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palms-upturned · 1 year

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I’m not gonna jump in ppl’s notes over this bc lord knows I do not want to have a debate about it but seeing someone say “I have qualms about people calling Jean ableist for trying to fire Harry and in the same breath saying Harry is unfit for cop work” is really getting to me. I am practically on my knees begging people to actually engage with what disco elysium has to say about disability and addiction and ableism and policing and social murder because it’s not even subtextual, it’s as blatant and hand holding as it could possibly be. The 41st is an awful environment for Harry not bc him being disabled makes him incapable of doing his job, it’s bc the job is fucking hostile to his existence. Like, no one is “fit” to be a cop because they shouldn’t exist, firstly, and even Harry himself will say as much in the Ruby bad ending. But talking about Harry’s case specifically, we know that this job is part of what landed him where he is to begin with.

From the start of day 2:

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You mean why are you so tired? Too tired and *down* to even think? It *is* worrying, isn't it. You can't be a detective like this -- detectives need to be able to think.

YOU — Why is this happening?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It's just that your heart has finally pumped all the *speed* out of your system, buster. Time to get some more.

YOU — Wait. What *is*... speed?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Speed is a potent central nervous system stimulant. It kept you propped up all day yesterday despite your debilitating hangover. How else did you think you even got up from this floor?

VOLITION — You got up from this floor because of a holy vow you made sixteen years ago. With *me*. To wake up exactly 07:30 every morning until the day you die.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Don't be silly. There was no vow. You were high on speed. That was the only reason you got up. You can't *detect* without it, it's that simple.

YOU — No. I can take this. I am not going to go looking for speed.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Are you sure? Ready to live as this pathetic shell of yourself for days? Basically a week? Let's be honest -- two weeks, maybe three? You won't make it. Half the town will be dead by then. You will be fired.

YOU — That's a lie. I can do this without the speed. Half the town won't be dead... (Opt out.)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Suit yourself, slow, sad shell-man. See how you do without your spark.

And from this talk with Kim in Klaasje’s room:

KIM KITSURAGI — "Amphetamine -- does it make you a better detective?"

SUGGESTION — Be honest. He's not grilling you, he just wants to know. Ask if he's ever wanted to take it too.

YOU — "Honestly, it makes me the detective I am. Have you thought of taking it too?"

KIM KITSURAGI — "Maybe I should?" He lets out a little pensive hum, rubbing his shoulder...

DRAMA — It's not insincere. He's actually giving it thought.

KIM KITSURAGI — "Doesn't the... pupils and the gurning jaw, the sweating... doesn't it become tiring after a while?"

YOU — "I understand it's unbecoming but if I don't perform this job well I am nothing. It's the price I pay."

Harry knows that the cost of getting sober would be that the precinct would let him go. They’re not going to have the patience to deal with him slowing down from the combo of withdrawal and no speed to “keep him propped up.” Not when the reason that he’s stayed on the force this long and risen in the ranks is most likely because he manages such a massive caseload, as we find out from Kim:

YOU — "Is two cases a week a good case load, lieutenant?"

KIM KITSURAGI — "Huh?" He raises his nose from his notes. "Two *complex* cases to undertake is a lot, yes. You *really* have to push yourself. I would not suggest it. Lest you start making mistakes."

YOU — "Two cases a week appears to have been my load, lieutenant. I'm not sure I completed them though."

KIM KITSURAGI — "Two?" He raises both eyebrows. "That's a lot. I didn't mean to say you're making mistakes, by the way. That was presumptuous of me."

And later:

KIM KITSURAGI — "This next row -- the one that wraps all the way around -- is your number of closed cases. *Closed* is good. It means finished. You've got, let's see..."

KIM KITSURAGI — "Wow, more than 200!"

YOU — "Is that a lot?"

KIM KITSURAGI — "It's *quite* a lot, even for someone who's been on the force for nearly two decades. Usually clearing more than 10 cases a year puts you in the 90th percentile of *all* RCM officers..."

Despite the trouble Harry makes, he’s considered an asset so long as he closes cases. To the point where he wasn’t punished for drunkenly beating Burke unconscious and then injuring his knee so badly that he can’t walk anymore just because this allowed them to close the “unsolvable case” of Leslie and Burke. 41 and the RCM as an institution don’t care about Harry’s or anyone else’s wellbeing, they care about whether the pros of having him around outweigh the cons.

From the lazareth call with Gottlieb:

YOU — "Isn't there *anything* you can do for me?"

NIX GOTTLIEB — "What, you want me to do blood work for you again, tell you just how bad things really are *across the board*? You want another rundown of everything collapsing inside your body?"

YOU — "Yes. I want the truth!"

NIX GOTTLIEB — "You want the real, honest-to-god truth? Stop drinking, eat magnesium and vitamin D. Our station is not a retirement home. We don't have the funds to deal with *rock stars* past their prime."

RHETORIC — So it's political! You're being *neglected* because of political reasons...

NIX GOTTLIEB — "And no, I *don't* want to hear a *political commentary* on the topic. In fact -- I've got work to do."

If I were to quote every time Gottlieb was notably uncaring or said something blasé about how you probably didn’t have long to live, I’d have to quote pretty much every word of that dialogue. That’s the whole joke with Gottlieb. That’s just how it is dealing with doctors when you’re in Harry’s position.

From talking to Kim about Uuno:

KIM KITSURAGI — "We could take him to Remedie or Saint Batiste, but he doesn't have money for medical services. The Almshouse would turn him down..."

KIM KITSURAGI — "They don't do charity for people who're trying to kill themselves. Besides, he'll be dead in a few..." The lieutenant stops, listening to him.

RHETORIC — ... years? Months? Weeks?

