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chronicbatfictioner · 3 years

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Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 17

Jason was having the time of his life.

Dick was sure of it. He might grump and sulk a lot more than before, but Dick was sure that he was having fun. Sure, guarding Damian might be a little more than tasking, after a while - especially since Damian was so certain that he could face Bane alone if it comes down to it, conveniently ignoring the fact that: a. he's ten and practically one-tenth of Bane's size; b. the Waynes most likely would detest having to clear intestines off the marble floor if Damian were to be let near a katana and/or Bane, and c. Alfred definitely would detest cleaning intestines or parts of Damian off the floor or walls.

And d. Bruce Wayne seemed to actually enjoy having Damian around and has no qualm in talking to Damian as if he was twice his age. Bruce's age, that is. Not Damian's. Dick suspected that Bruce has spent a lot of time talking to 60-year-olds.

But there were numerous forms of excitement that were offered by the Wayne Manor. First and foremost were the cars. Dick has never learned to drive - being a Talon kind of impeded the learning process of 'common human things'. Jason, however, was an excellent driver. He had mentioned something about being a getaway driver in warzones, and Dick couldn't be sure if he was telling the truth or joking. Either way, he rather enjoyed it whenever he and Jason had to take Damian somewhere in town.

Except for today, as somebody seemed to have tampered with the car.

It wouldn't brake, and they were cruising really, really fast.

Hence Dick's belief that Jason was having fun. He did not look perturbed at the slightest as he controlled the car, swerving crazily over the backroads, making sharp u-turns instead of going into the city roads and went back where they came from. Within a mile from the Drake House's gate, Jason finally managed to cut down the speed to the point where the car's engines died and it rolled to a stop. On the Drake House's gate.

"Seriously, people," Tim remarked dryly as they walked in - leaving the car at the gate and settling their respective adrenaline back down. "I've heard of visiting the neighbors, but must you be like, dying and/or damaging people's property before you come here to say hi?"

"The car was tampered with," Damian reported. "Must be the brute. And I shall replace your gate, Drake."

"I think I'm down to like, eight lives. No-- seven." Dick admitted, "my heart's still beating a hundred miles per minute. Good thing, though, at least that way I know I'm quite alive."

"Dick, you're a bird. Not a cat." Tim deadpanned. His eyes never leaving Jason, who had lit up a cigarette as he walked through the house. "Since when do you smoke?"

"Since I was eleven," Jason replied. "And since I walked into a house that has laser triggers that were set up by a lunatic. Smoke worked to reveal them all."

"I'm... partially scowling because smoking kills. But I suppose laser triggers would kill faster..." Tim replied.

"The lasers are used to trigger booby traps just about Damian's height. If he were to be a common kid and run around the house, he'd be decapitated within the first few days." Jason continued bitterly. "What the fuck is wrong with that giant lump of steroids, anyway? He was ready to kill a child!"

"The nutshell version is that the child would prevent his usurping the Waynes' wealth." Tim pointed out. "The long version is that I don't think he's really the child of Dr Wayne, the Waynes know of it, and they're literally being held hostage in their own home. Also, you people are being watched, too, by drones. I've asked Harper to kill those drones for entering my property."

Tim then explained Bruce's visit and the USB. "Oracle has contacted him and told him we... the Birds, that is - are investigating the evidence."

"How long until we can punch the asshole out of the house for good?" Jason demanded, accepting a bottle of water Tim handed him. Slowly and gently. Making sure his fingers brushed Tim's. And Dick had to swallow a grin.

"That, unfortunately, would be up to the GCPD. Did you guys saw the news? Vicky Vale's article on Damian?" Tim... preened a little, waving his hair as he walked away from Jason. Dick's lips itched, he wondered if Barbara or the other girls -- if Selina or Dinah have noticed this. The two were definitely flirting.

"I have seen it. It had good pictures of my mother and grandfather, and quite... adequate descriptions of both of them." Damian replied. "Evidently father has made a comment to the writer about me looking like him when he was my age."

"Well, you kind of do look like him, except for the green eyes." Dick pointed out. Bruce's eyes were blue - like both his parents. But from the photos of little Brucie around the house, Dick could see a little of Martha Wayne in Damian's still-round face. "When did Bruce make the comment?"

"Oh, Vale called him." Tim snickered. "She still has his personal number, and she commented something about hearing a - quote: 'constipated buffalo sounds in the background' - unquote. She was also wondering if Bruce was in a bullfighting ring somewhere."

"Seriously?" Dick laughed.

"Seriously. Even Barbara couldn't stop laughing hearing that." Tim assured him. Jason rolled his eyes but looking amused, anyway.

"Sooo... a possible off-road accident for the apparent heir is in the books?" Jason suggested.

"I won't put it past Bane. Damian...?" Tim started. But Damian already nodded in acknowledgment.

"I shan't eat anything that is not presented by Todd or Grayson, nor will I frolic the manor on my own. This shall be more to bear witness to your insinuation of my 'child-like' behavior than to take care of me, Drake, as I am quite capable of sustaining my own life." Damian scoffed.

Tim paused visibly for a good two seconds, before nodding, "of course. Furthermore, I can assure you that Alfred is safe, mainly because as a butler, his focal interest would be the actual Waynes. That's in his training - unless an offspring is publicly announced, they are not to be cared for by the Butler. In Wayne Manor, the proverbial child would solely be Bruce - for obvious reasons, and Damian, whom Bruce has publicly acknowledged." Tim explained.

"He was in MI6," Jason remarked. "Alfred, that is. Not Bane. It would be safe to say he's loyal. He told me of the booby traps and that Bane has a daily dose of injection of the steroid-like substance. But I-- we shall prepare you emergency rations - just in case, anyway."

"You guys can always drop by here. And don't think that Damian would be Bane's only target." Tim reminded. "If I was him, I'd take out the big guns - that is you two - first; and then Bruce, because he'll want to be protective of his son; and then Dr and Mrs Wayne last."

"Then I'm afraid you are forgetting one of the members of the household that is most dangerous, Master Tim," a voice spoke; Jason pulled out his gun, Damian automatically hid behind him while pulling out a small dagger.

Dick wanted to lunge right toward the source of the voice until he realized that it was Alfred Pennyworth, both hands raised up to show that he was unarmed.

"How...?" Jason growled, "I didn't hear the front door open."

"Apologies, gentlemen. I should have informed you that there is an underground passageway between the two houses that were once used frequently, but now has all been forgotten." Alfred explained. "You were right that I was in MI6, Jason; as you were right that my focus will and forever shall remain the true Wayne blood, Master Tim. Not ones who claimed as such and refused to provide irrefutable evidence."

"Does Bane know of this passageway?" Tim asked.

"It is located in the staff's wing, and as he is not permitted to be there, I sincerely doubt it," Alfred replied. "I have my own... booby traps and surveillance that should tell me if anyone has been there." he smiled. "I am aware that both of you have prowled the entire house at one point or the other in the past few weeks." he nodded toward Jason and Dick. "You were stealthy, indeed."

"But not stealthy enough?" Dick quipped. "I gotta go back to training... Anyway, why are you here?"

"I saw your vehicle's mishap and its stop here. If anything, Bane is not... stealthy enough." Alfred pulled out a small memory card. "To get to the garage, one must pass the servants' hall. And the garage is my province."

Tim accepted the memory card, plugged it into his cellphone; and then projected its content to a wall. "Huh... this should be enough evidence of tampering..." Tim commented. The memory card showed a clear date stamp - that morning, a few hours before Bane and the Waynes left the house. It also showed Bane himself, jacking the car that was now resting with a dented bumper at Tim's gate, while holding a plier.

"Anyone watching our car now?" Dick commented. "Won't be cool to have it suddenly fixed, will it?"

"Harper should be. Plus, y'all are on my property. If he trespasses, I'll have his ass arrested." Tim huffed. "So... if anyone has ideas--" Jason and Damian's eyes lit up; Tim glared at them and continued "--that do not include sharp and/or exploding objects of how to remove Bane from the Manor..."

"I'm fresh out," Jason replied mournfully. "No sharp objects, no exploding objects... what do you expect me to do? Poison him?"

"But Todd, did my mother not teach you the arts of food as medicine?" Damian piped up.

The sudden silence as all eyes landed on Alfred was quite ominous.

"I will not conduct a crime, young masters," Alfred remarked dryly.

"Oh nooo... not a crime," Jason grinned mischievously. "It's just... you know that Damian was born in the Middle East, yeah?"

"I may have quite a culinary skill, but I fear that my Middle Eastern cuisine knowledge is rather limited," Alfred said demurely.

"Well, mine isn't." Jason grinned. "Besides, what else should one do to celebrate one's entrance into such a distinguished family; but hold a family dinner?"

"You're going to poison him." Dick groaned.

"Not to death!" Jason protested. Dick gave him an unimpressed glare. "Just... to the point where he would realize that he and I have opposing objectives."

"Do let me know of the ingredients you require, Jason." Alfred intoned. "Or perhaps you prefer to shop on your own? I shall fetch a new, un-tampered-with vehicle."

"Oh, please do, Alfred. I doubt we can make a single trip. But they will be fun." Jason replied, grinning.

Dick knew that the sense of foreboding was not in him only. Tim looked like he was contemplating moving away to Alaska.

"For the records, I don't know anything about cooking," Dick said defensively.

"I'm... truly and fully reconsidering my life choices," Tim admitted.

"Oh, don't worry, Drake. Todd was trained by the best," Damian grinned mischievously. "I pity the fools who think him as a brute. I pity the brute who think that small equals weak."

#Batless!AU #JayTim #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #Alfred Pennyworth #stray!tim #RedGhost!Jason #Talon!Dick

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legionofpotatoes · 3 years

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we decided to watch all story cutscenes from the new resident evil village videogame on a whim, since it’s not really our cup of tea gameplay-wise but seems to be this massive zeitgeist moment that made us morbidly curious. And I know how much everyone cares about my thoughts on things I know very little about, so. let’s get into it huh gamers. and yeah spoilers?

for context, I’ve only played resident evil 4 and a small portion of 5. I also read the wikipedia entry for 7’s plot recently. all this to say I was only vaguely aware of how tonally wacky the series was going in

I also completely gave up following the plot of the mutagens’ soap opera, so that paid off in spades here as you might imagine

anyway so that baby in the intro. that baby’s head is just massive. humongous toddlerdome. when ethan finds the baby’s head in a jar later on. there is no way that head would fit into that jar. bad game design. no not even game design. basic stuff. one hundred years in prison for jar modeler

if I see a single functional hetero marriage in video games I will cry tears of joy. I understand their misery is kind of The Point irt them badly working through the hillbilly romp trauma but like. sheesh. at least set that up as an emotional story goal the plot will help resolve. but nope they start off miserable and it goes nowhere

I know I know the mia thing has a huge wrinkle in it but like. not really in terms of dramatic function?? set up a happy end to the re7 nightmare (miranda can keep up appearances for all she cares) and then take that all away from angry griffin mcelroy for manpain. it will still absolutely work to set up the dramatic forward momentum. why throw in this cliche Hollywood Tension in their marriage if you’re not going to address it oh maybe because it’s normalized as automatically interesting because nuclear families are a self-propagating pit of a very narrow chance at emotional happiness relying on social stigma to preserve their empty function oops my baggage slipped in yikes abort mission

I called him griffin mcelroy because I saw his face on twitter and. yeah. I will continue to do this occasionally. my house my rules

... fuck the reason I’m hung up on this is specifically because the rest of the game is so tonally dexterous (which is a shining point to me! more on that later!), and yet they felt weirdly compelled to create the aesthetic trapping of a family-at-odds trope without following it through too well. a sign of both the good and the bad stuff to come

but listen the real reason why I wanted to talk about any of this is to nitpick the fascinating backwards-engineered nucleus of the entire thing; in that this game essentially creates a melting pot of just SO many disparate horror tropes and then makes a no-holds-barred unhinged effort at weaving thick lore to piece them all together. it is truly a sight to behold. like straight up you got your backwoods fright night situation, your gothic castle vampires, your rural-industrial werewolves, and don’t forget your bloated swamp monsters over there, with then a hard left turn into robotic body horror, and the entire ass subgenre of Creepy Doll writ large, and the bloodborne tentacle monsters, and a hellboy angel bossfight, which rides on the coattails of a mech-on-mech pacific rim bonanza, and just jesus henry christ slow down

almost all of these are textural hijack jobs that don’t really get into the metaphor plain of any of those settings but the game sort-of makes an argument that the texture IS the point and revels in it. It is kind of admirable almost. The same reason why the intro felt boxed in and unmotivated is also why the rest of the game just blasts off of its hinges to the point of complete and self-indulgent tonal abandon. I kinda loved that about it. lady dimitrescu made sure to hold her hat down as she bent forward in mahogany doorways and then suddenly she’s a giant gore dragon and you settle in your temp role as dark souls man with Gun to take her ass down. Excellent??

this rhino rampage impulse to gobble up every horror aesthetic known to man comes to head when the game wrestles with its FPS trappings in what is the most hilarious solution in creating visceral player damage moments. Since most cinematics and the entire game is in first person, that leaves precious little real estate for the devs to work with if they really want to sell griffin’s physical crucible. To wit. This dude’s forearms. Specifically just the forearms. They are MASSACRED throughout the story. The poor man lives out the silent hill dimension of a hand model. by the end cutscene he looks like a neatly dressed desk clerk who had decided to stick both his grabbers into garbage disposal grinders just a few hours prior. like in addition to everything else it manages to rope in that tinge of slapstick violence into its general grievous genre collection except this time it IS for a lack of trying! truly incredible

but wait his miracle clawbacks from everything his poor paws go through are retroactively explained away, yes, but far too vaguely and far too late to console me as I sat and watched everyone’s favorite baby brother reattach an entirely severed hand to his wrist stump by just. placing it on there. and giving it a lil twist ‘n pop terminator-style. and then willing his fingers back into motion right in front of my bulging eyes. this game just does not care. it does not give a shit. and boy howdy will it work to make that into one of its strongest suits

cause generally speaking resident evil was THE premiere vanilla zombie content destinaysh for like a decade, right? and as the rest of the world and mainstream media started encroaching and bloodying its blue ocean it went and just exploded in every single conceivable horror trope direction like a smilodon on catnip. truly, genuinely fascinating franchise moves

yeah the big vampire milf is hot. other news; grass... green. although I do love the implication that her closet is just identical white dresses on a rack. cartoon network-level queen shit

apropos of nothing I’ve said there’s also this hobo dante-devimaycry-magneto man, and I can’t believe this sentence makes sense. anyway he made that “boulder-punching asshole” joke referring to chris redfield and it was probably the only easter egg that really landed for me and boy did it land hard. I have not seen him punch the boulder in re5, mind. I had only heard about how funny it is from friends. and here this dude was, probably in the same exact mindset as me, trying to grapple with that insane mental image. with you on that ian mckellen, loud and clear

