and the crew was waiting for their old friend to show up. They didn’t leave the Starblaster if they could help it, and had given warnings to those they thought would do the best with it.

The Hunger came.

They fought, and then they ran.

They always run.

Always the same.

Every time.

Except for now.

In the middle of running to the other side of the Starblaster to offer Lup arcane support, Taako felt something he’d never felt in all of their hundred-cycle journey.

He choked on his breath, clutching his chest as his knees gave out. Everything around him spun. Inside his chest, deep inside, it felt like something was being unraveled.

Something in his very core was being undone.

His heart stopped beating. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was think and feel. It was so similar to how the bond engine would warp them back onto the Starblaster, in the same position and condition as when they’d left so many cycles ago, but it was so different at the same time. This was ruining, toxic, ripping him apart at the seams like he was being removed from the tapestry.

“-ko? Taako?!”

He looked up, saw Lup, his sister, his other half, his reason, terrified and confused, running for him in what seemed like slow motion. Panicked, he reached for her and

woke up.

Arm still outstretched, grasping for something- someone- that was not there.

He sat up with a gasp, heart fluttering like a raven’s wings and breath finally returning to fill his lungs with pain.

He was in an infirmary, but not the Starblaster’s infirmary.

A small, lumpy hand touched his shoulder and he jumped, whipping out his wand and pointing it right into the face of a potato-dwarf.

‘How… the fuck?’

He looked around, and he saw almost the exact same city he’d been in for the last few hundred days. The poisonous realization slowly crept into his bloodstream and he fought like hell to keep it out.

He stumbled on lead legs out of the infirmary and turned towards the sky looking for a sign, a glimpse, anything that might suggest that the Starblaster was still in the plane and maybe he’d just fallen out, that he’d be swept up in the golden bonds and put right back with his family, where he belonged--

He didn’t see anything. 

Not even the Hunger.

It was obvious that John had wreaked havoc. The towering, once beautiful skyscrapers now laid across the land in pieces; blackened parts of earth, building, and biological material of both Hunger and dead citizens were strewn everywhere; the once-vibrant oranges and pinks of this reality were now dull and gray and lifeless.

But there was no Hunger to be seen.

Taako was seeing what they were never able to witness before-- the aftermath of the Hunger. They’d always wondered, theorized what it might have looked like for the planes that weren’t vored whole.

Now, standing there, Taako knew on an almost intimate level that shit was royally fucked after the Hunger came and went.

And he knew that he was utterly and entirely alone, for the first time in his life.

#taz balance #taz #taako #its taako pov #ya boy gets a hit done on him #sorry folks #i have another idea for a continuation #basically? the crew gets switched out #starting w ya boy ango

[tanadrin]

On Mars

Things I love about Mars: the landscape.

Mars's landscape is both alien and familiar. There are other fascinating landscapes in the Solar System, of course: Venus, Pluto, Europa, Titan, etc., and each has their charms; but the thing about those landscapes is that the environment in which they're found makes them more alien. Venus has mountains and plains and, like Earth, few craters; but the crushing sulphuric pressure of the atmosphere and the fact that every few hundred million years it seems the entire planet may go molten and resurface itself makes Venus a setting for hard SF, or individualistic person-versus-environment stories: the narrative that suggests itself to me when I imagine standing (in some megaspacesuit) on the surface of Venus is not "this is a place humans could one day be," but "this is an unpeopled Hell."

(Also: apparently Venus may have had liquid water as recently as 700 MYA. Life on Earth seems to have arisen almost immediately, as soon as the conditions potentially favorable to it existed. From the formation of its oceans to 700 MYA, Venus would have been climactically stable, thanks to higher cloud cover than Earth. So it is entirely possible that for a couple of billion years, between the oceans of Venus forming and the runaway greenhouse effect destroying them several hundred MYA, Venus had life, up until the Neoproterozoic period on Earth. But if the theories regarding how energy is released into Venus's dessicated crust are correct, the fossil evidence of that life would have been annihilated in the same event that resurfaced the entire planet some time in its geolocially recent past. Perhaps fragments of it persist, floating deep in the mantle like the Farallon plate on Earth--but for now, an actual record of the biohistory of Venus is lost to us. What I'm saying is, Venus is a postapocalypse: not a hopeful Perelandra, not even in the far future, but a grievous memorial for what might have been our lush and gardenlike neighbor.)