“They don’t do charity work for people who’re trying to kill themselves” really sums up the absurdity of Harry’s situation and institutional responses to it. Harry isn’t seen as the kind of person in crisis who deserves intervention. He’s treated as a lost cause who deserves to suffer the consequences of his self harm, even though the unending crisis and the lack of response to it is what drives him to harm himself and hope that he “gets worse.” If he weren’t a cop, it’s unlikely that Kim would care about him any more than he cares about Uuno and Cuno’s situation. Harry’s job is killing him, but it’s also the only thing that gives him access to anything resembling a community or support network (at least at the start of the game). Again, that’s just the way it goes when you’re disabled.

From the second tribunal:

TRANT HEIDELSTAM — "Well -- here is my theory: What if this is an absolutely normal reaction to the world we're living in? What if this is *not* a significant anomaly at all, something to be explained, approached as a defect? Look at the sensory input here..." He gestures toward the scenery.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM — "Look at the ruins, the neon, listen to the radio, the multitudes. The people. Live here for forty years... As a police detective, he's like a magnetic reader on the world-tape -- to borrow a known metaphor. Harry's been pushed *flat against it*. Total input."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM — "Hard-wired to the free market..." He nods confidently. "He just needed for it to end."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Okay, Trant, thank you. That's... absolutely meaningless. I'm glad we brought you. Will he or will he not be able to work in the Major Crimes Unit? Is he a cretin now? I want to know *that*."

TRANT HEIDELSTAM — "He is *not* a cretin. And he *is* able to do work -- if not in his previous leadership role, then as a line detective."

YOU — "Line detective is good for now."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "For *now*?" He looks at you, then at Trant. "I misphrased my question. It should have been: Is he able to put his clothes on, and use the potty, or do we need to get him on a disability pension?"

Or, alternatively:

YOU — "He's wrong. I'm too far gone for work."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Agreed, Harry." He nods. "Just don't expect us to get you a disability pension. Cops who actually gave a shit are waiting in line. You're not gonna hog their seat."

Trant, who, notably, is technically a civilian consultant rather than a cop, (edit: and maybe even more notably, as someone pointed out in the tags, has had experience with addiction, too) suggests to Jean that Harry’s breakdown is a basically inevitable result of his circumstances and the systems that created them, and Jean’s response is that he doesn’t care and all that he wants to know is whether or not Harry can work or if he’s going to be “hogging” resources from other people who are more deserving of help because they “actually gave a shit.” He’s a mouthpiece here for the institutions that he represents and his ableism is blatant and heinous to drive the point home. He denies that Harry’s case is as serious as it is and accuses Harry of faking it, despite the fact that it’s happened (at least) twice before, and very recently:

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "I believe you *drank*. People do that -- you especially. What they don't do is forget their *whole life* because of drinking."

JUDIT MINOT — "But, Detective Vicquemare," she interjects. "He *has* blanked out before."

YOU — "I have?"

JUDIT MINOT — "Yes, a couple of times. After some of the more... serious benders." She pauses, remembering. "One was after the Two Drunks case, the other when we looked into that mural."

REACTION SPEED — The two cases... in your ledger. The Unsolvable Case and the Next World Mural. Those were recent.

And despite the fact that even Gottlieb doesn’t seem shocked about it:

YOU — "I've lost my memory. All of it."

NIX GOTTLIEB — "With all the damage you've been dealing yourself with drugs and alcohol, I'm not surprised."

AUTHORITY — There is no surprise in his voice. Only careless superiority.

DRAMA — It's hard to say if he doesn't believe you -- or doesn't care.

(Considering that Gottlieb’s PSY stat is so high (he’s even eating one of the PSY boosting candies during the call), along with his uncaring responses to all your other problems, it’s more likely the latter.)

Jean also won’t believe that you’re sober even if you haven’t touched so much as a cigarette for your entire playthrough, and even when Judit points out that he’s wrong, he’ll double down and say that it doesn’t matter because you’re going to relapse:

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Even the insect -- I don't care. But you're an *alcoholic*. And you've been drinking -- again. I won't let my life unravel because of this."

JUDIT MINOT — "Jean -- I think he hasn't. I can see it on his face..."

ENDURANCE — The bloating *has* gone down since you woke up that morning...

JEAN VICQUEMARE — "Okay, so he's stayed clear for what? A week?" He sighs.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM — "It's tough. One of the toughest addictions to overcome. Comparable *only* to heavy synthetic opiates. Even morphine is easier to kick than alcohol -- statistically. The odds are against him. Especially at his age."

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He nods. "He's too old. He's been like this for too long. I've seen him try many times. It's a farce by now."

SUGGESTION — They're leaving. They're all turning away from you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — No. You can figure it out. *Replace* it! Replace the alcohol with amphetamine. Or GBL! Fuck it -- morphine! Graffito removal agent! Anything. It'll buy you time. All you need is time.

Electrochemistry brings up yet another facet of Harry’s struggles with substances, which is the idea that some of them may be replacements for alcohol. He doesn’t have time or space to try to quit in any way that is remotely healthy. What he has are substances like speed that keep him from collapsing from the strain of it all so that he can keep showing up to work, and other substances that might (he hopes) help him wean himself off the alcohol.

The game explores all of these different factors of Harry’s struggles with addiction and the circumstances that keep him trapped in them exhaustively (and the fact that Robert Kurvitz apparently was recovering from alcoholism during the development probably contributed a lot to that). The structure and culture of the RCM are hugely responsible for Harry’s situation. He’s mocked and berated for being an alcoholic and told repeatedly to get his shit together without actually providing him with the means to do that. Instead, he’s not only enabled but practically forced to keep using just so that he can show up to work at all and not risk losing the only support network he has (even if it’s the shittiest and most unhelpful network imaginable). As Luiga (iirc) said, Harry’s biggest tragedy is that he’s incapable of quitting the force. Many of the reasons for that are genuinely just due to Harry being a class traitor and an asshole, but it’s also true that even if he did want to quit, there is no safety net to catch him.