I advocate vehemently against the shallow pursuit of hyper photorealism in art direction but I gotta admit it works really in favor of immersive horror like this. the european village shacks especially gave me super unchill flashbacks to my rural countryside retreat in western georgia. I could smell the linoleum dude. not cool

faces are weird in this game. can’t place it. nice textures, good animation, but the modeling template is... uuh strange? and the hair. it has that clustered-flat-clumpy look that harkens to something very specific and unpleasant but I just don’t know what. sue me

griffin’s mental aptitude to take all this shit in stride and end every seemingly traumatizing bossfight involving some fucking eldritch being yet unseen through mortal eyes by essentially throwing out an MCU quip is just. What the fuck dude? I mean that was funny how you casually yelled the f-word at a god damn werewolf that you considered a fairy tale an hour ago but are you like, all right?? it was swinging a sledgehammer the size of a bus at you, ethan

oh oh the vampires are afraid of cold and your last name is winters. I get it haha

Pro Gamer Nitpick: boss fights seemed a bit unnecessarily long?? idk why the youtuber we picked decided the ENTIRE propeller man fight counted towards the vital story scenes he was stitching together, but man mr big daddy lite there really had some get up and go huh??

why are they saying dimitrescu.. like that. is it really how you say that word or is the english language relapsing into its fetish for ending every single word with a consonant at all costs

I’m not saying it’s a dramatic miss of a twist in context of all that’s going on, but the “you died in the last game actually and have been DC’s clayface ever since” revelation is low-key. it’s. it’s just funny to me, I dont know what to say. century-old god-witch fails her evil plan after she mistakenly removes heart from what was definitely NOT just some white guy with eight fingers after all

chris realizing he’s about to become the player character and immediately swapping out his tsundere trenchcoat for the muscletight sex haver sweater

the little bluetooth speaker-sized pipe bomb he taped to his knife was nuclear?? really??? I must have missed something because that is just too good. I buy it though I totally buy it. chris just got them fun-sized nukes in his car trunk for, you guessed it, Situations

anyway this is all for now just wanted to briefly touch on how unexpectedly funny and tonally irreverent this seemingly serious game turned out to be. did not articulate any cathartic story beats whatsoever but my god it had fun connecting those plot points. he just fucking put his severed hand back on his stump and it Just Worked todd howard get in here

#text #another one in my bulleted review series with no rhyme or reason #sorry resident evil fans this could be a painful read pls turn away #i know almost nothing about it but i am gonna be super fake familiar and critical of this one hey ho

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pinkcatharsis · 4 years

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I dunno if I should legit continue this because I can’t remember where I was going with it. Read a prompt at @sloaners anon or a comment in one of their posts (fantastic art btw go check it out!) about Tsunade adopting a bb Tenzou and well. I wrote this and it’s unfinished and yeah.

I actually don’t even have a title for it. Was supposed to be an eventual YamaIru, too. Oh well!

—

Names have power, they say.

Tenzou can agree to a certain point because his experience from his missions, his targets, countless reconnaissance on high profile politicians has proven that people tend to cower from the syllables of a name if they are a threat.

Names carry prestige more than an identity.Names give history, are the pillars for legacy provided it is a name the people can accept. More often than not, it is a vessel for fear, control

They’re also a convenient excuse for people to either sing with high praise or forget because the truth is always a pill too hard to swallow.

Sometimes it lies ignored despite its great sacrifice to stop a rampaging monster, when the womb still bleeds fresh and a goodbye too soon falls from crimson lips. It is ignored because it is easier to hate someone helpless than to acknowledge a name that saved everyone.

Sometimes it is indifferent, distant, as cold as the unreadable, white irises of its clansmen.

Sometimes it lies abandoned, walls cracking, dust collecting over blood stained tatami mats where the weight of shame fueled enough strength to slice through flesh. Shame because of a choice to save one’s comrades as opposed to prioritising the mission.

Sometimes it is soaking in blood, whispers of its massacre echoing loud, and towards the end of it, the word traitor.

And sometimes, they’re just old, only remembered through history that is a core subject within the Academy walls, a prerequisite in terms of knowledge for every Konoha shinobi. They’re faded, scattered, heirless, visually only present through the carvings of stone that towers over the village.

Tenzou is conditioned to not pay any heed to something as trivial as a name. Not when he’s been conditioned, trained extremely well, that the only thing that matters is servitude to the village. That the name Konoha is the only thing of true value.

Greater people have sacrificed themselves for the good of village and now, their heir wanders Konoha’s walls shunned, sneered, hated, ignored. Their names hardly mattered in the present -- it’s like the Yellow Flash only exists as a tier to be achieved in terms of talent, hard work and mission success and nothing else. As if the man behind the legacy hardly existed.

Legacy means nothing, Tenzou realizes, in the grand scheme of things.

When you die, you just die.

It’s okay to die nameless.

Tenzou hears about Tsunade’s arrival tucked behind the cover of an open locker door. Apparently, Tsunade-hime is in the village for a visit. And like always, she has spent her first day sitting with her former sensei, having tea until she had flung the table across the room, out the window in a fit of uncontrolled, roiling rage.

“I think it’s because sandaime is asking her to stay,” one fellow ANBU says.

“No, it’s got something to do with her gambling debt for sure,” another says.

“Monkey says it has something to do with the council pressuring her to produce an heir,” a softer voice says.

“I thought she couldn’t?”

“Or she doesn’t want to?”

The conversation explodes, only coming to a sudden stop when the sound of a door opening puts a halt on the outright gossip that Tenzou shamefully has been eavesdropping on. Someone dares throw a table out the window in front of the Hokage? And the Hokage does nothing? Tenzou thinks back to Danzou an Root -- if any of them dared show such insubordination, that would mean at least half a day’s worth of lashings under the scorching sun and then dry fasting isolation for thirty-six hours. Not many tend to survive that but that would just mean they’re too weak to remain in Root, anyway.

“Don’t you guys have better things to do?” Kakashi’s voice cuts through with a drawl. It is followed by a series of locker doors shutting, rapid shuffling and then silence. “Oi, Tenzou. The Hokage needs you.”

Tenzou straightens, tugging his clean armor on and running a comb through his damp hair. He slams his locker shut and gives his senpai a wordless nod, acknowledging the summon.

A summon that suddenly renders him not so nameless anymore.

Tsunade is a towering figure, heals almost five inches high, back straight, eyebrows narrowed, hands on her hip and staring down at him like he’s a two year old.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” Tenzou responds, keeping perfectly still. He isn’t intimidated by Tsunade’s persona. He’s just feeling a little too awkward because if Tsunade leaned any closer to examine him, her breasts would be ten centimeters too close to his face to be called professional, let alone proper.

“You are awfully small for a fourteen year old,” Tsunade tartly says, almost disappointed.

“I am a hundred and twenty nine and a half centimeters,” Tenzou agrees, well aware of how stunted his growth is. Danzou always factored his slow growth to the radiation and chemical exposure, a side effect to the experimentation Tenzou miraculously survived. But small doesn’t mean weak, Danzou had said, one of the few times he had been encouraging.

“Do you even eat, boy?” Tsunade scoffs.

“Yes. Five meals a day when I am in the village, continuously supplemented by calorically dense ration bars that Danzou-sama advised to--”

“Hah! Which one -- the one that tastes like sweet wet newspaper or the one that tastes like mouldy bread?” Tsunade snorts.

Tenzou finds himself stammering a little, glancing a little cluelessly at the Sandaime who is taking a very, very long drag from his pipe. Tenzou’s mouth quickly clamps shut before he can voice out his confusion. He can’t honestly say he knows what mouldy bread tastes like nor can he say he’s actually tried eating wet newspaper, let alone a sweetened one. So he goes with what he thinks is the correct response to this kind of inquiry. “The N-4150?”

“Sweet, wet newspaper. At least that old fart chose the better formula.” Tsunade rolls her eyes before taking - thank heavens - a proper step back.

Tenzou blinks once, altering between Tsunade now very put-upon expression and the Sandaime who is standing there as if he were part of the book shelf. “Hokage-sama, should I not continue consuming the N-4150?”

Sandaime rumbles an amused noise, blowing out a slow stream of tobacco smoke before he stands, rounding the table. “Why don’t you demonstrate your Mokuton skills for Tsunade, Tenzou? After all, that is the reason you were summoned here.”

It gets another eyeroll, with a bit of a scoff from Tsunade, who crosses her arms under her breasts.

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” Tenzou acknowledges.

He puts his hands together, channels just enough chakra and forms a small pot in his hands, slowly filling it with roots coiling until it sprouts green leaves, topped with large, black centered white poppies.

“Oh, white poppies,” Sandaime smiles, his face wrinkling. “An interesting choice. You see, Tsunade, Tenzou here has been studying botany for a year now. He’s a bit of an artist with his gardening. Tenzou, didn’t you recently start studying architecture as well?”

“I have only started reading some reference books three months ago, Hokage-sama,” Tenzou responds, with a bit of a nod, as his fingers tightens a little bit around the pot in his hands, not quite sure what to do with his creation-demonstration.

“Hmmm,” Sandaime hums, a touch bemused before he brings his pipe back up to his lips. “Reminds you of someone, doesn’t it, Tsunade?”

Tenzou looks at Tsunade, who in a space of a heartbeat looks far too young in a show of vulnerability, as her throat bobs when he swallows. It gets washed away when he clicks her tongue and turns to look at Tenzou, giving him a once over.

“Well, no one fucks with grandfather’s DNA, gets away with it and then keep it from me. Had it been anyone else but Danzou, Root of all places, I wouldn’t take issue! When did you discover your Mokuton skills, boy?”

“A year before I graduated from the Academy.” Tenzou swallows. “I was five years old.”

“Nine years! With that creep!” Tsuande shouts.

Sandaime’s tobacco inhale had to be the longest one Tenzou has ever seen.

Sandaime exhales, responding with a sigh, “Better late than never, hmm?”

“Fine.” Tsaunde grouches. “I’ll do it. Tenzou, you can call me okaa-san when you’re ready.”

The pot drops from Tenzou’s hands.

“Eh?”

Tenzou thinks it's a good response. Given the proverbial punch to the face he’s just received.

It’s not that Tenzou wants to say he cares much for the idea of family.

It’s more like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

(What does family even mean?)

So Tenzou, much like every other time he gets moved around like he’s no more than a potted plant, agrees.

Not like it really matters, right?

He thinks of it as just having another sort of… superior?

A superior that Tenzou apparently now gets to live with after all of those paperwork.

In a large, inherited estate, closed off, covered in wildly growing flora and fauna. The estate does not look like it’s been lived in for decades. There is damage from the growth of vines, some of it poking through the tatami doors, and getting to the interior of the house. There are a few soda cans littered around the gate, some old, some new. Likely the result of dares from the younger crowd of Konoha.

The once heralded Senju estate that Hashirama and Tobirama and their families once resided in is now nothing more than a shadow of its former glory. Uncared for. Outdated. Obsolete.

“Well,” Tsunade huffs. “I haven’t seen this place in, hmm, ten years maybe? Maybe twelve? Tche, what a dump.”

Tsunade toes an old, faded orange soda can by her heel, kicking it further away.

Tenzou wishes he’s no more than a spore in the ground. Should he say something? He may be a Senju by name and by experimental DNA, but that doesn’t really make him a Senju-Senju.

It’s just circumstances.

“Well? What do you think, kid? You like the house?” Tsunade holds her hand out at the once upon a time regal grounds, now overgrown with weeds and littered with random junk.

Tenzou looks at the estate again and decides to go with the most diplomatically acceptable response there is in this case.

“It’s a lot bigger than my apartment,” Tenzou politely responds, as his eyes stray towards the patch of wildly growing rosary pea and oleander growing by the gate.

Tsunade’s booming laughter echoes throughout the entire compound, bemused and real. She doubles over, slapping a hand on her knee, her laugh tapering off to a bit of a wheeze. It almost sounds nervous. A little hysterical even.

Tenzou tilts his head to the side, staring up at this woman, this new mother of his, a legendary sannin, one of the most if not the best, medic there is in the country.

Would it be rude to ask her if she is okay?

“Kid,” Tsunade snorts, shaking her head, reaching out to ruffle Tenzou’s long hair. “I like your sense of humor. You and I are going to get along just fine.”

Tsunade asks to see his apartment.

And then proceeds to wear what Tenzou can only assume is her analytical face. It’s peppered with a little judgment, too.

Tenzou’s current apartment is a shoebox in size, with enough space for a single bed, a small sectioned off wall by the door turned to a makeshift kitchen and a connecting bathroom that Tsunade, no doubt, will have to carefully manage her long limbs.

“You like it here?” Tsunade asks, her lips twisting at the sight of the old hotplate on the tiny kitchen counter.

“It serves its purpose.” Tenzou shrugs.

“That wasn’t my question,” Tsaunde prompts, turning that analytical gaze back to Tenzou.

Tenzou frowns, resisting the urge to reach up and rub the back of his head in partial confusion, partial irritation. It’s a comfortable space -- what is she on about? Having an opinion on something as trivial as a living space serves no purpose in the betterment of Tenzou’s skills in the field. It has no correlation to his successful mission counts. Liking something or anything for that matter doesn’t make missions easier or harder, either.

Unsure of how to respond, Tenzou resorts to Danzou’s advice when it comes to undercover. If you’re caught in a tight spot, the easiest thing to slip out of attention is to either blend with your surroundings or mirror the person in front of you.

Tenzou goes for the mirror, sloping his eyebrows down the same way Tsunade is, relaxing his shoulder to what looks like a wary slump, canting his head just the tiniest bit to the side, and responds with what he hopes is a conclusion to this conversation, “It’s all right.”

Tsunade goes quiet for a while, before she sighs slowly and curses under her breath.

“Let’s try this again,” Tsunade sighs, gesticulating with her hand towards the entirety of the small apartment. “What do you think would make this space better suited for you? Take into consideration that you are also currently studying botany and architecture.”

Tenzou looks at the small stack of reference books he had borrowed from the public library, how he has to do most of his reading on the bed. If he had to sketch on drawing paper, he usually does so on the ceiling given the lack of floor space and a full flat wall that isn’t lined with bulging pipes or the sil of the window, with the paper taped on the corners. Makes it easier for him to get on his knees and practice his pencil sketches.

“Then that’s something you should consider when you fix our house, hmm?”

Oh. So he’s fixing it.

Well.

Okay, then.

—

And yeah that’s all I got. 🤷🏻‍♀️

#yamato tenzo #anbu tenzo #tenzou yamato #yamairu #tsunade adopts tenzou #tsunade is wine mama #senju tenzou #please help yamato

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sharada-n · 4 years

Text

As it is now officially the new year I can share the piece I did for the Papchat Secret Santa 2019 exchange! It was a lot of fun to write some Undertale again that wasn’t so angst focused and more of a fluffy piece ^^

Sans never considered himself to be the responsible adult.