Titan, Europa, and Pluto--although they have very different landscapes--have a common feature, which is that waste heat from technology (heck, from human bodies) would melt or boil their surfaces. Pluto is especially bad in this regard, given that its plains are 98% nitrogen ice. Humans on Pluto would be creatures of unquenchable fire, destroying everything they touched. Europa is much more familiar, especially if it has warm seas beneath the ice; but its landscape is a vast broken plain of ice, possibly with a band of peninent spires rising into the sky at the equator. It's metal as fuck. But the airless, radiation-bathed surface is, again, seems to be suited mostly to being a vehicle of existential exploration, and the subsurface ocean may just be a hopeful dream, like the jungles of Venus. Titan, that weird little orange goofball, also has a water ice surface, plus a hydrocarbon "hydrosphere" which is fascinating! It's the first time the IAU has had to come up with a naming convention for actual bodies of liquid on a planet's surface. It has lakes! Inlets! Seas! But it's tiny, has very little gravity, and if you tried to terraform it even a little bit the entire thing would melt or evaporate. There are stories I would happily tell on Titan. I can even imagine they would have some features of the stories I would tell of an Earthlike world: here is a political boundary following a river, here are pirates on the Ligeia Mare (pirates on a methane sea, frost condenses on the inside of the hull even through half a meter of insulation, we haven't seen sunlight in weeks, we haven’t seen the sun since we were born). But the strictures of the environment also demand a more hard-SF sensibility, and a hard-SF sensibility applied to the "soft" aspects of science fiction: how do the constraints of the environment shape how societies function? How is politics, war, and economics different in a place where atomic individualism isn't just maladaptive, but maybe impossible? I've thought about these questions in other contexts (deep space, settlements on airless rocks), and although Titan expands the possibilities somewhat, it doesn't expand them much. But it's definitely my third favorite body in the Solar System (after Mars and, of course, Earth).

[Ligeia Mare, the second-largest lake on Titan, 78° N, 249° W .]

The rest of the solar system is either gas giants (which fill me with too much dread to really apprehend them on an immediate or aesthetic level; what hubris is it to try to imagine a little human soul against the endless storms of Jupiter?), or small, airless bodies specked with craters. Some of these verge on the utterly uninteresting. Io is at least respectably garish. But the narrative context they suggest to me is the same as Titan, shorn of the unique geographical points of interest that moon offers, and while that doesn't mean they're not interesting, they don't excite me nearly as much. I am glad they exist. Some are really beautiful (speckled Ganymede! gleaming Eceladus, Europa's twin! what the fuck is wrong with you Iapetus!).

(What did we do as a species to deserve a Solar System full of so many different, beautiful worlds? How much wonder is there in the rest of the Universe if this little corner is already so full of it?)

But Mars. Ah, Mars. You know, my head says that interplanetary colonization would be a waste of resources and, lacking a useful economic purpose, ultimately a giant boondoggle. There are inhospitable environments on Earth that are, against Mars, an Eden, and we have yet to people them; if science is our aim, even the practical benefits of a manned mission to Mars stop at orbiting the planet and controlling robots remotely below. And I know all this. But there's a quiet voice in the back of my head--quiet only because like the rumble of distant thunder it is spoken at much deeper frequencies, frequencies of the ground beneath my feet and of my soul itself--that says if I don't die having crunched the grit of Mars beneath my feet or run its dust between my fingers, my life will have been empty and devoid of purpose. Not to get too metaphysical on you, but I'm pretty sure there's a part of my soul that is convinced it was meant to be born on Mars, meant to wander the Kasei Valles and the Tharsis plateau, that longs to stand on the Olympus Rupes and watch the dust storms on the Amazonia Planitia below; to sojourn in the Labyrinth of the Night, filled with fog from sublimating frost.

Mars is alien. Mars is not like Earth. Yet its appearance suggests a world we almost know: here are canyons, here are sinuous valleys, here are dusty plains. On closer inspection, these things reveal their true, unearthly nature: this is a canyon as long as Europe, yawning deeper than the mountains rise. This is a volcano, yes--it is the size of France. If you stood on its summit, very nearly above the top of Mars' atmosphere (which is taller than Earth's!), its slopes would disappear around the curve of the world before you saw their end. These valleys are not river valleys: they are ancient outburst channels, the catastrophe that scoured out the Channeled Scablands--over, and over, and over again. The atmosphere is gasping-thin, and often choked with dust. The surface is freezing. Nothing lives, not so far as we can tell. But you can imagine yourself there. I wonder why?

[The informally-named “Columbia Hills,” Gusev Crater, Mars, 14.5°S 175.4°E. Mosaic image taken by the Spirit rover. The distance is about 300 meters to the base of the hills.]