And then Harry comes to Martinaise, a town that has been “orphaned” by the RCM and neglected by Revachol at large, left mostly to their own devices. It’s not like policing doesn’t still exist in Martinaise, and things are pretty dire for everyone in the community, but at the very least you can see that it is a community. Isobel houses you for free. In Kim’s absence (and after Gottlieb stitches and ditches you), Cuno and Garte take care of you when you’re shot. Acele responds to your breakdown on the ice by saying it’s okay to cry and that you can talk with her about it when you’re ready. Idiot Doom Spiral and co run to your aid when they see you drive your car into the sea and invite you to come drink with them just to stop you from doing it again. Harry discovers that life, while very painful and bleak at times, isn’t necessarily hopeless for the marginalized. You can still find solidarity and support outside of the system.

Meanwhile, if Harry in the end has no one to vouch for him and hasn’t stayed sober, that system will abandon him, a well-known suicide risk with at least one bullet hole in him and severe amnesia, with the promise of nothing but getting served a station call slip. The point is not whether or not Harry “deserves” to be forgiven or even whether he’s a danger to himself and others (to be clear, he is). The point is that this is a system that doesn’t care whether Harry and people like him live or die. That is why, even in a “good” ending where Harry is welcomed back to the 41st, the work won’t be sustainable. It’s going to kill him because that’s what it’s designed to do. The miracle of Martinaise was the realization that he doesn’t have to die. There are people who will help to keep him on this earth. They’re just not members of the fucking RCM.

It’s not a “gotcha” to say that if Jean (and the RCM, and the institutions of Revachol on the whole) is ableist for wanting Harry fired, then saying that cop work is unsustainable for Harry is also ableist. I won’t even say what I personally think of that logic because I’m trying to keep the tone of this post polite. Jean’s dialogue during the tribunal is meant to parrot every bit of ableist rhetoric that the system is built on and that keeps Harry trapped in this hellish feedback loop. He’s a mouthpiece for the general culture of the RCM, just like Gottlieb is a mouthpiece for the shit that addicts and the disabled have to deal with from the medical system. He thinks Harry should be fired because he’s a drunk and therefor a lost cause. The truth is that Harry needs to quit this job because it shouldn’t exist and because it is actively killing him.

In one of Martin Luiga’s articles about the process of creating the game, he brings up the concept of social murder, which is a term coined by Engels:

When one individual inflicts bodily injury upon another such that death results, we call the deed manslaughter; when the assailant knew in advance that the injury would be fatal, we call his deed murder. But when society places hundreds of proletarians in such a position that they inevitably meet a too early and an unnatural death, one which is quite as much a death by violence as that by the sword or bullet; when it deprives thousands of the necessaries of life, places them under conditions in which they cannot live – forces them, through the strong arm of the law, to remain in such conditions until that death ensues which is the inevitable consequence – knows that these thousands of victims must perish, and yet permits these conditions to remain, its deed is murder just as surely as the deed of the single individual; disguised, malicious murder, murder against which none can defend himself, which does not seem what it is, because no man sees the murderer, because the death of the victim seems a natural one, since the offence is more one of omission than of commission. But murder it remains.

None of this is subtext. And all of it is intended to make players actually spare a thought for what it’s like for people in Harry’s situation in real life. For God’s sake, please engage with it. You have to try and understand what it means to be trapped in a life that is made unlivable and to know that your death will be ungrievable. That’s what this whole game is about.

Edit: I’ve seen some ppl say in the tags something like “yeah, I like to imagine a happy ending for Harry, but…” and listen. I am laying a very gentle hand on your shoulders. The point of this post was never to say that there’s no happy ending for Harry. The point is that the first step toward that ending is conceptualizing a life outside of the RCM. In Martinaise, he got a glimpse of what that might look like. Hell, in the bad ending, you can even say to Jean, “fine then. I’ll just live here.” There’s hope for him and for us. I promise.

#meg talks #disco elysium #i have been seething over this all day. sorry.#i’ll be nice and won’t tag any characters mentioned here

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helicarrier · 1 year

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If someone asks me about my issues with DNIs, I think I’ll just refer them to this post from now on.

Tumblr, as a website, is designed for quick, casual content sharing. You can follow blogs, then immediately like and reblog posts from them. New posts are even recommended to you directly on your dash, so you don’t even need to look at their originating blogs to interact with them. DNIs put a wrench in this intuitive manner of using tumblr. They force someone to stop and detour and read a page before they touch any posts from a blog they don't know, and that contradicts how tumblr is intuitively meant to be used. If you see a post and you like it, and if there’s an icon right underneath it, your first reaction is to click the icon. I’m sure most of us have instinctively clicked “like” (or “reblog”) on a post we found interesting.

DNIs prevent this kind of “casual” interaction. Their existence means you have to stop yourself before you interact (in any way) with a cool post, find the DNI page of the person who reblogged the post and, if applicable, find the DNI of the person who made the original post as well (because they’ll also receive the notification, unless they deleted the post on their blog), read it, then return to the post. Nothing about DNIs are baked into the functionality of tumblr in an intuitive way; if anything, the only real “do not interact with me” function you will find here in tumblr’s infrastructure is the block function.

Because DNIs are so antithetical to how tumblr functions, they're an inherently futile way of preventing interaction with certain groups of people, too. Most people aren't going to read my rules or my pinned post before they interact with my content. I would not expect them to, because it doesn't occur to many people, and it's a lot of wasted time. Even people with certain kinds of users in their DNIs routinely interact with posts made by those very people, proving this point. It is so inconvenient and absurd to read a page every time someone so much as likes a post by a random blog. Those people you don't want interacting with you? They're probably reading your blog; liking your posts even if they don't expressly say they're x group from your DNI. They're doing the same to my posts, too. That's just the price we pay for being in a public space focused on content sharing. And I accept this. Other peoples' behaviour is completely out of my control. I just block people when needed, because it is my responsibility to curate my space.