He had found he rather played the part of the fun uncle for Frisk at best and even back when they lived in Snowdin Papyrus was the one always cleaning around the house, cooking, making sure their bills were paid. Sans wasn't very good at worrying about those things, or too lazy to bother with them. But that doesn't mean he can't be the responsible adult if the situation calls for it, everybody has to draw the line somewhere after all.

And Sans draws the line at serious bodily harm.

That's what compels him to say it out loud, even if a bigger part of him knows it's probably useless anyway. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Papyrus laughs. Honest to god cackles and Gaster follows suit, a deep chuckle that kind of catches Sans by surprise. It's been a few weeks, but he still needs to get used to having their father here again. "Having good ideas is not important," Papyrus says, with the kind of overblown confidence people usually display right before they break every single bone in their body and it only makes Sans more nervous. "Having fun is!"

"I'm all about having fun," He answers. "But this particular idea feels a little...deadly."

"I would be offended by your assumption that my calculations are that off," Gaster answers, staring down the hill with an assessing gaze. Sans is quite sure you can't determine the angle of a downward slope with the naked eye but what does he know. "If I wasn't so busy being puzzled by your assumptions that we can die."

"Says the guy who just came back to life after being dead for over a decade," Sans retorts. "Thanks to your calculations being way off I might add."

"Not dead," Gaster shoots back, while Papyrus is busy putting the final touches on their sled. "That would have probably been less... upsetting."

The way he says it is so casual it robs Sans from any response. Their father talks about his accident like it was a momentary stroll to the store that just so happened to delay him for years and as he watches Papyrus unfurl an honest to god sail, complete with little skull flag on the top, Sans wonders how, somewhere along the way, he became the most normal member in the Wingdings family.

"Papyrus," He says, both because their father looks too busy determining their ideal trajectory to pay attention and also because he is seriously worried. "You do know a sail is meant to catch the wind coming from behind, right. To go faster?"

"Excellent explanation of the functionality of sails on boats, brother." Papyrus answers, connecting the mast to their sled. The thing is made entirely from wood and painted expertly by Papyrus himself and it reminds Sans of the bridge back in Snowdin. "Good thing this is not a boat."

"Could have fooled me."

"The sail will be tied up while we speed down, but as we reach peak velocity we can deploy it to slow ourselves to an amiable meander. A reverse sail, if you will." Papyrus stands up, admires his horrid creation like a parent sending their firstborn off to university. "Except the wind is coming from a forward direction instead of backward like a typical ship sail. Which makes it pretty confusing namewise."

"I do believe between the reverse sail, the angle of the descent and the combined weight of us and the sled, the landing will stick," Gaster adds, smiling with unrestrained glee and Sans feels the concern grow. He admires both his father and his brother in their own unique passions for physics, much like his own, but just wishes they would use it for something besides death rides and scattering yourself across time and space.

But to each their own.

"Well, it's your funeral." He says, watching as the other two skeletons fit themselves in the carefully carved out seats Papyrus designed for them, leaving the first one empty. "It certainly was ice knowing you."

"You need some new material." Papyrus answers, without missing a beat, even though he's smiling.

"Now, Papyrus," Gaster says seriously, "Don't give him the cold shoulder."

Groans are all he gets as answer, from both his sons, followed with an empathic: "I will throw myself off this thing mid-ride." By Papyrus.

Then Gaster pulls a lever Sans hadn't even noticed and fire shoots out of the back of the sled, proving that the two exhaust pipes attached there were not merely for show. Knowing Papyrus as he does, Sans really could have guessed as much. He watches in what can only be described as stunned silence, part admiration and part fear, as the thing takes off at an alarming speed, making short work of the flat distance of the hill's summit and then disappearing downward, while Sans looks on.

The rockets give up about one-third of the way down, perhaps because those two had some sanity left in them but more likely because they didn't manage to fit any more fuel into the sled's contraption. Another third and Papyrus deploys the sail, the skull flag at the top flapping bravely in the wind and it takes Sans all but three seconds to realize it's not slowing them down nearly enough. Or at all. Unsurprisingly, as soon as the sled hits a bump it crashes spectacularly, flying in a neat little arc then nose-diving again, throwing both occupants out of the vehicle in an almost impressive display of the unrelenting force of gravity.

Sans holds his breath for a moment, two, then he hears the echoing laughter from the distance and sees Gaster throwing him a thumbs up and he starts sauntering slowly down the hill. No need to hurry, after all.

By the time he makes it down there, a trip that took the sled a few minutes at most but takes Sans a whopping ten minutes at the leisure pace he uses for non-emergencies, Papyrus has already managed to put the thing upright again and is noting the damage, Gaster is scribbling in his notebook with renewed vigor.

"So that went well." He says, while Papyrus lifts him up effortlessly and spins him around.

"It went perfectly!" His brother exclaims proudly, "Better than I had hoped!"

"Did it?" Sans asks as he is put down again, pointing at the warped frame of bottom rails. "Because it looks to me like you crashed."

"Just a little."

"Luckily the snow here is quite thick and cushioned our bodies from exploding into a gazillion tiny bone shards." Gaster adds triumphantly, turning to them.

Sans pushes his hands into his pockets. "What was that about sticking the landing?"

"Well, we probably would have if you had been in the sled. We did calculate for three passengers."

"Thinking I would step into that deathtrap in the first place was your biggest mistake then." Sans laughs but everybody ignores him.

"Sadly we burnt through all our fuel reserves in one go," Papyrus frowns at the rockets as if it was their fault for not being more considerate. "We won't be able to launch it again today to see for different results." Gaster pats him on the back in a consoling gesture.

"That's great because I'm not stepping in that thing," Sans repeats.

Gaster throws him a truly infuriating smirk. "Really, Sans, who would have thought you had become so boring while I was gone."

"I'm not boring for not wanting to die. And not wanting you to die either."

"Sans is very boring." Papyrus agrees with a solemn nod. "He does many things very boringly."

Sans sighs, tries to refrain from cracking his knuckles because he knows how much Papyrus hates it. "Well, excuse me for not wanting to lose something I only just got back, ok?" He mutters and it does stop the others dead in their tracks, smiles falling from their faces suddenly. "We only just got to be together again. There's... there's still a lot I want to do now that we have the chance-"

They are stunned for a moment, Sans doesn't give them much time to think it over though, bending down instead to scoop up a handful of snow and aim it at his father's face. "Like this!"

To his credit, Gaster ducks surprisingly fast for his age and the snowball misses him and hits Papyrus right in the eye instead. Sans burst out laughing at the same moment that Papyrus yelps, shaking the snow out of his socket. His laughter is quickly interrupted by a face full of snow himself however, courtesy of Gaster.

The area quickly devolves into an impromptu battlefield, the sled serving as cover for Papyrus who proceeds to expertly decimate his opponents with his superior aim and effectiveness, rolling masses of snowballs in record time and hurling them with marksman accuracy. Sans could have predicted this, he hadn't won a single snowball fight between the two of them since his brother turned nine, but that didn't mean it wasn't fun. And he definitely got a few hits in on Gaster, who despite his initial ducking wasn't very adept at snowball fighting himself.

By the end, they had no choice but to declare Papyrus the ultimate snowman (a title he chooses for himself) and Sans "soaked to the bone", pun intended. He didn't wear a coat, because the cold usually wasn't a problem, but now both his hoodie and short are heavy with melted snow and too wet for comfort. He grimaces at them.

"I guess we should postpone our sled relaunch until next time," Papyrus says, lifting the entire thing with just one hand. "When I have convinced the black market human to sell me more fuel."

Sans decides to ignore how concerning that statement is, instead focusing on Gaster, busy brushing the snow off his black coat. "Are we going to let him do that?"

"I don't see a reason not to."

Sans nods, "Of course you don't."

"Instead," Gaster says, as they start following Papyrus, who is by now lifting the sled high above his head with the skull flag still waving in the wind. "How about you tell me some of those other things you still want to do together now that I'm back."

"Right," Sans says, and the sky is strikingly clear but with dusk setting in he can just see the twinkle of stars in the distance. "That would be nice."

#Undertale #Sans #Papyrus #w.d. gaster #my writing #hmmmmmmmm first fic of the new year #tho technically written in 2019

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zoequeenz · 4 years

Text

Won’t Get Fooled Again (Part 1)

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

3rd Person POV

“The forecast, plenty of sunshine through today with seasonal temperatures.” announces the man on the radio as Joe Reese sits in his car waiting. He turns off the radio right as Gil Clurman walks out to his car with a plain brown box in his hand. Joe then gets out of his car, he is angry.

“Clurman!”

Gil sets the box down on the top of his car.

“Why didn’t you return my calls, Gil?” Joe asks.

“Come on, Joe, give me a break.” Gil answers.

“I’m late for a meeting.”

“I left messages on every line.” says Joe.

“I even talked to your assistant.”

“Look, I’ve been really busy, okay?” Gil answers.

“We have a meeting scheduled tomorrow. We’ll talk then, okay?”

“That’s right, we will.” Joe says angrily.

“You blow me off again, it’s gonna get ugly, and I won’t be so understanding next time.”

Joe turns away, heading back to his car. Gil slightly frightened moves to get into his car. He grabs the package and BOOM! While Joe recovers he turns to see Gil screaming on the ground, in pain. His leg is missing.

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Persephone Chase’s POV

We are getting called in for a bombing case in Palm Beach. Of course the media has gotten their grimy hands on it and will spread massive panic. Not that the word shouldn’t get out but the media is the media and they don’t always have the right information. They also give the unsub what he or she wants. Fame. I walk with JJ into the briefing room. This would be the first case in a while where she would be joining us. Hotch and Gideon walk in shortly after. We get our files and start looking over the case.

“Pipe bombs.” Gideon says.

“Packed in cardboard boxes.” Derek says handing Gideon a photo.

“Package bombs.” Hotch adds.

“Sent through the mail?” Gideon asks.

“No. The other picture in your hand is of the switch ATF found. Same mechanism for both bombs, mercury activated.” Derek states.

“What does that mean?” Elle asks.

“There are contacts to the detonator on either end of a bent tube full of mercury.” Spencer answers.

“What it means is all you have to do is tilt the package to detonate it.” Morgan explains in more detail.

“So they couldn’t have been sent through the mail.” Elle states.

“The bomber had to deliver them himself.”

“Exactly.” I say.

“Strange way to commit an act of terrorism. Why go to all this trouble to kill just a few people?” Hotch asks.

“Let’s recommend not raising the terror alert level for now.” Gideon suggests.

“No reason to spread panic.”

“We got news.” JJ declares walking into the room. She then turned on the TV.

“This is just a local channel, but the coverage is everywhere now. CNN, Fox, MSNBC, Al Jazeera, you name it.”

“So much for not spreading panic.” says Hotch.

On screen was a reporter speaking about the bombing and the most recent victim. He got lucky. Badly injured but in ICU.

“If DHS doesn’t raise the terror alert now, they’ll look weak.” says Gideon.

“Make sure homeland security knows that this is everywhere.” Hotch tells JJ.

Just as she was about to leave another bomb exploded live on TV. Everyone looked around in shock.

“Looks like we are going to Palm Beach. Let’s meet at the airstrip in 20.” Hotch tells us.

While I was at my desk I overheard Hotch and Derek talking. Derek wanted to stay behind to look at the bomb fragments because he was the only one on the team with an ATF background. Hotch then kinda teased him for wanting to stay but knowing that it was only because Derek is still weary of Gideon.

“Hey Derek, just wanted to say goodbye before we leave.” I say walking up to him.

“Now Little One, goodbye is for forever. I prefer “see ya later” for this job.” He says.

I giggle but understand where he is coming from. Goodbye can mean forever but whenever I am separated from a part of my team I feel like maybe I should say something just incase.

“Okay then, see ya later.” I say hugging him.

“See ya later. Little One.” he returns welcoming the hug.

I pull away and smile up at him. Then I make my way to the jet.

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“The bombings occurred within three miles of each other. First victim was seventy four year old widow, Barbara Keller.” Hotch says setting her picture down on the table between Spencer and I.

“Two hours after that. Clurman got hit in his driveway, and forty five minutes later...well, we all saw that. Jill Swensom, thirty four year old housewife who lived across the street from Clurman. Of the three only Clurman survived.”

“Is there any connection between the victims?” Spencer asks.

“One. Clurman was a partner in a ten million dollar condo development deal in which Keller was an investor, and a few weeks ago the whole deal went bust.” Hotch answers.

“Went bust how?” Elle asks.

“Geologists discovered that the land was on methane, the condos never got built, the land became worthless. And Clurman lost a lot of people a lot of money.” Hotch tells her.

“So maybe one of them was mad enough to take aim at Clurman.” Spencer suggests.

“Oh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s a little too early to theorize about motive.” Gideon interjects.

“Then where do we start?” Elle asks.

“From the beginning.” he replies.

“What do we know about bombers?”

“Mostly male, loners,” Spencer starts.

“History of criminal activity.” I add.

“About fifty percent of all bombers are actually the product of vandalism.” Spencer interjects.

“And more often than not, bombers end up accidentally blowing themselves up, so the first suspects you always look for in the bombing case are the victims.” Hotch adds.

“Clurman was the only male. Losing a large business deal like that it could be a powerful stressor.” Elle says.

“Well, then there’s the crime scene. Clurman was the only victim who didn’t get hit at his door. Why?” Gideon asks.

“What was different about this one?”

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We made it to the scene. Though the car was damaged it wasn’t as bad as I was imagining it to be. Focus on the matter on hand P. Come on girl.

“Before Clurman passed out, what he told the cops at the time was that he saw the package sitting on the stoop outside his kitchen door.” Hotch informs us.

“Why didn’t he take it in?” Elle asks.

“Why didn’t it go off until he got to his car?” Spencer added.

“It’s like fifty feet away.”

“Joe Reese, one of Clurman’s investors, was here before the bomb went off.” I say.

“The cops have ruled him out as a suspect, but he said he saw Clurman get in the car with the package.” Hotch adds.

“So maybe Clurman wasn’t receiving a bomb at all. Maybe he was on his way to delivering one.” Elle ponders.

“But he drops it or tilts it, and it goes off by accident.” Spencer says.

“I’d like to talk to Clurman. In the meantime, let’s get a warrant to search his house.” Gideon says.

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3rd Person POV

Back at Quantico Morgan is looking through photos of the bomb fragments. Garcia then walks in with a group of men who brought the fragments over.

“You have a package. Don’t worry, It had a police escort all the way from Palm Beach.” Garcia informed Morgan.

“Okay, right on time.” Morgan says getting up and going to the silver box.

“Thanks man, I got this.” he tells the man who brought in the box.

“These are my bomb fragments. We can start putting this bad boy together.” Morgan tells Garcia opening the box.

“Why bother? Don’t you just look at the pieces for prints and stuff?” she asks causing Morgan to chuckle.

“Garcia, what are you doing in the FBI?” he asks, smiling.

“I didn’t get into medical school?” she replies.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Ouch. That’s what my father said.” she says playfully punching his arm.