Part of it, of course, is the wonderfully detailed photography from Mars missions, and the fact the planet is extensively mapped--one of the best-mapped bodied in the Solar System. As part of the Inner Solar System, we can orbit it comparatively easily, and we don't have to rely on photos snapped during quick flybys. (The USGS has complete, detailed maps of Mars available for free! The USGS is a freakin’ international treasure.) I think Mars more easily than most worlds in the Solar System is a canvas onto which we can imagine projecting the psychodramas of our own history. If the "minor" objections of its ultrafreezing surface and its unbreathable, thin atmosphere can be overcome, we can almost imagine it like any other harsh desert into which human habitation has intruded (and humans, like a gas, do tend to occupy all available space). And those objections can be overcome, if we are patient and work very hard, and they can be overcome without annihilating the surface of the world. It would be possible to blanket Mars in a thick, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere and bring its temperature up to, say, Antarctic levels (i.e., you could survive indefinitely in very warm clothing with a breathing apparatus) with several centuries or possibly a millennium of the diligent application of existing technology. We have no reason to do it right now, and it would be madness to try, but it's doable--so one day, we might.

And if we did? Well, I'd like to think that the species that did that would be, after Carl Sagan, a species very like us but slightly better in important ways, and that by then Earth would be a much nicer place to live; and Mars, therefore, by extension, would be a more rugged and difficult environment but still full of basically decent people who have solved problems like poverty and oppression and large-scale warfare. With a light brushing of a sort of Mad Max visual aesthetic, what with all the breathing masks and the exposed ductwork. Hopefully they would continue the IAU trend of giving everything really atmospheric names, so we wouldn't have the place carpeted in stupid shit like "New Canada" and "President Reagan Land", like Antarctica has been. (Seriously, the IAU needs to take over naming stuff in Antarctica, it's dire down there.)

There is another possibility of course, and in my mind that possibility is inextricably linked with the fact that Mars is small. Mars, like Earth and Venus, probably formed with a dense atmosphere. Its coldness, believe it or not, is not a feature of its distance from the Sun. That's a common misconception. The approximate habitable zone of a G-type star like the Sun extends from within the orbit of Venus to just to, or slightly beyond, a planet at Mars's distance (1.5 AU or so). Venus, for its part, was doomed by being just too warm, and, as the Sun aged and its energy output increased, the homeostasis of its environment being tipped a little bit too far, until the whole thing collapsed, the seas evaporated, and the water vapor was shorn apart by ultraviolet energy, its hydrogen scattered into space by solar wind. But Venus is big. Venus could hold on to its atmosphere regardless. Mars could not. Though further from the Sun, and initially with its own hydrosphere (which now sleeps frozen beneath its crust and at the poles--which have enough water in them to deluge the surface meters deep), the solar wind gradually stripped away Mars's atmosphere, until it was unable to trap heat, and liquid water ceased to be able to exist on its surface for more than the briefest periods of time. Earth, too, would be frozen desert if it had an atmosphere like Mars.

[A Noachian-era alluvial fan in Eberswalde Crater, 24°S, 33°W . Many Noachian-era craters show evidence of having once been filled with water. The aptly-named Noachian period was the last time surface water might have been abundant on Mars, and ended roughly 3.7 billion years ago.]

Any atmosphere we give Mars is doomed in the long run--on the order of thousands of years, not millions. Any civilization we engender on Mars is not a civilization for eternity: it is doomed from its beginning. If we are less wise than we hope, less able to cooperate than we wish, less able to accomplish the miracles of terraforming that we require, the saga of human habitation on Mars will not be the saga of overcoming the frontier, of planting a new, bright tree of our people on a neighboring world; it will be a saga of a promising beginning and then a long--terribly long--slow decline. The Martian desert will slowly cover cities and whatever little groves of life we plant; our first, tentative seas will dry up; increasing scarcity will become the norm, not for a few generations, but for whole civilizations, until the entire memory of the world is nothing but a medieval feeling of decline, of loss, of some ancient glory which we cannot quite remembering being forever beyond our reach. The midcentury scientific romances of a dying Mars were true, but they were not accurate assessments of the present or the past. They were prophecy--a prophecy which is not guaranteed, but which should serve as a warning nonetheless.

Again, my interest in these concepts is mostly from the standpoint of fiction and imagination. Colonization of Mars is a long, long way off, and sitting here in the mythic past of any future Martian civilization, with a warm green spring outside my window and the luxury of breathing free oxygen kindly manufactured for me for free by the native biosphere, I would be surprised if any future settlement of Mars unfolded more than a little bit in the way I expect. Nonetheless, these are the thoughts that occur to me as I pore over maps of Mars. Here, the Chryse Planitia. Here, the graceful curve of the Claritas Fossa. Here, Elysium, its scattered features named for the abodes of the dead. Here, the illimitable Vastitas Borealis. Here, the Chasma Australe, which cuts deep into the southern Martian pole; where Edgar Rice Burroughs might have imagined the ten-thousand mile River Iss. I know that I will probably never see this world with my own two eyes. But God Almighty! I would give anything!

#maaaaaars #ramblings and doggerel