And that is the crux of the matter: I refuse to pass the responsibility of curating my space onto strangers. I refuse to make it someone else's problem when they are using tumblr in the way it was meant to be used. Ideologically and functionally, it does not make sense to me.

Just think about it: tumblr is a public website. Unless your blog is password-protected, people can find it anytime, and if they really want to interact, they'll interact regardless of your DNI. It’s not like most people will say, "oh, drat, I'm a racist, I should leave!". Maybe they’ll just interact because the labels you dislike are not visible on their blog, so they'll fly under your radar. And at times where peoples' labels or behaviour are visible, the good ol' block button is the golden standard. It always has been.

If I become mutuals with someone, sure, we'll agree to scratch each others' backs, and tag whatever the other person needs tagged. But that's different from expecting every stranger who comes across my content, wherever it shows up, to follow demands that are all the way over here, on this blog. If someone reblogs one of my photosets way over in the Stranger Things fandom, and people see the reblogged post, they shouldn't need to come to my Marvel/Random Shit™ blog and read my pages before clicking the stupid little heart button. But imagine needing to do this with every single person, every single post of theirs. Sure, maybe you’re familiar with the DNIs of the people you follow. But what about all the posts they’ve reblogged? Those posts have OPs. Do the OPs of those posts have a DNI that’s favourable to you, too?

DNIs aren't even optional reads now, and everyone suffers because of that. The proliferation of DNIs has made a culture where if someone accidentally forgets to read a DNI, doesn't know that DNIs exist, or misinterprets the contents of a DNI, it’s considered acceptable to harass them for it. It's anxiety-inducing.

“...Shit, I forgot to like their DNI.”

It doesn't help that I never know what "basic DNI criteria" means, or what the "etcetera" means either, because it changes from person to person. Folks, I’ve seen homophobes with “basic DNI criteria” in their pages. That aside, you can say "bigots DNI", but a lot of transphobes don't believe they're bigots, so you could still get radfems liking your posts. You could say "bullies DNI", but many fanpols don't consider themselves bullies, because they believe if someone writes fanfiction from the perspective of Hannibal Lecter, of course their reaction to it isn’t “bullying”, it's just justified shaming!

Everyone is the hero of their own story, and everyone thinks they're the exception. They will be the exception to your DNI, too. Again, this all goes back to the "you can't control who interacts with your content" thing. It's maddening to try and think of all the angles, all the ways to "catch" people, all the ways to plug up all the holes. You may not want to hear it, but you never will. You can get the broad strokes, but you’ll never get everyone, you won’t even get close. Even if you do somehow manage to fit all the exact terms into your DNI, and you end up with a DNI longer than a CVS receipt, you’re still going to run into all the people who... Simply don’t read it. Meanwhile, you look a little too preoccupied with who’s looking at your blog on a public website, and even if a well-intended person comes across your blog, they may just check out because they’re uncomfortable with the micromanaging.

...If they can read the DNI. Look, I’m all for creative formatting, but I see so many DNIs (and carrds in general) that have hot pink writing on a red background, or baby pink on baby blue, or yellow on lime green, and I can’t read any of it, not to mention it’s a migraine risk among other things. I’m not reading dozens of these pages every other day.

It doesn't help that many DNIs are rude, angry, hostile pages that tell people to kill themselves. That's not right. When someone volunteers to read an information page, they are doing that person a courtesy. It is shameful people need to read things like "kill yourself", "swallow a knife", and other verbal sewage. It doesn't matter if it's directed to them or not. Simply looking for people to follow and interact with, simply liking a post, should not be an exercise in mental fortitude. Needing to read awful threats over and over again should not be a requirement for engaging on this site. Imagine having depression, intrusive thoughts, and so on, where this stuff could land twice as hard. It's gotten to the point where my eyes immediately gloss over when I open a DNI, because my mind simply doesn't want to see any more shit and is trying to protect me. I'm at the point where I don't want to open DNIs at all.

But as you guessed, there's a problem with that. Because DNIs are almost compulsory on tumblr now, ignoring them has two possible outcomes: one, you annoy a ton of people, because maybe their DNIs say they don't want you around, but you're interacting with their stuff anyways. Maybe you get labelled as the person who ignores DNIs. Two, you stop your browsing in part, or as a whole, meaning almost nobody gets likes or reblogs from you anymore, because you’re trying to not waste your time, you’re trying to preserve your sanity, etc. And this hamstrings content creators.

One of the biggest flaws in DNIs is that nobody is obligated to reveal information on themselves. Minors can easily hide their age. Bigots can hide their bigotry. People can remove info from their description until they're clear of someone's initial "new follower vibe check", then put it back. Nobody knows you're a dog on the internet. It's naive to assume people will be honest about themselves, and adhere to a DNI.

DNIs are often so incredibly vague and their attitude so charged that people can't even ask for clarification, because the writer of the DNI could be radicalized and have very unhealthy views, and absolutely attack someone for reaching out. A DNI might say, "don't interact if you support incest", but it never clarifies in real life, or fiction. There has been an enormous uptick in moral panic over fiction lately, so lots of people might ask for clarification, but if they do, the person could say "in real life and fiction, duh!", flame them because they "didn't know something so obvious, it must mean they're sus!", then flame them again because they viewed the poor person's blog and saw lots of mature content they think people shouldn't write. It's absurd, but unfortunately, that kind of panic has spread. Many people use DNIs as extensions of their unhealthy interaction, media consumption, and browsing habits.

So I usually avoid DNIs.