“All right, I’m about to teach you something, so pay attention.” he tells her.

“Oh, it’s like school.” she replies unhappily.

“Look, how these things are put together can tell you how the unsub thinks.”

“You sound like Gideon.” Garcia tells him.

“Okay, ouch.” Morgan replies lightly nudging Garcia.

“Oh, you think it’s bull? Ok...all right. You see that section of pipe.” he says holding a small evidence bag up.

“That right there used to be part of the cap. It screwed onto these threads right here. But, see here’s the thing, it had to be done very carefully because even if one tiny grain of powder got onto those threads while he was working, that little bit of friction would have ignited the bomb. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! See ya later, unsub. Now, he didn’t have to use a powder that fine. He didn’t have to use threaded caps, and he didn’t even have to use a steel pipe, and it would have been a whole lot safer if he hadn’t. But the bomb wouldn’t have been nearly as deadly.” He explains.

So what does that tell you about our unsub?” Morgan asks her.

“He’s one sick puppy?” she suggests. Morgan laughs.

“ To say the least. One sick puppy that aims to kill. Not scare, not vandalize, or make some kind of political statement. Kill.”

They share a glance and then begin to take out the bomb fragments.

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Persephone Chase’s POV

After looking at Clurman’s car we decided to split up. Spencer and Gideon go to the hospital while I stay with Elle and Hotch to investigate Clurman’s home. As we wait for the lead detective Hotch tells an officer all the places to check for any evidence.

“Agent Hotchner?” ask a man.

“Yes sir.” Hotch replies.

“Detective Morrison, Palm Beach PD. I’m lead on the case.” he introduces himself shaking hands with Hotch. “ Nice to meet you. This Agent Greenaway and Chase. Agents Reid and Gideon are at the hospital. I think you met Agent Jareau at the station house.” Hotch says.

“Oh, yeah, she’s taken over the place.” Morrison responds.

“She does that.” Elle adds.

“ATF hasn’t found any hard evidence yet, just some kitchen times, tape, recorders, and electrical switches.” Hotch explains.

“Yeah. It is amazing how many household items count as potential bomb-making materials.” Morrison adds.

Just as we entered so did someone else.

“Hello?” she called.

“Excuse me!” she exclaims.

“Mrs.Clurman.” Morrison tells us.

“What’s going on here?” she asks.

“”Mrs.Clurman, my name is Special Agent Aaron Hotchner with the FBI.” Hotch introduces.

“What are you doing in my house?” she asks.

“There’s a copy of the warrant on the table. I know that this is hard to believe, but we just need to cover all our bases. We need to make sure that your husband was not involved in any way.” Hotch tells her.

“Involved?” she presses.

“My husband’s in the hospital with his leg blown off. What are you talking about?!”

“Mrs. Clurman, there are some questions that your husband needs to answer, and the sooner that we talk to him and clear him, then the sooner we can find whoever’s responsible.” Elle adds.

“Agent Hotchner?” someone from behind calls.

“We’ve got something.”

We follow him to the garage. We crowd around a small tool box that is filled with things that could be used to make a bomb.

“We found this buried on the back of that shelf.” one of the ATF guys says.

“Mrs. Clurman…” Hotch says.

“Do you know anything about this?”

She pauses and looks at the tool box. We wait for an answer.

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3rd Person POV

At the hospital Reid and Gideon are questioning Mr.Clurman.

“What can you tell us about the package, Mr.Clurman?” Gideon asks.

“I thought I knew what it was. Pot for an orchid. I collect them. I ordered the pot through the mail.” he explains.

“Why didn’t you take it inside?” Gideon asks another question.

NEXT CHAPTER

#criminal minds #criminal minds series rewrite #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x OC #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid series #best friends with a genius profiler

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angsty-nerd · 5 years

Text

Fictober #31

#31. “Scared? Me?”

Roswell, NM Fanfiction

Gen, slight Echo. Isobel, Michael, Liz...Noah & Max mentioned.

Also for RIPRoswell, with the “haunting” theme for today!

*takes a bow*. Below the cut for length!

Isobel hated that she still thought about him sometimes.

She didn't want to. She definitely didn't want him. But he had spent so many years twisting his way into her subconscious, into her life, into her heart that no matter how much she hated him now, she couldn't quite fully forget him.

It made her want to scream and throw things.

It made her want to blow shit up.

She tried to expel her rage through self defense classes, by trying to grow strong. She tried learning new alien abilities to feel powerful.

But he was still there, tickling in the back of her mind, telling her that she was weak, gullible, that she would always be his plaything.

She clears their home out, removing everything that reminds her of him. It was all fake anyway. The Noah who lived as her husband was the lie, which should make him easier to erase.

The monster who killed Rosa was the real Noah. He belonged in that cave out in the desert. He deserved the cold, damp darkness. He should have been trapped underground with the corpse of his own making. He deserved to be buried. That monster never lived with her in her home and he never would.

Spring was coming and as the weather warmed it reminded her of her husband...of picnics in the town square, of their huge wedding in the big church with the whole town in attendance. Spring had too many memories. Spring meant that it was time to exorcise him from her life for good.

She made her way to the monster’s cave for the first time in months. She hated everything about that place. Not only was it the monster's home, it was a symbol of her husband's lies. Not to mention it was the place where her brother had died.

She would be lying if she didn't admit that she hated that last bit the most about the cave. It had taken her brother away from her. She wanted it to burn.

It hadn't really changed in the months since Max had died. Rosa's weird shrine still dominated the walls of the cave, and the sad, broken pod was still the largest object in the room. Anything alien, or anything they thought might be useful was collected and taken away with them on the day that Max died.

Isobel looked at the ground and her memory flashed back to that day, to running into the cave...the sight of Max lying dead on the ground, Liz with her face buried in his chest as she sobbed, agonized. Rosa in the corner, a blanket wrapped around her tiny frame, so confused about what was going on.

He caused all of this.

As the anger surged inside of her, she felt her power building alongside it, and this was it. It was time to bury him.

She shot her hand forward and narrowed her eyes, focusing all of her energy onto the monster's pod. With a mental thrust she shoved her destructive power at it, and the pod exploded, bits of its flesh-like membrane flying in every direction.

Isobel laughed, shouting at the air around hed. "Scared? Me? Ha! I'm not afraid of you anymore!"

She threw her power at the candles surrounding pictures of Rosa, satisfied to watch them fly through the air, smashing against the jagged edges of the rocks.

The rocks themselves now drew her attention. They had no business existing in this horrible place either, so she blew them up too. Rock flew in every direction, and she felt stinging pain, as the debris scratched her face, her arms, her neck, even her clothes. She tasted blood, as a scratch above her lip dripped towards her mouth.

Her breath heaved from the effort of all of the destruction that she wreaked on this place that the monster had considered sacred. She smiled, as she surveyed her damage.

"You see!" She shouted into the air. "See what I can do to you!! You don't own me anymore! I'm free, and I'm powerful, and I don't need you!"

Her voice cracked on the last word and she fell to the ground, still breathing heavily. Her eyes stung, but she bit back the tears. He didn't deserve them.

She placed her palm flat on the earth, in the dust, on the spot where Max had died. A sharp pain cut through her again as the image of her dead brother's body flashed through her mind once more.

Isobel gathered a handful of dust in in her fist. She raised it up to eye level and then slowly allowed it to slide free, between her fingers, raining back down to the earth. She gasped, as the falling dust started swirling in a beautiful pattern, not dissimilar to a tiny, gentle tornado.

There was no wind in the cave. The air was still.

When her hand was empty, she tried reaching out with her mind, hoping to sense another presence in the cave with her. For a moment she thought she felt a whisper...but no, there was nothing there. Unsure what else to do, she scattered another fistful of dust. Again, it moved into a windless pattern.

Isobel placed her hand back down on the earth and reached out with her mind, trying to sense who or what might be there with her. There was no response, other than a tiny shockwave that extended from her hand...but not from her power.

"Hello?" She whispered into the air.

There was only silence in response.

Somehow though, Isobel knew that it couldn't be Noah. Whatever was out there seemed like it was just trying to catch her attention...maybe tell her that she wasn't alone even though she felt that way. There was a comfort to the presence.

Really, she realized, it reminded her of…

"Max?" She whispered aloud.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Michael laughed as he tasted blood, his split lip already beginning to ache. He didn't give a damn though. Pain was good. Pain reminded him of who he was. Pain helped him remember that he was still alive even if-

No. None of that.

Staggering back into the Pony, his eye bruised, knuckles bloody, and that damn lip, which was gonna hurt like hell on his next drink...but he suddenly found himself face to face with a very annoyed Maria.

"All taken care of, DeLuca. The racist son of a bitch won't be coming in here and saying that kind of garbage to you anymore."

"That racist son of a bitch was a paying customer, Guerin. Unlike you. I actually need to keep a few of those around, you know...so that I don't lose the roof over my head?"

"I was defending your…"

"...honor, I know. But I can handle it, Guerin. I'm not a damsel in distress that needs saving. Now get out of my bar. Your face is pissing me off tonight."

"Fine," Michael grumbled as he made his was back to the door. He turned back right before walking out and was pleased to see no one looking. With a wave of his hand, a bottle of whiskey glided away from the bar, and over to him. He grabbed it with a smirk and headed for his truck.

It was too early to go home. He didn't want to think, which meant no Liz or Alex or Kyle… sighing, Michael could only think of one place to go, so he turned his truck towards the desert and headed to the pod cave.

It was cold and dark out there by the old turquoise mines, but Michael didn't mind the cold. Cold was just another form of pain after all. And pain was life.

He walked haphazardly into the pod cave, feeling his way through the darkness along the rocky walls, until finally it opened up into the large cavern dimly lit by the glowing pods.

He stopped in the entrance, pulled the cork from the bottle and took a long slug of whiskey to numb the impending angst that he knew would come when he let his eyes rest on…

Yup. There was Max. Floating naked in his pod, his dark hair flowing in the liquid of the stasis fluid. He looked almost comfortable, like he was asleep. Of course, it was all deception. Max hadn't moved in months. His heart wasn't beating, he wasn't breathing. He was gone. What was floating in the pod was just an empty shell.

Michael took another long drink from the bottle and closed his eyes as the whiskey burned it's way down his pipes into his stomach. He looked down at the bottle in his hand and poured one out for Max at the foot of his pod.

"One for me, one for you, man." He took another gulp. "Okay make that two for me."

He staggered back and forth in front of the pod, trying to clear his head. Maybe coming here wasn't the best idea. Being here, seeing Max...now he was just drunk and angry and he couldn't leave.

"You know, Max, I am so fucking pissed at you for leaving Isobel and I here alone. It was supposed to be the three of us. And then you and Iz both forgot that. She married that piece of shit, and you brought Liz in, who brought Valenti in, and now here we are. You're dead. And we have a herd of humans instead. But none of them are… family. Fuck."

Michael took another long drink. "Congrats, Max." He saluted the pod with the bottle. "You finally got me to admit that we're family."

He could feel his pace getting more and more unsteady, hear his words slurring as the whiskey went straight to his head.

He took a turn a little too quickly and lost his balance, falling to the ground. He laughed hysterically, lying back in the dust and staring up into the inky darkness of the rocks above.

Rolling his head a bit to the side, he could see Max in his pod a few feet away. He just lay there, staring at Max, his vision growing blurry as he found himself drifting closer to oblivion.

Through his lessening senses, for a moment he thought he saw Max looking at him from the pod. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but it didn't help.

There were footprints in the dust... were they his footprints? Or Max's?

He closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning. It didn't help. The world was on a tilt-a-whirl, and Max was crouched beside him, a worried look on his face.

Before he passed out, Michael could swear he heard his brother say, "Get it together, Michael. They all need you."

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was nearly midnight when Liz returned home from the lab. Rosa was already in bed for the night, so Liz sneaked into the house quietly, trying not to wake her, as she made her way straight back to Max's bedroom.

It was cold in his room. When he was alive it seemed like there was always a fire lit, warming every room of the house. With Liz working all hours day and night, she never had time to make the house comfortable, especially on a long day like this one. So instead she decided to just bundle up for warmth.

She pulled on a pair of her own sweatpants, and then dug into Max's closet until she found his red hoodie. She slipped the sweatshirt on, zipping it up. It was much too large for her, but it was warm, and it smelled like him.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of being surrounded by the memory of him, Liz crawled into his bed, pulling the covers up around her neck, and turning her face into the pillow.

The weight of the blankets felt warm, protective...they replicated feelings that would overwhelm her when Max would hold her. The smell of him on the hoodie, on the blanket, his pillow...she felt surrounded by him…

But inherently she knew that she was surrounded by the memory of him. She was still alone. And he was still dead.

One by one, tears began to slip from her eyes, flowing down her cheeks, and dripping onto the pillow surface, until there was a damp spot beneath her face.

It had been so long without him. She had been working so hard to try to bring him back, and nothing was panning out. It was soul crushing. She was beginning to fear that she might never succeed. And all she wanted in the world was to feel Max's arms around her.

Goosebumps suddenly rose up on her arm, and she shivered at the sensation. The light tingling sensation moved from her arm, down her hand to her fingertips. She felt it travel along her jawline, trace the shape of her lips.

"Max…" she breathed out softly.

She longed to hear his voice answer, but there was no sound. Just the lightest whisper of a breeze in the air.

She sat up, searching the room for some visible sign that the sensations she was experiencing were real, weren't just a figment big her imagination. There was nothing.

Suddenly, that strange tingling sensation returned, like an invisible hand pressed over her heart, right on the spot where Max had healed her, where he had connected with her. She slipped a hand inside the hoodie and placed it over that same spot, and it felt like she captured whatever was there between her hand and her chest.

"It is you, isn't it?" She murmured to the empty room. "Don't worry, I'm not giving up. I'm going to keep fighting to give you your life back. I'm going to keep fighting for us."

~*~*~*~*~*~

He watched her sleep in the darkness, trying not to focus too much on her tear-streaked cheeks. Watching her mourn, watching her suffer, watching her work herself to death...it was all agonizing for him.

Her pain, Michael falling apart, Isobel's rage...he watched them all and longed to help them. They rarely sensed his presence, but it seemed like once in a while, when things were particularly intense, he managed to get through.

He hoped those moments helped more than they hurt.

But Max believed that Liz would succeed in bringing him back. Why else would he be here, in this state of limbo, unable to move on from the living world?

His soul was waiting to return home to them.

All he needed was for Liz to mark the path for him.

#fictober19 #riproswell #my fanfiction #rnm gen fanfic #liz ortecho #michael guerin #isobel evans

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ciathyzareposts · 6 years

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Crusaders of the Dark Savant: Pomp and Circumstance

I would hope that the number of people I have “both loved and slain” is small.

In several long sessions, I conquered and pillaged the Temple of Munkharama. I had to review my screenshots from hours ago to remember why I was there in the first place. (Because of all the dialogue and descriptions, my screenshots folder has swiftly ballooned to over 2,000 shots.) It goes back to the garrulous Brother T’Shober, guardian of the Munkharama Bridge, who begged me to find my way to the Temple, beneath the city above it, and retrieve the Holy Work before a bunch of evil monks from the Dark Forest got to it first. He told me to bring it to Master Xheng, Lord of the 5 Flowers.

I thought the Holy Work might be the Astral Dominae, but I should have realized it was silly to expect any actual connection between the game and its backstory this soon, if at all. Instead, it was just a book.

A book as helpful as the in-game text!

Reaching it was a long process that began by–as I had surmised several entries ago–shouting “COINS” as a response to the riddle of the well. In return, it delivered me four coins that I had to use in four receptacles to open four doors, two of which had switches that opened secret doors accessible from the other two. One of those secret areas led to a bunch of new rooms on the east side of the monastery, one to a bunch of rooms on the west.

The east side housed a logic puzzle by which I had to drop four beans into four chalices and then pull a spindle in a central room. The spindle activated a kind of slot machine with four panels colored black or white. It took me a few tries to figure out what was going on, but basically after pulling the spindle, the panels showed me how many beans were in the correct chalices by the number of black panels vs. white panels–but not which beans were correct. Every time I got it wrong, I got dumped through a trap door into a basement and took damage. There were 4!=24 potential combinations, but each try gave me enough information to cross several possibilities off the list and narrow it down. Eventually, I got it right. The solution opened a secret door to the rest of the section.

This was a good thing.

With my recent failure in Shadowlands on my mind, I should point out that this is the kind of puzzle I like. It takes some effort and experimentation to figure out what’s happening, and once you intuit that, you can solve it by logic. It wasn’t just about mechanics, and there weren’t rats or a food meter impelling me to solve it faster.

The new passage led the party to Brother Moser’s Apothecary. Aside from selling potions, he didn’t have a lot that was interesting to offer just yet.

My full map of Munkharama.

Over on the west side, I found myself in front of a large building labeled “Palace of the Gran Melange, The Land of Dreams.” (“Gran Melange” is a perfect David Bradley phrase, like “Dark Savant,” that at first sounds okay but then falls apart when you consider its true meaning, in this case something like “great miscellany.”) Inside, a monk wanted to know what I was doing there. I tried HOLY WORK, GRAN MELANGE, ASTRAL DOMINAE, and even COSMIC FORGE (hey, my characters are still a bit confused) before finding success with (duh) DREAMS. But I couldn’t answer his second question about “what happens to those who cannot walk the land of dreams” until I returned to Brother Moser and asked him, and learned that such people “walk the land of the living dead.” This is another kind of puzzle that I like: the kind where you have to pay attention and take notes, then use those notes at a later point. Admittedly, the copious verbiage in this game makes it tough.

What followed were a series of rooms (connected by a maze of ladders) where I encountered a bunch of monks high on some kind of pipeweed, spouting nonsense about life being a dream and other silliness that was probably meant to sound profound. (Sample: “Life is a mystery, a puzzle, a riddle, a rebus, an enigma. As you live, you discover some of its pieces. Some you know, as if you had always known. Others you do not recognize, and discard. But all is part of the puzzle.”) From these encounters, I got a smoking pipe and some “pastilles” to pack into it.

I’ll smoke what he’s smoking.

The monk at the entrance had warned me not to go through a black door, but it was the only way to go, and after doing so, I found myself in a blank void. And here I got one of the games absurdly, almost offensively long expositions. I’ve complained about wordiness a few times, but I want to make it clear that I certainly don’t mind the brief atmospheric descriptions. For instance, here’s one that came later in the area:

You step into the arena of a tremendous cathedral, its bizarre frescoes long faded, its papal pews submerged under a dense cesspool of stagnant water and filled with the wrenching odor of offal and decay. Thick molds cover much of the ceiling and chamber, and splotches of scummy mires are visible floating on the surface of the water. It is not a very pleasant atmosphere.

Now that’s great. It gives a lot of context to otherwise somewhat featureless wall textures, and it even makes sense given the overall backstory of the location. I wouldn’t mind if the text was delivered a bit faster, in a smaller font, without requiring me to acknowledge every sentence, but I otherwise have no problem with the prose.

Occasionally, the descriptions are funny. I don’t often appreciate Bradley’s humor, but this passage from later (beneath the temple), got a chuckle, even though it hijacked my characters’ attitudes, something I usually object to:

You pull the lever but nothing happens . . . Playing with the lever for a while and getting nowhere, you eventually resort to more forceful tactics. Pretty soon the floor is littered with piece of hacked lever parts, everybody is yelling at everybody else, and finally you concede that some things were not meant to be.

This, on the other hand, is what I got in the dream void:

You step into oblivion. You are falling . . . falling . . . falling. And then you are falling no longer. All is quiet and black. Though you can feel a solid surface beneath your feet, you see nothing, and all around you presses the deep void. A vision of burning flames appears in the distance. You draw closer to the fiery blaze, and you see there is something burning in the flames. It is you. The fire swells and suddenly you are surrounded by faces from your past, faces of those you have both loved and slain. Their skin bubbles and their eyeballs swell and then explode as they scream. And you watch as they turn into a host of blackened charred corpses. Their screams become a mad cackling, and as they crumble into dust you see arise within the flames huge buildings and structures. And you sense that the structures mean something important, but watch as they too crack and fall into the burning inferno. The flame congeals into a flaming ball, and from its smoke and ash forms a sphere of spinning firmament which begins to orbit around the burning mother. And you look upon the sphere as its surface transforms, blossoming an infinite variety of features, and soon there are other spheres and then behind them still others and then a thousand suns dot the black sky. A million planets swarm past you, racing through the void, and time itself seems to accelerate as you witness the birth and demise of nations and whole worlds. You gaze upon the evolution of life as it streams through the galaxies, birthing and growing, warring and dying, and soon the shapes become a blur until they finally collide in a tremendous explosion and time itself becomes exhausted and collapses. And then all is still and black again.

If even that doesn’t seem so bad, keep in mind that this narrative is being delivered basically one sentence at a time, frequently appearing that it’s over, because it ends one-third of the way down the screen, only to start up again on the next screen. And if it still sounds cool, ask yourself: What is the point? Why these images? Do they actually mean anything? Is there any payoff? Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. I think the author is just being self-indulgent. I think he’s read things like this in other stories, better stories, where there is a purpose and payoff, and he’s trying to mimic that.

Here, it’s just a waste of time. It doesn’t even lead you to the correct next action, which is to combine the pipe and pastilles and light it. A good narrative, in addition to being much shorter, might have ended by saying something like, “You see images in the void, but your sober mind is not in any position to decipher them.” Oh, incidentally, if you do the wrong thing, you have to read all of this again.

Lighting the pipe didn’t make anything more sensible. A being called the Spirit of Life appeared, spouted some more pretentious nonsense (“this is the seed that is the root and heart of all living things” offered a particularly glorious mix of metaphors) and then asked me to choose the form of divine assistance: a sword, a staff, a gown, a ring, or a stone. I somewhat unimaginatively chose the sword, and I was given a magic weapon called the Sword of 4 Winds. Equipped by my lord, it does about twice the damage as his previous sword, so it wasn’t a terrible choice, but I’m curious what the other choices would have gotten me.

Yeah, choosing the sword is pretty “basic,” but who says “gown” at a time like this?

Incidentally, I think there’s a bug attached to the sword. First, it’s cursed, which means I can’t unequip it until I cast “Remove Curse.” That’s fine; I don’t want to unequip it. But it’s also one of those weird Wizardry weapons that asks me if I want to “invoke” it, which usually gives you something like an attribute boost in exchange for the item disappearing. In this case, invoking it raises my maximum hit points, permanently, but the sword doesn’t disappear because (I think) of the curse. This means I could theoretically use it to elevate my lord’s hit points to game-breaking heights. But after I saw what was happening (after invoking it twice), I stopped.

Out of the dream world, I found myself in a new area: the courtyard of the Xen Xheng School of 5 Flowers. Inside, Maser Xheng challenged me with a code phrase (“Slay not he that cannot hear”), to which I fortunately knew the counter-phrase from Brother T’Shober: BE THANKFUL YE THAT HATH AN EAR. Master Xheng wanted the Holy Work, which I didn’t have yet, so there wasn’t much else to do here.

Be thankful ye that took screenshots.

To get into the temple beneath the city, I had to solve another coin-related puzzle by putting four coins (ruby, emerald, diamond, and amber, found in pools in the central part of the keep) in associated urns: cuprum, viridian, silver, and gold. If it’s not clear (and it wasn’t to me at first), each gem/urn pair is the one closest together in color. This requires you to know that “viridian” is blue-green and that “cuprum” is the Latin word for “copper.”

The underground had two large levels with many interrelated stairways, ladders, and pits. Getting through it was a long process of finding the right keys and objects to open the right doors in other areas. There weren’t a lot of puzzles otherwise, just fairly tough encounters with a variety of monsters. Several types of monks (spelled “munks” by the game for some reason), all with mid-level magic powers, kept attacking. There were also ghosts capable of causing a “terror” effect, nymphs who could cast high-level mass-damage spells, and some kind of floating jellyfish. I hate the “fear” effect, because in addition to taking the party member out of commission (about 50% of the time), there’s a chance that the party member decides on his or her own to flee, abruptly ending combat no matter how well you’re doing.

The spirits are particularly well drawn.

There were three notable “boss” battles. The first involved a bunch of deranged monks and a “leper giant,” who was capable of doing enough damage in a single round to kill a character. Fortunately, he usually missed, but after three tries I couldn’t win the battle without losing one character, so I sucked it up and resurrected her with a scroll I had found earlier.

And Esteban goes spinning through the sky.

The second boss battle was with the leader of the evil monks, the Lord of the Dark Forest, who had some very high level spells and resisted most of mine. I got lucky with a critical hit on my third combat with him.

The Lord of the Dark Forest “holds” a bunch of us during our first fight against him.

The last tough fight was with eight “skeleton lords” in three groups of two. They were curiously resistant to even my highest level “dispel undead” and had to be killed by more conventional means, which was tough because in addition to fear, they can cast “Fireball.” This one combat produced over 17,000 experience points, the highest total in the game so far.

Skeleton lords appear t be skeletons of cows.

Mitigating the difficulty was a fountain that restored health, stamina, and magic points. It’s been a while since I found one of those. Even with copious resting, the party is so rarely at maximum strength in all three attributes that these fountains really are a cause for celebration. Even better, it was in the middle of a water area, so I used the occasion to swim around (refreshing stamina at the fountain every few moves) until everyone’s “Swimming” skill was at 100. This is enough to swim about six squares before someone dies.

This is always a welcome sight.

When I was done, I had two artifacts: the Holy Work and something called Wikum’s Globe of Power. I don’t know what the latter object is for, but the former I returned to Master Xheng. He took it gratefully and offered us the choice to join the monastery and learn the “path of the five flowers.” I said sure–I probably just made some irrecoverable faction choice or something–and he gave me a further quest to go find five flowers in some mountains. He also gave me some equipment, which included some cool bits of armor for my ninja.

My undiscriminating party just joins the first faction that asks.

By this time, I should mention, my inventory was bursting with stuff, including a lot of scrolls, potions, bombs, and powders that basically just serve as lesser alternatives to spells. I ended up selling a lot of them to Master Xheng just to clear space.

On the one hand, that’s a useful item. On the other, that’s a reasonable amount of money.

But I still have a bunch of things that I’m not sure about. These include:

Items marked with large yellow question marks (instead of small white ones) always seem to be quest items. I’ve used most of them (like the cable trolley) and know what they’re for, but I’m still toting around “bone combs and brushes,” a bonsai tree, and a white rubber bear. They’re all mysteries.

I’ve had two iron keys and a pewter key for a long time, since like maybe the first dungeon.

Back in the Gorn castle, I fond three jars of “munk innards” and 15 units of “salted munkmeat.” Since munks are humans, the Gorn must be cannibals. Why am I carrying these around?

A potion called a “Cask of Ill Repute.” I forgot where I got it.

Something called a “Rebus Egge.” No idea.

Several items in small blue pouches with stars on them: brimstone nuggets, skullbones, aromatic salts, and deadman’s hair. They sound like spell reagents, but this game doesn’t have a reagent system. Nothing happens when I try to “use” or “merge” these.

During these explorations, I kept encountering certain NPCs over and over. It got a little annoying because they almost all have several screens of inescapable text before you can talk to them or dismiss them. One of them was the Gorn king, who I’d met in his castle. He alternately told me that the war was going well or poorly, sometimes both within a matter of 10 steps. Brother T’Shober appeared once, but I didn’t get anything useful from him. An Umpani named Lt. Gruntrapper stopped us a couple of times. When I went to trade with him (which I almost always try with NPCs), I saw that he was carrying something called a “Crypt Map.” I got an idea from comments that I’m supposed to be collecting these “maps,” so I bought it from him, even though it took 2/3 of my gold. Finally, some tall blue guy from the “priests of Dane” kept ranting about the end of the world, but I could never get him to like us enough to talk or trade.

This had better pay off.

Leveling slowed to a crawl, causing a bit of a withdrawal after my last session. Almost everyone is back up to Level 10 in their primary classes, and with hundreds of thousands of experience points necessary to get to Level 11, it’s hard to imagine ever making it to, say, Level 15. I don’t think I’ll be up for yet another round of class-changing, though, so I’ll just see how it goes.

I have no particular idea where to go next. A couple of my characters have the “Watchbells” spell now (which awakens sleeping party members), so I could try that field of poppies, and there are some water squares I could explore given my new ability to swim. Beyond that, there are unexplored paths to the south of Munkharama and to the north of Orkogre Castle.

This session ended at the 40-hour mark, and I feel like at this point I should have some sense of the main plot, but if it wasn’t for the Umpani and T’Rang showing up occasionally, I’d begin to suspect that the backstory has nothing to do with the game itself. I may feel differently by the end, but right now, it feels I’m in the middle of a sprawling, silly narrative with little thematic consistency or sensible story arc. At least I like the combat, leveling, exploration, mapping, and puzzles.