All in all, I don't mind if someone politely asks other people to not interact, or if they say they block for certain stuff, if there’s a clear awareness that it's not a be-all, end-all solution, and that people will still interact. As long as they put the onus on themselves, rather than other people, to curate their space, it’s cool. For example, if someone is an 18+ blog, and they ask minors not to interact? Cool, if they don’t “punish” or otherwise attack minors who find posts of theirs on other blogs, and “like” them from there without going all the way over to the OG blog to see if they’re allowed to do like it. Because again, that’s a bit of an unfair requirement to impose on people. And whatever.

Because people shouldn’t feel like they’re playing minesweeper when they want to click a heart. Between the terfs, racists, and all the other issues, we have enough on our hands already.

#dni #dni lists #psa #essay #fandom #censorship #twitter #bullying #harassment #*deux ex machina voice* it is done.#death threat mention cw #graphic threat mention cw #racist mention cw #terf mention cw

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historyherstory · 1 year

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Welcome to Chapter Six notes!

As I mentioned on ao3, this is definitely more of a history-lite chapter but it definitely exists in the tapestry of some really defining historical context.

The chapter does make reference of the rather scattered influx of Easy Company members - while the names I picked are largely unsubstantiated (if anyone has a record of which Easy Co members rejoined the company on which date, you have gold at your hands and please do share). The best I can really get at triangulating who was present on D-Day (and then D-Day +1, +2, so on and so forth) are the casual references made about others in individual biographies. I definitely took a lot of liberties with who was present.

Due to the confusing nature of the D-Day drops (planes broke formation, against order, to try to evade “flak” - anti aircraft fire from the ground) the paratroopers were scattered throughout Normandy, some as many as 13 miles (or more) from their objectives. Oftentimes this worked out (as the original drop zones were actually well guarded by Germans). An added bonus is that due to the chaotic and spread out nature of the landings, Germans really had no clue as to the big picture - what was the objective? How many allied paratroopers had landed? What geographic region were they in?

However, due to the chaos (not landing where they were meant to) plus the difficult terrain (see: Hedgerows, not a walk in the park) it took some paratroopers days to get to their company. In some instances, they actually hooked up with other companies (such as someone from Able or Dog or Fox fighting alongside Easy). In others, they were actually fighting alongside other regiments (several Easy Co men were with the 82nd Airborne for several days after landing).

All of this is to say: taking into account the near immediate losses (when plane chalked #66, Lieutenant Meehan’s, went down virtually all of Easy HQ went down with it) plus the slow centralization of troops, Easy was never really up to full force at any point during the Normandy campaign.

This chapter also had some less than direct allusions to the consequences of living in an occupied country. As mentioned in previous references: the allotment of goods via ration tickets to the French, under German Occupation, basically indicated a 1200 cal/day maximum. In a time where people were (often forced to) do manual labor, walking or biking rather than using mechanized transport, while it wasn’t completely dire straits, the people of France (especially in the cities) were hungry.

Studies have actually shown that children who grew up during the Occupation were measurably shorter on average, than prior generations. Infections were more frequent (and more fatal) due to weakened immune systems among the people. By 1942, the mortality rate in Paris is reported as being a staggering 42% higher than in 1932-1938. This is incredibly lengthy, but also extremely insightful regarding the psychological state of the French during occupation (and how the physical realities of the occupation, such as shortages and malnutrition) contributed to it.

When a character from occupied France is written about in ways that suggest observers finding them looking “sharp” or with obvious bone structure in places it shouldn’t, they’re observing the consequences of yearslong sub-par nutrition and its physical cost.

Nazi Germany requisitioned food for its own people and let others pay the price: in some locations like the work camps and ghettos, it’s starvation diet allotments that led to very rapid decrease in conditions. In others, like France, people were getting fed, but their vitality was lost over months (and years). Of course, if someone were in the countryside with more availability to resources due to having land and working it or maintaining livestock, the situation was much less acute. Similarly, those with expendable wealth could use their resources to augment their ration tickets via black market purchases.

#writing references #historical context #I said at the start of this i wouldn't over-research #don't mind me linking a 100+ page academic paper #it's fine this is just what we do here

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serenata-your-neighborhood-lefty · 3 years

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Reddit bankrupts at least one hedgefund: An explanation by AoShin

Alright kids, sit down while I tell you what on earth is happening. It's a once in a lifetime historical event. It's insane. At least 1 hedgefund has gone bankrupt, thanks to a group of average joes on Reddit. By the end of the week, there will be a line of bankruptcies.

So let's start at the beginning:

First of all, stocks are pretty simple, when they go up in value, you make money, because it's worth more than you bought it for. Stock goes up- you make money. Stock goes down- you lose money.

Short selling is the opposite. Short selling makes money when the stock goes down in value. Short sellers borrow someone else's shares, and sell them, with the goal of buying them back later, and pocketing the difference as profit. So, Tim borrows Bob's shares in GME, and sell them for $10, he pays Bob $1 to do this, and promises to give all of Bob's shares back. Then, if the stock goes down to $5, Tim buys the shares back at a cheaper price. So Tim's profit is $10-$5-$1 = $4 profit.

So that's where we start. A hedge fund tried to force down the price of Gamestop, and short the stock. It usually works fine. It's been done thousands of times, with no problems. So they shorted Gamestop (GME) from $20, to $10, to $4. Their greed kept compounding. They kept doing it again, and again, for months. Making billions of dollars, and almost bankrupting this company.

Enter Wallstreetbets. A trading/investing subreddit.

Someone noted that these hedgefunds shorted 140% of all shares available. These hedgefunds were so damn greedy, they borrowed more shares than actually existed. That's how arrogant and dumb they were. They borrowed 140% of all the available shares. It was literally impossible for them to buy them all back. So someone on Wallstreetbets realized this, and told everyone. Now, the rule with short selling is that ALL those shares that they borrow, MUST be paid back. And so we reach our main story of how the hedgefund's greed ruined them.