Time so far: 40 hours

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/crusaders-of-the-dark-savant-pomp-and-circumstance/

#retro games #dos games #retro #crpg #adventure #amiga #oldcomputers #8bit #16bit #blog #repost

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anec-dotes-blog1 · 6 years

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The Supreme Guide to Gas Fired Electrical power Plant Hearth Dangers

půjčovna elektrocentrál Fuel-fired electricity crops are growing in acceptance. Canada has presently begun to period out coal-fired electricity crops in favor of fuel-fired electrical power vegetation. Fuel is less high-priced and a cleaner kind of fuel than coal. Even so, with a surge in gasoline-fired electric power vegetation being created, a nearer appear wants to be taken on the hearth dangers within just these plants. In 2010, the Kleen Power Methods Electricity Station, a blended cycle gas and oil electric power plant, had an explosion in the turbine building when pure gasoline was being purged from the gas line. Six folks were killed. In 2014, the Didcot B Power Station, a gasoline-fired plant, had a significant cooling tower fire. The fire spread from a single to 3 cooling towers. Luckily, no just one was injured. Nonetheless, it does serve as an example of what can happen in gasoline-fired electric power vegetation and the require for right fireplace safety. 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Lost making capacity was at 20 million MWh. The normal decline for each fire was $24 million US dollars with an normal of a 24 7 days outage. In the FM International report referenced earlier mentioned, FM International web sites fireplace activities in which fire defense was present. In case in point just one, a hot area ignited leaking lube oil on a steam turbine staff members activated a drinking water spray technique. The fire was extinguished without assets problems, and the generator was only down for 6 several hours. In case in point two, an oil leak in a fuel turbine began a hearth. The fireplace was suppressed with fuel suppression. It limited the injury to $20,000. That is a 199.66% decreased harm cost from the typical. For steam turbines, the finest automated fire security technique is a water-based mostly program, which can act rapidly and tap down the hearth. For fuel turbines, it is advisable to use inert gas fireplace suppression. 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Contemplating an undeveloped, put up-flashover fire is about 1,000 degrees and a totally produced fuel fire reaches about 1,500 levels, it would not get long the moment a fireplace spark ignites for the pure fuel to attain an explosive level. Natural fuel also has the included hazard of becoming colorless and odorless. A scent is extra to all-natural fuel, but if it is going by means of soil, the scent could be scrubbed. One more problem is pure gas' inclination to reignite after extinguished. The best hearth safety for compressors is gasoline detection and fireplace sprinklers. Gas detection can warn plant staff of a fuel leak in advance of it grows out of handle. An computerized fireplace sprinkler method will preserve the fireplace less than manage prior to it can spread and potentially extinguish it. Transformers If you adhere to electricity sector information, you will see transformer fires peppered during. Transformer fires are risky and hard to control. They generally start off with a limited-circuit. A tiny small-circuit results in an electrical arc that vaporizes the oil within the transformer. In significantly less than a second, an explosion can occur. Deluge fireplace sprinkler methods are advisable for transformers. Transformer fires are intense and require fast, complete motion. Deluge fire sprinklers drench the quick spot, pouring h2o on the transformer. This can help management the fire until it can be extinguished. Defending individuals, residence, and manufacturing is a top rated priority for all businesses. Energy plants can minimize damages, their staff's security possibility, and dropped manufacturing time by putting in and sustaining correct fireplace safety for every location of the gas-fired energy plant.

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lunamysteria-blog · 6 years

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The Best Manual to Fuel Fired Electric power Plant Fire Dangers

půjčovna elektrocentrál Gasoline-fired electricity crops are increasing in acceptance. Canada has already started to phase out coal-fired electrical power plants in favor of gas-fired electrical power plants. Gas is much less costly and a cleaner sort of gasoline than coal. Even so, with a surge in gasoline-fired electrical power plants being created, a closer search requirements to be taken on the fire hazards inside of these crops. In 2010, the Kleen Strength Systems Energy Station, a put together cycle gas and oil power plant, had an explosion in the turbine constructing when natural gas was becoming purged from the fuel line. 6 individuals had been killed. In 2014, the Didcot B Electric power Station, a gasoline-fired plant, experienced a significant cooling tower fireplace. The fire unfold from one particular to three cooling towers. The good news is, no a single was hurt. 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Steam & Gasoline Turbines Lube oil is the most typical trigger of turbine fires. In a recent review referenced by FM World-wide, during a 15 calendar year period of time, 17 big turbine building fires resulted in $four hundred million in gross loss. Missing generating capability was at 20 million MWh. The typical decline per fire was $24 million US bucks with an average of a 24 week outage. In the FM World wide report referenced higher than, FM Global web sites fireplace gatherings in which fireplace protection was present. In illustration one particular, a very hot surface area ignited leaking lube oil on a steam turbine staff members activated a water spray program. The fire was extinguished without having home injury, and the generator was only down for six hrs. In example two, an oil leak in a fuel turbine started out a fire. The hearth was suppressed with fuel suppression. It restricted the harm to $twenty,000. That is a 199.sixty six% reduced problems cost from the regular. For steam turbines, the finest computerized fire defense program is a drinking water-based technique, which can act speedily and faucet down the fire. For fuel turbines, it is encouraged to use inert gasoline hearth suppression. Inert fuel is a excellent different to Co2 suppression due to the fact it is non-lethal and protected with humans current. Generator Substantially like turbines, a generator's principal fire hazard is lube oil. Lube oil could be introduced in the course of any number of servicing problems or owing to deterioration. Lube oil is typically produced in a spray formulation, because of to the substantial force. Spray lube fires become large quick, and it is very necessary to have fireplace defense current. The ideal fire defense for a generator fireplace is inert gas. It will not hurt the gear or impact the well being of nearby plant personnel. Compressor Compressors have natural fuel that can leak and result in explosions and subsequent fires. Normal gas is hazardous in amount of more than 5%. When pure gas reaches 5-fifteen%, it can explode when temperatures attain one,one hundred sixty five levels. Considering an undeveloped, publish-flashover fireplace is about 1,000 levels and a totally designed gasoline fire reaches about one,five hundred levels, it will not likely get prolonged after a fire spark ignites for the all-natural gasoline to reach an explosive degree. Natural gasoline also has the additional hazard of being colorless and odorless. A scent is extra to natural gas, but if it is likely through soil, the scent could be scrubbed. An additional challenge is all-natural gas' inclination to reignite as soon as extinguished. The ideal hearth safety for compressors is gasoline detection and hearth sprinklers. Fuel detection can notify plant staff of a fuel leak ahead of it grows out of handle. An automated hearth sprinkler process will preserve the fire beneath management in advance of it can unfold and possibly extinguish it. Transformers If you observe electrical power industry information, you will see transformer fires peppered all through. Transformer fires are dangerous and really hard to manage. They usually begin with a limited-circuit. A small brief-circuit produces an electrical arc that vaporizes the oil in the transformer. In significantly less than a next, an explosion can take place. Deluge fire sprinkler programs are suggested for transformers. Transformer fires are fierce and require immediate, comprehensive motion. Deluge fire sprinklers drench the fast spot, pouring drinking water on the transformer. This can help regulate the hearth until finally it can be extinguished. Shielding persons, house, and creation is a top precedence for all businesses. Energy crops can reduce damages, their staff's protection possibility, and dropped creation time by installing and preserving right fire protection for every single location of the gas-fired electric power plant.

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johnaculbreath · 6 years

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Legal community meets relief challenges after hurricanes Harvey and Irma

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Legal community meets relief challenges after hurricanes Harvey and Irma

By Lorelei Laird

February 2018

Shutterstock.

There’s no good time for your office to explode. But when it happened to Lone Star Legal Aid, the timing could not have been better.

Thanks to Houston’s widespread flooding from Hurricane Harvey that day—Monday, Aug. 28—no one had come to the office. Law student Elizabeth Amaya, an intern at Lone Star, happened to live two blocks away and spotted flames shooting out of what had been glass walls. She took a photo, which quickly reached Lone Star’s attorneys, who were spread out across the city, helping Houstonians with their hurricane-related legal problems.

The fire took out Lone Star’s phone and email systems and other resources just as the agency was gearing up for a major disaster response effort. Right after the fire, Lone Star attorneys operating in hurricane shelters were working at a makeshift table made of a board atop two cardboard boxes with the words “Legal Aid” written on them with a felt-tip pen. Those who weren’t in shelters worked from home (if they hadn’t flooded), using cellphones and free web-based email accounts.

Lone Star attorneys soon discovered that they had a lot of friends in Texas. When they couldn’t answer calls to a statewide legal advice hotline, their colleagues at Texas RioGrande Legal Aid took over. Law firms and nonprofits throughout Houston donated office space to some of Lone Star’s units. Private attorneys got their legal aid colleagues loaner computers, kept them supplied with flyers to give out and—perhaps most importantly—put out the call for pro bono volunteers. Then they reported to those shifts in large numbers.

LAWYERS REACHING OUT

Saundra Brown. Photo by Todd Spoth.

Attorneys affected by hurricanes Harvey and Irma have risen to the occasion in ways personal, professional and altruistic, even when dealing with storm damage of their own. And then another hurricane hit, and the need for legal assistance became even greater after Maria swept over the Virgin Islands and tore directly through Puerto Rico, where the destruction has far exceeded that of the U.S. mainland. In the weeks after Maria, Puerto Rico has been addressing its most vital needs first, including delivery of food and water and restoration of electricity. The mountain of legal needs that comes with the devastation isn’t far behind. (See “Across the Water,” on how the ABA is helping coordinate legal assistance on the islands.)

On the mainland, legal aid attorneys reported for duty seven days a week, mindful of the storms’ effects on the neediest. Attorneys in Florida and Texas volunteered in large numbers to help disaster survivors and opened their offices to fellow lawyers who found themselves with no place to go. In the name of due process, judges, prosecutors and public defenders rode out the storms at work.

And in the aftermath, all the players in the legal system have committed to making justice work—even under conditions that are less than ideal as the communities hardest hit continue their recovery.

“There’s no way any one person can do this,” says Saundra Brown, who manages Lone Star’s disaster response unit. “Remember the Timex watch [advertisement]—it takes a licking and keeps on ticking? Or the Energizer bunny? We just keep going.”

Here are some of those stories.

KEEPING THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE MOVING

On Sunday, Aug. 27, Hans Nielsen was sleeping on a couch in Houston’s main criminal courthouse when a colleague woke him. It was time to evacuate. Nielsen, a deputy district attorney with Harris County, was in the Harris County Criminal Justice Center because he’d volunteered to work during Hurricane Harvey. He and his colleagues got overtime pay for helping with overnight police needs, and the center seemed like a safe place to ride out the storm. After it was flooded by Tropical Storm Allison in 2001, the county had installed 4-foot watertight doors.

When Nielsen woke up, the water was 2 feet over those doors. The flooding had also pushed sewage into the building and burst pipes in the upper stories. “It was kind of game over at that point,” says Nielsen, chief of his office’s juvenile division.

To evacuate, the 30-plus people in the courthouse had to cross two streets filled with knee-deep, opaque brown water that had spilled over from Buffalo Bayou a block away. To keep evacuees from stumbling on unseen obstacles, authorities rigged a rope line for them to follow. Carrying their essentials in garbage bags, they followed the line to the nearby Juvenile Justice Center, where they stayed for three more sweaty days—the air conditioning went out—until the flood receded enough for replacements to arrive.

Public lawyers like Nielsen, and the judges they work with, have been doing their jobs in less-than-ideal conditions since Harvey and Irma. Even after the hurricanes, damage to some courtrooms and offices has meant making unusual accommodations to keep the wheels of justice turning.

Harris County fared better than some coastal parts of Texas where buildings were destroyed. As of January, courts from Aransas County were still operating out of borrowed buildings. Florida did a little better after Irma, although cities north of the storm’s landfall suffered unexpected flooding, which forced a court in the Daytona Beach area to relocate.

Nonetheless, the damage is still extensive in Harris County. Harvey rendered the Criminal Justice Center unusable for at least nine months, which has meant finding new homes for the main offices of the district attorney and public defender, as well as 36 criminal courts. Nielsen says his colleagues, who were almost entirely housed in the center, are now sharing other county offices throughout the city.

An even bigger problem—and not just for prosecutors—was the fact that jury trials ground to a halt until mid-October. Because the underground Jury Assembly Room was ruined, jurors couldn’t be called. When trials resumed, judges were expecting them to proceed much more slowly than usual, thanks to the limited courtroom space. In a system with a Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial—playing out in a county of 4.5 million people—that has created a lot of pressure.

To ease that pressure, Harris County Criminal District Judge Marc Carter tried to avoid setting cases for trial. His colleague, District Judge Jim Wallace, believes prosecutors were trying to help by offering defendants favorable deals. Though Wallace doesn’t exactly approve—he’s a former prosecutor and police officer—he says he’s not granting the kinds of delays that were once routine.

“Our trial docket is getting larger by the moment,” he says. “The reality of it is: If we can’t find a better way to try more cases, they’ll be sitting in jail for quite some time.”

This article was published in the February 2018 issue of the ABA Journal with the title "Storm Troopers: When Harvey and Irma hit the US mainland, the legal community rose to the occasion."

Legal community meets relief challenges after hurricanes Harvey and Irma republished via ABA Journal Daily News - Business of Law

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fate-ad2021 · 7 years

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14. “Vatican Rescue”

Session 14, Mar 12, 2017

Word count: 6,770

In-Game Date: Sunday, June 13, 2021

In which the group enters the Vatican with apprehension and comes out with more information and new allies.

I. Recap and Planning

Val and the Servants return to the Estray safe house at around 11AM to report on the meeting with Orsino. Both Assassin and Caster express reservations about the invitation to the Vatican, and while Val is eager to go in and find Stella, he himself has reservations about going alone.

“I’m not a solo person,” he admits. “That’s why I asked if I could bring an ally.”

With a deep frown, Caster points out: “But if you go in alone, then you’re the only one making a life-threatening bad decision.”

“Hey! If I die, you go back in the tree!”

Caster shoots a covert glance at Lancer, hoping that she has not put together the pieces about his identity, but the other Servant only sighs and shakes her head.

“We can’t get into the Vatican to help if things go wrong,” Lancer points out. “Trust me.”

“Wait, so you don’t – I don’t know – explode or something when you try to go in?” Val asks.

“When did you have time to try it?” Jim exclaims. It is a fair question: Lancer and her Master have been with the group for the past few days.

The two women exchange a sheepish grin as Siobhan replies, “Thursday, after we disappeared from dinner; we went to check out the Vatican and see how strong the field actually was, but Berserker chased us away almost immediately.”

“So, what happened?” Assassin asks.

“I was just stopped flat in my tracks once I hit the edge of it,” Lancer replies. “If I kept pressing, there might have been greater consequences, but I didn’t exactly get the chance to try.”

The group nods in acknowledgement, then falls into a discussion about what the Servants could be doing in the meantime while the Masters are inside. Caster still is unhappy with the idea of sending Val in unarmed, and although Jim reminds him that he will be going in as well, none of them are sure if Jim’s “Servant-punching gloves” will still function, since they are made with spirit-magic. Besides, they reason, going in is the only way to truly figure out whether or not Stella is okay; none of them are willing to seriously entertain the idea of leaving her behind.

“At least some of the Servants should be there,” Assassin puts in, “although if things go wrong, it will be on the Masters to get out first before we can do anything to help. I still think we should not be outside and exposed, though.”

“I don’t think anyone wants Caster to be exposed,” Val and Lancer both deadpan. The other four make horrified expressions as the two of them crack up laughing.

“What I mean,” Assassin insists over the laughter, “is that Caster should not stand out there looking like… like Julius Caesar, and attract people like – I don’t know – Saber or Rider for a public duel!”

“And what about me?” Siobhan asks Val and Jim. “Should I go in with you?”

They think about it for a few moments before deciding that no, Siobhan should not go in with them. “It’s good to have a card in reserve that can get into the Vatican, unlike the Servants,” Jim reasons.

“So it stands to reason that I should go and hang around outside, right?” She confirms.

“I’m definitely going along,” Caster insists. “Perhaps Lancer can come with me.”

The thought that they can keep an eye on her that way is left unspoken.

After some more deliberation, it is suggested that Assassin should go along with the group instead, since she is capable of passing unnoticed even when materialized. That would leave Lancer behind to watch over Archer. The decision is not made lightly – the group makes Lancer promise not to kill Archer in his sleep before they agree to leave her there. She promises, and the matter is settled: Assassin, Caster, and Siobhan will wait outside incognito while Val and Jim enter the Vatican, with Lancer waiting in reserve at the house and watching over Archer.

“Besides,” Val chirps as they all prepare to head out, “If anyone notices the Master and Servant pings, then Assassin and Caster could just pose as a Master-Servant pair like they did in that first fight with Saber. Given your history, it could be interesting.” He waggles his eyebrows at the two Servants.

Assassin heaves a great sigh. “I am not going to dignify that with any kind of a response.”

II. Into the Vatican

The group takes two different buses to get to the destination, Jim and Val in front and Siobhan hanging back with the Servants. The bus route takes them over a bridge south of Ponte PASA; the damage from after the battle with Berserker is still clearly visible, even a day later and from a distance.

Val and Jim approach the corner that Orsino had pointed them to. The entrance to Vatican City is clearly in sight; the others stay sufficiently far back that the two of them can hardly sense Siobhan’s Command Seal.

A few moments before noon, Orsino Veronesi emerges from the gates to the city, alone. He waves cordially at them as he makes his way through the Sunday morning crowd. When he gets close enough, he greets Val, “Good morning again.” He then turns to Jim. “And you must be Valentin’s ally. I am Orsino Veronesi.”

“Jim.”

Orsino nods. “I assume you have been… read in to the situation?”

Jim nods. “I’m in on it.”

“Very well,” Orsino replies. “Follow me, if you will.”

“Before we go in,” Val ventures, “I feel it’s necessary to point out our wariness about going where our allies cannot.”

Orsino’s expression seems to soften. “Of course. I swear to you, as a man of God, that this is not a trap.” He pauses, then adds, “Whether or not you’re willing to take that, I don’t know.”

Jim frowns. “I’m not inclined to believe a heretic priest swearing on God.”

Orsino chuckles and shrugs. “I’m not called a heretic because of any lack of faith. Rather, I earned that label through embrace of the magic that is supposedly forbidden despite being gifted to me.”

Jim nods, still reluctant, as Val asks, “By the way, I’ve been wondering: how does your backseat driver like being in the Vatican? I don’t imagine that’s comfortable for anyone.”

Orsino smiles dryly. “We are… not amused. He’s not terribly happy about it, and I have to stay in control when we’re inside the boundary field.”

With that explanation and promise out of the way, the group heads toward the Vatican. Behind them, a voice rises above the crowd: Caster, in disguise as a ratty-looking man in priest’s robes, shouting about hellfire and damnation. Orsino glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. “They give us all a bad name.”

“Caster,” Val asks calmly. “What the hell are you doing?”

The answer comes with a strong sense of self-satisfaction and entertainment. “Making sure there’s a crowd in case you need people to storm the gates.”

Val shakes his head and follows Orsino inside.

As the Masters step over the threshold, they feel a layer of static form over the connection to their Servants; they get the sense that they can probably communicate still, but only with great concentration and effort. Jim reaches into his pocket to where he has the gloves stored. He is dismayed to find a mundane pair of leather gloves with no trace of Assassin’s magic in them. He swallows his fear and follows after Val.

Orsino leads them along side passages of the Vatican, managing to avoid most of the Sunday crowds. Val, who has been inside the city before, notices that he is trying to steer clear of congested areas while still keeping other people in sight – Orsino deliberately bypasses several back alley paths that he could have used, instead choosing to keep them more or less visible. The Executor chatters amiably along the way, talking about the architecture and generally sounding nostalgic.

Eventually, they do enter a side passage into the outer wall. Orsino leads them down the passage a little way until they reach a door with barely-visible glyphs carved into it. There they stop, and Orsino taps the glyphs in a careful pattern. The glyphs glow briefly then fade, and he pushes the door open.

“She’s in here,” he tells them. “Come on.”

“What happens if you touch them in the wrong order?” Val asks, ever curious.

Orsino shrugs. “It’s like a phone – it just won’t unlock. I mean, if you get it wrong a sufficient number of times, it might zap you or something. I’ve never tried.”

III. Reunion with Stella

The room that they step into is a small foyer with an open doorway leading into a larger room. In the single bed in the center of the room, Stella sits propped up on the pillows with a book on her lap – the Koran that Caster saw on the bedside table. She looks up when the outer door opens, surprise written on her face.

“Stella!” Val cries. He barrels across the room to hug her.

“Ah! Watch the arm, watch the arm!”

Val pulls up short when he sees the arm in question, all bandaged up and tucked against her stomach. He very carefully proceeds with the hug and exclaims, “You’re alive!”

She nods, carefully closing the book and setting it back on the side table. “Yeah, I’m alive. You are too, I see!”

“Are you hurt?” Jim asks.

Stella glances at the arm and winces. “Not any more than I asked them to.”

Orsino pipes up. “I’ll leave you three to talk. I should get the doctor to check on you anyway.”

“Thanks, Orsino,” she replies, and the priest takes his leave.

As soon as he is gone, Jim turns to Stella. “Archer is okay, by the way.” At Stella’s relieved expression, he qualifies, “I mean, as okay as he can be when he’s losing magic from every orifice.”

Stella raises her eyebrows in surprise. They explain that the Servant is fading quickly after having used his Noble Phantasm and apparently having trouble drawing magic from her. She looks sheepish, but says nothing yet. They reassure her that Archer is not dead yet and that they will explain everything as soon as they can.

“I’ll tell you everything, too,” she says, “but I have to say first – I’m alright, and Orsino really is a good guy. He helped me out, even if I don’t look okay right now. Hell, he even faced me the right way so I could pray.”

Val looks surprised. “You’re Muslim?” Stella nods, looking confused at his confusion.

“You’re a white lesbian from Texas!” Val and Jim both exclaim.

Stella laughs. “I converted in college. Turns out that mage Muslims are less weird about us folks than either normal mages or normal Muslims tend to be.”

Val and Jim both shrug. “So, what happened?”

Stella explains things the same way that Archer did: She was on her way to join them for the fight on the bridge, but Orsino intercepted them along the way. She adds that prior to that, she and Archer had been talking about how far the Grail War has strayed from the favor that she had signed up for. When Orsino had shown up, she had seen a godsend: she thought that if she went with him and his Servant, she could figure out what he meant when he offered her a way out.

“When we got here, he told me that he could get someone to remove the Command Seals. He called the process ‘Spiritual Surgery’ – said he had called somebody in for it as soon as he learned that there was a War on, just in case anybody wanted to get out. He gave me some time to think about it, told me there was no pressure. I was gonna say ‘yes’, but…” She shakes her head. “I felt bad about abandoning y’all. I at least wanted to come back and talk to you about it.”

She is silent for a moment, staring at her bandaged arm. Then she goes on, “As soon as I left the Vatican Saturday morning, I got a phone call from Vasilyevich. He said he was calling in that favor I owed him. I dunno how it works, but he made me command Archer to kill y’all.” She pauses and smiles sadly at them. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he’s still okay. I trust y’all to have good judgement about what to do if he were to continue being a danger.”

Val and Jim both nod. “What happened then?” Val asks gently.

Stella squares her shoulders and sighs. “After I hung up with Vasilyevich, I couldn’t stand myself anymore. I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop Archer or change his course or anything, so I just hoped for the best for y’all, and I went back inside. It’s all kind of a blur from there, but I remember meeting with the doctor; she explained the whole thing to me and made sure I understood it, and then settled down and did the surgery.” She lifts the bandaged arm gingerly. “She said I should be able to cast spells again in a couple weeks, but it’ll be some heavy recovery time. Taking Command Seals out takes a lot outta you, apparently. But they’re gone now. I’m out of the fight.”

After a few moments of silence, Jim says, “Archer introduced himself to us. And he told us about Saber’s identity, too. Did you know?”

Stella nods. “Yeah, I knew who they were. And I can definitely confirm that Saber’s with Vasilyevich.”

“Thanks for the confirmation,” Val replies. “Do you want to see Archer, by the way?”

Stella hesitates, then shakes her head. “I don’t see any way we can make that work without putting either of us in unnecessary danger. Just… Tell him I’m sorry, would you?”

“We will,” Jim promises. “I see you can talk about Vasilyevich now.”

“Yeah,” Stella confirms. “Orsino broke the geis, so I can tell you the little bit that I know now. It’s not a lot, though: he never told me his plans. I wasn’t brought in as anything besides a known Master. I do know he brought in another one with some artifact delivery. That might be Orsino, but that guy swears he isn’t tied to Vasilyevich in any way, so I don’t know.”

“That tracks with what we’ve been thinking,” Val confirms. “Which is good, because we don’t want to have to fight him; killing any more Servants would be really bad.”

Stella tilts her head, her brow furrowed. “So… you’re just… collecting people?”

“Yup!” Val and Jim chirp.

Val adds, “Live allies are better than dead enemies, especially when the Grail is literally eating people.”

IV. Gathering Attention

Outside the walls, Siobhan and Assassin are doing their level best to ignore the boisterous preacher on the corner. Siobhan has found a bench to park herself on, pretending to read a book. As for Assassin, she is playing the tourist, snapping photographs of everything that looks interesting and chatting with passing locals.

Meanwhile, Caster has gathered quite a crowd. He is still preaching loud and strong, keeping a careful eye out all the while for anyone who looks like they might cause trouble.

One gentleman in particular stands out from the crowd: over six feet tall and shaped like a gym addict, with short-cropped brown hair. He stands in the second row of onlookers with his arms crossed over his massive chest, just watching Caster.

Caster uses his regular sweeping of the crowd to steal glances at him, trying to puzzle out the strange sense that the man gives him. Finally, it dawns on him: the man seems like a Servant, although not nearly as much as he should if he truly were one. The sense is different even from Assassin’s Presence Concealment; it is rather like that of an ex-soldier, who walks like he is in the military for the rest of his life. He somehow seems like he is several years removed from the reality of being a Servant, although Caster has no idea how that could be possible.

As he puzzles through it more, the man breaks from the crowd and ambles over to a bench nearby Siobhan, where he sits down with his own book pulled from the pocket of his cargo pants.

V. Former Master

Stella can only stare at Val in the wake of his statement about the Grail. Before Val can explain further, a woman’s voice comes from the doorway behind them: “Oh, did they finally make that work?”

The Masters whirl around to face the newcomer. Standing in the doorway is a plump woman, perhaps 5’4”, wearing scrubs and a wry smile and exuding an air of cheerfulness. She bustles past the two Masters and touches Stella’s wrist and forehead, taking her pulse and testing her temperature. “How are you doing?” the woman asks softly.

“I’m alright, doctor,” Stella replies with a shrug and a wince. “The painkillers are starting to wear off, though. Is it too early for another one of those pills you gave me? I don’t think I can get the bottle from the nightstand open.”

The doctor chuckles and checks her watch, then opens the nightstand drawer and twists the bottle open. She casts a wink at Val and Jim. “Childproof caps: great for someone who’s just had hand surgery.” She passes Stella a pill and the glass of water from the nightstand.

Jim notices that the doctor is keeping herself between them and Stella. With a frown, he grumps, “I’m sick of all this posturing. We have every right to be here. We’re closer to Stella than you are.”

The doctor raises her eyebrows and drops all pretenses of subtlety. “Really?” she asks, turning fully toward him. “Because last I checked, you weren’t in here during the 8 hour surgery that I performed on her. Also—” She looks past them toward the door. “Orsino Veronesi! Why on earth did you bring two more Masters into the room with my patient?”

Orsino pokes his head back into the room, but before he can reply, Jim snaps, “We’re the reason she survived long enough to get here in the first place!”

Val holds up his hands. “Look, we were just really worried about her. She was supposed to meet us, and we got worried when she disappeared. Then her Servant started dying and—” He stops, blinks, and then says, “Wait, you called us Masters. You know about the War?”

The doctor’s expression shifts from defensive to understanding. She purses her lips, then pulls off her glove to reveal an old, faded scar. It is clearly a three-part mark, reminiscent of a Command Seal. Val and Jim both recognize the dimness of it from what happened to Siobhan’s used Command Seals.

“Alright, I believe you,” she tells them. “Please, let me explain. My name is Doctor Lilly Silvagio. I was a participant in the first Cartwright Grail War in America. I know what it’s like to be pulled into one of these things against your will. I performed the spiritual surgery on Stella so that she could get out of the War without dying. Honestly, I’m a little surprised to hear that her Servant is still kicking around. Although I guess if he’s Archer, that explains some things.”

Val and Jim exchange a glance and a shrug. “Who did you summon?” Jim asks her.

“I was one of the Masters of Saber,” Doctor Silvagio replies. “My brother and I summoned him together. That War… ended reasonably easy, actually, although it did take a while for us to figure out how. I can tell you about it if you’d like, but I don’t know how much help that’ll be here. The Grail is obviously very different this time.”

“Anything you can tell us will be welcome,” Val insists.

The doctor nods. “Well, first off, Cartwright’s plan was terrible. She wanted to gather power to strike at the Clock Tower, probably in response to the Sealing Designation they put on her, but she completely sabotaged her own plan. Her first mistake was killing one of her allies and stealing his Servant, and her second mistake was getting a bunch more people who didn’t actually want to be in the War.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, most of us just wanted to defend our city. Four of our teams ended up banding together to defeat Berserker and his Master. Things got a little rocky when Archer’s Master split from us, but the rest of us managed to stick together and defeat the other Servants, and… well, then we ended the War.”

“How?” Jim and Val ask.

She studies them for a moment, then pulls up a seat beside the bed and motions for them and Orsino – who has been quietly lingering in the doorway – to sit as well. Stella looks content to listen while the painkillers set in.

Once everyone is seated, the doctor says, “You were probably told that the Grail summons seven Servants, bound to seven Masters, right?” When all three remaining Masters nod, she shakes her head. “Here’s a fun fact: Cartwright’s hack of the Grail ritual is designed to summon eight.”

“What?” Val gasps, as Jim asks, “Is it a doubled class?”

“In our War, the eighth class was Ruler, summoned to serve as the vessel of the Grail.”

“The Grail was a person?” Val gapes at her.

“He was Bran the Blessed – the Fisher King – the legendary figure who kept the original Holy Grail.”