Realizing that these hedgefunds shorted GME by a ridiculous amount, these Redditors (a bunch of regular Joes like you and me), bought every share they could get their hands on. Driving the price up as much as possible. Why? Because these hedgefunds eventually (within a few months) HAD to buy all those shares back, at whatever price they could get them. They didnt have a choice.

So if they borrow a million shares, and sold them for $10. They made $10 million in immediate profit. But eventually, they HAD TO buy those million shares back. They didn't have a choice. That was the deal they made when they borrowed the shares.

So these Redditors bought the shares, driving the price up, forcing these hedgefunds to buy back at crazy prices. Yeah, the hedgefund sold and made $10 million, but now they had to spend $147.98 million getting those same shares back. A HUGE FUCKING LOSS of $137.98 million.

So eventually, the due date for when these hedgefunds need to return the borrowed shares comes closer.

And what do they do? They double down. They short MORE. Because they're sure that they can manipulate the stock enough to get it to crash, thereby saving themselves.

Fastforward a few days, every attempt to crash the stock fails. Oh it works temporarily, but not enough for them to save themselves. Everyone knows what theyre trying to do, so people keep buying the stock. And with every additional bit of media attention, more and more people are buying the stock, destroying the greedy hedgefund in the process. Eventually Melvin Capital- a multi billion dollar hedge fund, needs a bailout, because it has lost so much money shorting GME. They borrowed billions off another hedgefund. That was yesterday. The stock price was $76.

Today, the stock ended up at $147.98 for every share. Up from $4. These hedgefunds are STILL shorting the stock, at 130% of available shares. That's how fucking greedy these guys are. All those millions of shares STILL have to be paid back.

And that's where our story picks up. Hedgefunds are crying on CNBC. on CNN. on FoxNews. On literally every every platform they can get their hands on. They want the government to stop trading. They want this reddit forum investigated and banned. They're screaming ''market manipulation'', when in reality these hedgefunds were the ones manipulating the stock, but they got caught, and are now trying to take their ball and go home.

Now, if you haven't realized it yet:

With a normal investment, when buying stocks normally, the maximum you can lose is your original investment. When short selling, your losses are theoretically infinite. Because you HAVE to buy back at whatever price is available. So while these hedgefunds are on every news channel, every investing segment screaming about Reddit and Wallstreetbets, they inevitably draw attention to themselves, and what's going on.

Enter the ''whales''- individual investors who can make a splash and impact the stock. Millionaires and billionaires that have a bone to pick with hedgefunds and short sellers. Elon Musk famously despises short sellers, because they tried to cripple Tesla so often. With a single tweet, Elon sent the share price skyrocketing from $147.98 to $230. And along with Elon Musk, a huge number of wealthy ''whales'' have started to jump in. Buying up HUGE amounts of stock, at crazy prices.

But these investors don't care. They don't care how expensive they buy the stock for. Because they KNOW these hedgefunds MUST buy the shares back. For many of them, they don't actually care if they lose money. They just want to watch these hedgefunds burn.

Does this mean you should buy GME? I'm not gonna answer this question, because you obviously shouldn't be listening to strangers on the internet when it comes to your money. There's a lot of upside to buying GME, but there's also a crazy amount of downside. Tomorrow the share could go back to $4 and you could lose everything. These shares are obscenely overvalued, and the only reason they keep going up is that people are gambling that the hedgefunds will buy them for a higher price (they likely will, but up until what point?). It's a game of chicken. When the game ends, the house of cards will crumble, and people will lose millions.

The only thing I can recommend is that you grab a beer, and keep an eye on GME and enjoy the fireworks.

- AoShin, here

#our economy is just a really shitty casino #wall street #gamestop #late stage capitalism #usa #america #politics #billionaires #1%#leftist #anti-capitalist #leftblr #progressive #socialist #anti-capitalism #left #eat the rich

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merakiui · 3 years

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Diluc, Kaeya, Xiao, and Childe Finding out That You’re Being Abused HCs

cw: mentions/descriptions of (physical and emotional) abuse, injuries, depressive mood/thoughts, implied violence **please proceed with caution and do not read if this is triggering! note - submissions are confusing for me, so I wrote it in this format. I hope that was okay!

@tuestika said: Hi! Sorry that I send my request through submission, tumblr has sometimes eaten my asks either wholly or have omnomned whole ask xD Usually my requests sent through submissions arrive intact so…. I saw that you had done Scaramouche reacting finding out their s/o is being abused headcanons, may I request headcanons for Kaeya, Diluc, Xiao and Childe finding out their their s/o is being abused? Keep up good job! <3

🔥 Diluc 🔥

Diluc might not be the most vocal person in the world, but he’s definitely observant. He’s gotten rather skilled at picking apart your social cues because he’s spent a lot of time with you.

So when you barge into his tavern one evening, looking absolutely disheveled and asking for one of the Knights, he’s feeling two emotions: confusion and irritation.

For one, you shouldn’t even entrust your issue to those inadequate Knights. Nevertheless, you are his friend and he isn’t going to kick you out just because you mentioned them.

He waves you over to the bar and is thoroughly shocked when you beg him to let you hide behind it. Then he notices your split lip and the fresh injuries on your face and forearms, and he wastes no time in getting to the point.

“Why were you out so late fighting hilichurls? I hope you haven’t led any here. We don’t need that sort of trouble right now.”

“Sorry. No, that’s not it. I just—you’re the only one...” You’re struggling to piece a coherent statement together, too busy looking over your shoulder to keep track of your thoughts. “I didn’t know where I could go. I mean, I thought of you and—“

“Please slow down. Start at the beginning.”

More concerned over your safety than professionalism, Diluc allows you to slip behind the bar counter, where you cower on the ground to avoid being seen.

You gesture for him to come down to your height and he sighs, silently complying when he finds there aren’t any new customers to serve. Bending down to your level, he holds onto the countertop to keep his balance and then he locks eyes with you.

“What exactly happened?”

You inhale a shuddering breath, wrapping your sore arms around yourself for comfort. Tears are gathering in your eyes as you recall the event. Your abuser had found you after you’d left to get some fresh air, they’d cornered you in a secluded alley, and—you can’t finish the rest of the story.

Diluc doesn’t expect you to continue. He nods as he lets the information sink in, already harboring a deep resentment for this despicable individual.

“Wait here. I’ll close the tavern early. In the meantime, we should see to your injuries and then we’ll look for that person.”

“I really think we should tell the Knights...” you mumble, knowing he’ll disapprove. “They’re more suited to these types of cases.”

“The Knights are incompetent. The investigation will take days, if not weeks. What happens if your abuser knows they’ll be coming for them? They’ll try to escape and then there’ll be no telling where they’ve gone.”

“I know, but it wouldn’t hurt to—“

“I’ll take care of it.”

You try to object because it’s dangerous and you don’t want him to get injured on your behalf. But he’s insistent in his decision, claiming that if the Knights can’t help you no one can. And you really wouldn’t feel safe if your abuser was still roaming free, so you have no other choice but to allow him to carry out the investigation himself.

And Diluc can be quite clever at times. It won’t be hard to traverse the interior of Mondstadt at night, where his identity melts away into that of the sneaky Darknight Hero.

He’s going to protect you no matter what. Your abuser won’t receive an ounce of sympathy from Diluc. All he feels is cold hatred when he catches them. Someone as precious as you does not deserve to be put through such torment, and he’ll see to it that your abuser pays a hefty price to make up for all of the damage they’ve caused.

🧊 Kaeya 🧊

Kaeya can’t understand why you’ve started isolating yourself from everyone. In the past, you were always such great friends with the Knights, always catching up to talk to one of them.

He’d spent a lot of time with you and has since gotten to know you through lighthearted conversations and gossip from the people of Mondstadt.

For someone so appreciated and well-known, he can’t wrap his head around why you might want to suddenly disappear, hiding yourself away as if you didn’t exist.

And then he happens to catch you in town one day while you’re out running some errands. It’s so like him to pop in with a few flirty lines, but the words stick in his throat when he notices the bandages stuck to your arms and legs.

“That can’t be good,” he says as he approaches you, leaning ever so gracefully against a wooden support beam. “Why don’t we find Barbara? I’m sure she’ll have you patched up in no time, my dear friend.”

You don’t think you’re worth it so you shake your head, nervously hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.

“I hope you’re not accepting those dangerous commissions again,” he adds, half teasing and half serious. You can’t tell whether he’s trying to sound chiding or not.

“Please just...leave me be. I’m a little busy right now.” You try to leave the stall you’re at, walking stiffly to avoid limping in front of him. “I’m not feeling well, so if you’ll excuse me—“

Kaeya pushes off from the beam, standing in front of you with a posture that appears immovable. “By order of the Calvary Captain,” he’s saying, a playful glint in his eyes, “you aren’t allowed to move from that spot until you tell me what’s bothering you and why you’re covered head to toe in bandages.”

You can easily object to such an order, but you figure it’s better to answer instead of arguing over your physical condition. So you explain a modified version of the story, telling him that you simply got into a disagreement and it ended in bruises on both sides.

Kaeya hears the tremble in your voice when you say it; you’re lying. His expression softens at once and he steps away, indicating that you’re free to leave. But you don’t; you’re looking at him with such a helpless, pleading look. It breaks his heart.

You break before him, lips quivering as you beg for his help. You’re so scared and alone, and you’re not sure how long you can suffer through this before it seriously hurts you.

“This is the first time I’ve gotten out in weeks.” So that explains your sudden isolation. “Please... I don’t want to go back home anymore. I’ll do anything. Just don’t let them hurt me again.”

Kaeya’s absolutely stunned to hear the silent revelation in your words. You’re awkwardly reaching to undo one of the bandage wrappings to prove your point, but he stops you short. That’s all the proof he needs.

You’ll be brought back to the Knights of Favonius’ Headquarters to be tended to while he gathers a team to search for your abuser. Since you gave him a solid description, it shouldn’t be too hard to find them.

And once they’re apprehended, Kaeya will subject them to a grueling interrogation. There will be no gentle punishment; it’s going to be as unforgiving as the abuse you had to suffer through.

☁️ Xiao ☁️

You’ve never really been keen on physical touch and Xiao understands that completely. He usually avoids any sort of interaction to begin with, unless it’s absolutely necessary, so it’s not a surprise whenever you shy away from large crowds.

He has grown rather fond of you, which has lead to the two of you meeting at Wangshu Inn for some Almond Tofu and relaxed chit-chat.

During one of your many conversations, you bring up a few alarming statements. They’re just personal points you’d like to change, such as your weak fighting spirit or the way your joints brokenly click when you stretch.

Xiao wonders why you’d want to change yourself. You’re not usually this doubtful of yourself. In the past, you would always play the role of his smiling friend, putting on a positive face even when he was in a disagreeable mood.

Xiao is examining your movements as you awkwardly explain yourself and when your arms move he catches the sight of a rope burn etched into your wrist.

“What happened?” He gestures to your sleeve, to which you react in a nervous manner, shyly pulling your sleeve down to hide it. Xiao frowns a bit. “Did you get into an accident?”

“No, of course not! I’m fine. It’s just a result of my clumsiness.”

It really doesn’t look like that to Xiao and when he truly looks at you again he finds that you appear abnormally tired and exhausted. He isn’t going to sugarcoat anything and he could be making a giant assumption, but he still asks.

“Is someone hurting you?”