“Also known as the Cauldron of Rebirth,” Orsino murmurs, recognition dawning in his face.

The doctor nods. “That’s right. Pair Dadeni was Ruler’s Noble Phantasm. With our War, we decided to try hacking the Grail like Cartwright did to force its end without losing our Servants. We poured the power of all of our Command Seals into the Grail and asked Ruler to use his Noble Phantasm to give our Servants bodies. It was a longshot, and we wouldn’t have been surprised if it failed, but it worked!”

“Wow!” Val exclaims. “So, who’s still around?”

“We managed to save Saber, Assassin, and Lancer,” she replies. “That is, Beowulf, Musashibo Benkei, and Robin Hood. B came to Rome with me, but he still couldn’t enter the Vatican’s holy ground. Must still have some spirit stuff left in him, even ten years after getting a mortal body.”

“Do they… age? Do they have to eat?” Jim asks. “Can they do their magic?”

Doctor Silvagio shrugs. “The Servants who are left are essentially just normal people now. I think B has aged, but it’s hard to tell when I’m around him all the time. He definitely has to eat and sleep, but no more Noble Phantasms, no turning into spirit form. None of us had a Caster, so I’m not sure how their magic would work. Our War’s Caster was Rasputin, and nobody would have wanted him to have yet another life.”

“Did you defeat this Cartwright in your War, then?” Orsino asks.

The doctor shakes her head. “No, she got away from us, and started the second War maybe five years later. The combatants of that one killed her in their final confrontation.”

“What can you tell us about the second American War?” Val asks.

“Yeah, how was it different?” Jim adds.

“Not a lot,” she admits. “I wasn’t the person who got sent to investigate it, and I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the reports that came back to my organization about it. All I know is that they tried the same trick that we did, using Ruler’s Noble Phantasm to reincarnate a Servant. I think they got Assassin out of that, but I don’t know the details. She and her Master aren’t around much.”

Val thinks for a moment, then asks, “Was Ruler the vessel in that War, too?” When the doctor nods, he frowns. “See, in this War the Grail is an actual object, as opposed to a person.”

Orsino nods. “If Ruler existed, he would likely be close to the Grail. Surely we would have seen him by now.”

“So if there is an eighth Servant,” Jim reasons, “It could be Ruler or something else, but we don’t know what or who it could be yet.”

“You mentioned ‘your organization’,” Val points out to the doctor. “Who are you with?”

“I’m with the Red Flower Society,” she answers, “a group of people from prior Wars.”

Val and Jim nod to each other – they both remember Reines mentioning the group several times, including when giving them the summoning ritual.

“I have a question for you,” she says. When they nod, she goes on, “You mentioned that the Grail was eating people. We suspected that that’s how it was intended to work in our Wars, but we never worked out how. What do you know about that?”

Jim tries to explain while Val steps off to the side to call in to Caster to give him an update. “Right now, we know that the Grail is absorbing the energy from the deaths of the Servants.” Doctor Silvagio nods; she knew that part. “But we also think that it’s absorbing death energy from the fires that have been happening around town – the warehouse, the Pantheon, the apartment fire.” He hesitates, glancing at Orsino. “There was also some weird destruction on the bridge where we fought Berserker, but it wasn’t us and we’re not sure if it’s connected.”

Orsino ducks his head in apology. “That was my doing. As a Master in the War, I was the one tasked to create a cover for the events that transpired there.”

“Are you the Master of Rider?” Jim asks, straightforward as usual. “We’ve got everyone else covered. How did you get involved, anyway?”

“I did summon the Servant Rider,” Orsino confirms. “I didn’t expect to be involved in this War, honestly. As I told Valentin earlier, I was on vacation when I got called back in, along with a number of other Executors. A package arrived here shortly after we did, and the lot of us went out to receive it; strength in numbers, so they say. I was the first one to see it when they opened it.” He casts a sad glance toward Doctor Silvagio. “As I told you, it was the Cauldron of Rebirth, the real one.”

Jim presses, “So you got pulled in with that?”

Orsino nods. “As soon as I saw it, I felt a pain—” He touches his hand, where the Command Seals are burned. “Then they whisked me away and quarantined me. A few days ago, they handed me a summoning spell and told me what I must do. I called Rider to my side, and the rest, you know. Although,” he grumps toward the doctor, “this is the first time you have mentioned this eighth Servant to me.”

“You just called me in to see if I could help people get out of the War,” Doctor Silvagio returns. “I figured I’d tell you what I could whenever it came up.”

VI. Former Servant

“…and the Cauldron of Rebirth is here, inside the Vatican,” Val tells Caster, “And it’s definitely the Grail.”

“Are you sure you don’t need an army to storm the gates?” Caster asks, watching his crowd begin to disperse.

“Nah, we’re cool for now.” Val sounds like he might stop talking, finally, and then he adds one more thing: “By the way, Beowulf is still kicking around! Say hi if you see him!”

Caster lets out an audible sigh of exasperation as he turns toward the not-quite-Servant sitting on the bench. The man has closed his book and has been subtly trying to get Caster’s attention for the past few minutes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Caster tells Val.

Dropping the concentration on the connection, Caster hops down off his soap box and strolls over to the huge man. With grace and subtly to rival his Master, he plops down on the bench and says, “Hello, Beowulf!”

The not-quite-Servant arches an eyebrow and smiles wryly. “I usually go by ‘B’ now. The first time I introduced myself in the modern world, I was asked what poor sod had parents who hated him so much as to name him Beowulf.” The man’s laugh booms across the emptying square. “Didn’t really know how I should feel about that. Decided to change it anyway.”

Caster nods politely and says nothing.

“So you could tell I was a Servant. I wasn’t sure.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself,” Caster replies frankly.

“Why didn’t you attack me, if you could tell?” B turns toward him and slings an arm over the back of the bench. “Have I lost so much of my being?” He motions to his form.

“Two reasons,” Caster says lightly. “One, we’re in public and I’m not stupid. And two, you didn’t seem to be an active threat.” B nods, and Caster forges on, “So, what is Beowulf the Servant doing here?”

“At present, waiting for my Master. Although I would rather have stayed with her brother. At least there, I could be teaching small children how to punch things. Not waiting for a Master who wants to save people.” Caster snorts a laugh, but B’s smile is fond. “But it’s not all bad. I’ve never been to Rome. Being summoned in a small town was terrible; we couldn’t leave and there was nothing to do. Now, I get to go out and travel.”

“I too am waiting for a Master who wishes to save people,” Caster admits. “They can be so tedious.”

“What Class are you? You don’t appear to be much of a… fighting man.”

“I’m not,” Caster replies, and leaves it at that.

(Across the way, Siobhan and Assassin both grimace at the sheer ridiculousness of the dichotomy between the two men.)

B studies Caster for a moment before declaring, “You weren’t really asking what I was doing in Rome, were you?”

Caster shrugs. “Any information you’re willing to provide would be welcome.”

“Why don’t you ask me what you really meant to?”

“Would you answer it if I did?”

“Are you asking it?”

Caster glares at B’s self-amused smile. “Are we really doing this?”

B laughs again, big and booming. He laughs until he doubles over and has to wipe away tears. “I’m sorry – it has been far too long since I’ve gotten the chance to troll another Servant. We don’t see each other often enough for that.”

“So there are more of you,” Caster prompts.

“Yes,” B replies, sitting up straight again. “There are. When I was summoned ten years ago, the Grail called not seven, but eight. Of those called in my War, three of us remain.”

“How? Who was the eighth?”

“The Servant Ruler, summoned as the Grail vessel. His Noble Phantasm allowed the three of us who were allies to manifest in mortal bodies. Besides myself, there remains Assassin and… Lancer? Ugh, Lancer.”

“Ugh, Lancer,” Caster repeats, “sounds like the refrain we’ve heard in our War as well.”

“What does yours do?”

“Are you familiar with the person from the Internet – ‘Leeroy Jenkins’?” Caster himself had looked it up one night away from the rest of the group. B’s face lights up in recognition, then slowly crumbles at the implication.

“We didn’t – and still don’t – see much of our Lancer. I believe that if things hadn’t gone wrong enough to draw his Master out, that Master would have spent the entire War holed up in his laboratory doing chemistry. Not even alchemy! Chemistry!” B throws up his hands theatrically. Caster chuckles in response. B heaves a sigh and asks, “So, what are you doing next?”

Caster falls into thought, looking around the square. Finally, he replies, “I believe our plan is to work on damage control.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees B nod and pick up his book again. “The least fun part of the War, but the most necessary. I wish you luck.”

VII. Future Directions

With Stella sleeping peacefully in her room, Orsino guides everyone into a sitting room down the hall where they can have more room to sit and talk. The room is part lounge and part kitchenette. There is already a man present when the group enters; he stands at the counter watching the electric kettle heat up water. He is in casual clothing with his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hi, Rider,” Jim greets him as they walk in. Evidently, he is done playing coy – if he ever felt the need to do so at all.

“I see I’ve been introduced already,” Rider replies, his voice quiet and his smile bright. “Greetings to you, whoever you are. Would you like tea?”

Jim accepts the offer; Val tries to convince Rider to make him coffee, but begrudgingly accepts tea when Rider refuses. The group takes their seats around the coffee table. When Rider brings a tray of tea mugs over to distribute them, he admits, “I’m surprised that this meeting has gone so peacefully. I was honestly expecting a bit more of a disaster.”

“Would you start anything in the Vatican?” Val jokes.

Rider shrugs. “I don’t know how dumb you are.”

Jim cracks up laughing as Val loudly protests, “I’m a dick, not stupid!”

Rider responds with a sagely nod. “Appearances are important to keep up.”

“Speaking of appearances,” Jim adds, “How the heck do you manage to not get your hair caught when riding your horse?”

“You do have a horse, right?” Val inquires.

“As to the first question, I tie it back. As for the second, I do have a horse. His name is Bayard and he’s a very nice horse.”

Orsino waves his hand to bring everyone’s focus back. “Can we ask what your next plan is, now that you’ve verified Stella’s condition?”

Without hesitation, the Masters tell them: they are going after Saber and Vasilyevich. They freely admit that their first plan is to try to turn Saber over to their side. When Orsino and the doctor ask why, they explain that they know about Saber’s displeasure with his Master’s actions and his discomfort at the idea of civilian casualties. They reason that if they can get through to Saber and convince his to turn on his Master, then they might be able to trick Vasilyevich into burning his remaining two Command Seals, which would in theory leave Saber as a free agent.

“But,” Val allows, “if we can’t break his deal with his Master, then we’ll have to deal with him another way.”

This is met with somber silence until Val chirps up again. “But let’s not worry about that right now! Right now, we’re all going to agree not to stab each other and to share information, right? That’s what allies do.”

“I can agree to the first part,” Orsino replies. “I have no plans to stab either of you, unless something goes terribly wrong somewhere along the way. As for sharing information, you must understand that that’s mostly up to you: I know very little of the circumstances and such of this War.”

Val and Jim quietly deliberate for a moment before deciding to lay out their cards.

They inform Orsino that Berserker is dead and his Masters are neutralized, sent to London to Val’s patron for safekeeping. If Orsino notices the discrepancy between this statement and Val’s former claim of involvement through Estray, he does not mention it.

They know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that Saber is Sir Gawain and that he belongs to Vasilyevich. They explain that Vasilyevich has used up one Command Seal already and who probably needs to use more than that to push Saber into causing civilian casualties.

They also suspect that the Grail has been absorbing death magic as well as Servant energy, although they do not know to what end. They hope to keep the Servants alive as long as possible, since they do not know what will happen if all of them die or how to stop whatever that is.

Orsino stops them here to ask how the absorption has been happening, so Val shows him the illustration of the death seal. After turning it this way and that, Orsino muses that it looks like it could be related to a Command Seal, which would form a conceptual connection to the War.

They continue that they know that Archer was Stella’s Servant and that his identity is Tristan of Cornwall; they are trying to keep him alive but he might be unable to rejoin the battle.

They also say that they know Lancer and Lancer’s Master but are unaware of Lancer’s identity. Orsino seems to accept this, probably on account of Val’s previous show of being so open and trustworthy.

“That leaves Assassin and Caster,” Orsino reasons, “and I can assume that you two have them.”

Val and Jim nod.

“Well, I won’t ask you to tell me their identities. I am intrigued by these death seals, though. Do you know any more about them?”

They take a moment to explain the situation they found at the warehouse yesterday: the purged magic in the location, where there had previously been traces of the death magic from the seal. Orsino looks surprised; he says that he thought only Executors had that sort of power. At their pointedly uncomfortable expressions, he holds up his hands with a sheepish chuckle.

“One of those seals was at the Pantheon, wasn’t it? How about this: Rider and I will go after the seals. We’ll stop by the Pantheon to get a sense for them, then canvass the city for more of the seals. With my abilities, I should be able to defuse them without setting them off. If I have time, we’ll make our way up to the warehouses to investigate that anti-magic thing that you described.”

Val and Jim both nod. “Then we and our Servants will track down Saber.”

Orsino agrees. “With any luck, we’ll be able to turn up Vasilyevich’s base. Stella said that she suspected there was more than one. But first things first: the seals, and the Servant.” He stands, stretches, grumbles about his joints.

Doctor Silvagio stands as well. “Thank you for telling us all of this. I’ll call home and make sure that the Red Flower Society knows about it, too. Maybe we can get some more insight into that magic-breaking phenomenon.” Then she blinks, and realizes, “I never got your names!”

Val rises, takes her hand and kisses it with a flourish. “Valentin de Rosa, at your service!”

“The rock star?” She exclaims with an expression of confusion.

“More importantly right now: the spy!”

The doctor turns to the other Master. “And you?”

“Jim.”

“Just Jim?”

Jim sighs. “Jim Harwey, not that it matters anymore.”

“Oh!” The doctor looks shocked before softening her expression into a smile. “Well, it’s lovely to be introduced to both of you. Here’s my phone number, in case you need to call for anything. Good luck out there!”

VIII. Wrapping Up

After B takes his leave, Caster resumes his place on the soapbox. He is on the verge of calling Val again to check in when the Masters emerge from the front gates of the Vatican. Orsino is at their side; they exchange a few words of parting before the Executor strolls off down the street.

Once Orsino is out of sight, Jim marches up to Caster on his box. “Uncle Julius,” he declares, “Stop scaring the tourists.”

Dumbfounded, Caster steps down as Assassin and Siobhan approach, laughing. Siobhan links arms with Jim and Val and chirps, “You’re not dead!”

“Nope!” Val replies cheerily. “And we made two friends. Or – at least four. Three and a half?”

Siobhan looks bemused and turns to Jim for clarification. Jim shrugs. “Orsino, Rider, and a Master from one of the former Wars. And her Servant, who is still here.”

“And Lilly knew who I was! I told you I had fans, Jimbo!”

Jim shakes his head and grumbles, “That face doesn’t inspire fans – it inspires contempt.”

And they all head home.

#session log post

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