Your eyes widen for a split second and Xiao catches that movement like a cat drawn to a laser pointer. He won’t force you to explain unless you feel comfortable doing so. The last thing he wants is upsetting you or pressuring you into something you don’t want to talk about.

Eventually, though, the story will come to light and he’ll hear all about the horrors you’ve gone through. That rope burn was just one of many punishments you’ve had to endure, and Xiao’s just about ready to snap. How dare someone lay their filthy hands upon you in such a violent way?

Xiao will calmly tell you to stay at Wangshu Inn or anywhere else in Liyue where you’ll be safe. He’ll watch over you while you take time to recuperate and heal. He’s going to make sure you’ll never have to go through something like that ever again.

Having Xiao by your side makes the healing process all the more comforting.

And when you fall asleep in a soft, warm bed, Xiao slips out into the night to search for your abuser. It won’t be a pretty sight once he gets his hands on the human trash who dared to hurt you.

💧 Childe 💧

He’s very perceptive when it comes to your health and overall well-being. After all, he’s got brothers and sisters to care for; perception is absolutely necessary in order to keep them happy and healthy.

So it doesn’t take long for him to realize your behavior is uncharacteristic. You’re jumpier than usual, always apologizing for the littlest of things, and you’ll look over your shoulder whenever you sense something.

It’s almost as if you expect someone to suddenly come at you, which isn’t all that odd. Childe has been known to keep you on your toes when he’s looking for a fight.

But on one particular day he manages to give you a spook when he comes up beside you, grinning and showing up in your peripheral so suddenly that it nearly gives you a heart attack.

You’re so frightened as you back away, practically folding in on yourself in an effort to protect yourself from an imaginary blow. Childe pauses, that silly grin fading when he realizes you’re shaking.

“Hey, it wasn’t that scary. Come on, comrade!” He’s approaching you warily, not entirely sure why you’re acting the way you are. He’s always been spontaneous; you should be used to this by now.

But you refuse to let him come any closer, having to distance yourself so that you can ease your racing heart and hyperventilating lungs. Once you’ve calmed down, embarrassment floods through you at the fact that Childe just witnessed all of that.

Childe will ask if you’re okay with him stepping closer and if you nod he’ll be on you like a hawk, pulling up your sleeves before you can stop him.

For once, you catch an expression you normally don’t find on Childe: surprise. He’s genuinely shocked at what he sees: dark bruises and shallow lacerations from something sharp.

Either you got these in your many sparring matches or there’s another factor at play here, and Childe is almost certain it’s the latter.

His voice is gentle as he asks you to explain what’s going on and once you do he’s already set on finding the one who did this. He seems to forget all about his Fatui work, wanting to capture your abuser and give them a piece of his mind—and subject them to more than a few pieces of his strength, too.

He’ll have you protected in no time, offering to take you to the best healer. You’ll be treated wonderfully and he’ll even lay off on your sparring matches for a while.

In the meantime, once he gets his hands on your abuser, everything becomes fair game. After all, someone has to handle the brunt of his anger and pent-up bloodlust from the lack of a fight. And your abuser is the perfect match to pummel into the ground. Childe shows absolutely no mercy for them.

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pro-birth · 3 years

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Pro-Life Birth Workers have always existed and will continue to exist, so get used to it.

I am getting bone-deep tired of pro-aborts asserting that they own the conversation on birth justice, and that includes bullying health care workers into supporting the killing of unborn children as a form of “healthcare.” One claim I hear often is “abortion is a part of midwifery/birth work so you shouldn’t do that if you are anti-choice!!!”

Well, they’re wrong, and have always been wrong. Some favorite examples of mine:

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“[Louise Bourgeois] wrote a book on childbirth practices in 1609 titled Various Observations on the Sterility.[11] Bourgeois was the first woman to write a book on midwifery.[19]

The last section of her 1609 book contains Bourgeois' opinions on various topics specifically written for her daughter. She told her to fear God, to attend the poor with charity, and to never let unmarried women into her house for confinement or to assist in abortions.” [X]

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“”You could pay me a thousand dollars I wouldn’t know one iota thing to do to destroy that baby and I wouldn’t if I could.” I never will fo’get -- there’s a midwife. And it was my husband’s grandmother...I nursed her until she died. I laid her out. I dressed her and laid her out. Combed her hair. That was in Magnolia right after I got married. She died and you know what she told me befo’ she died? “I could make it in if it weren’t for all the lil babies. I cain’t get by. I cain’t get by for all the lil babies.” You understand? She could have made it in if it weren’t for all the babies that she miscarried [aborted], that she killed. I’m talkin bout me sittin right there hearin her say those words...I know one thing. You couldn’t pay me to destroy a baby. They’ll never get in my way from goin to heaven when I die.”

Onnie Lee Logan as told to Katherine Clark, pg 116 of Motherwit: An Alabama Midwife’s Story

—-

Of the 3,000 babies delivered by [Stanislawa] Leszczyńska, medical historians Susan Benedict and Linda Sheilds write that half of them were drowned, another 1,000 died quickly of starvation or cold, 500 were sent to other families and 30 survived the camp. It is believed that all of the mothers and all of the newborns survived childbirth.

In early 1945, the Nazis forced most inmates of Auschwitz to leave the camp on a “death march” to other camps. Leszczyńska refused to depart, and stayed in the camp until its liberation.

Leszczyńska’s legacy lived on long after the liberation of Auschwitz—both in the memories of the survivors whose babies she attempted to give a dignified birth, the lives of the few children who left the camp alive, and the work of her own children, all of whom survived the war and became physicians themselves.

“To this day I do not know at what price [she delivered my baby],” said Maria Saloman, whose baby Leszczyńska delivered, in the 1980s. “My Liz owes her life to Stanislawa Leszczyńska. I cannot think of her without tears coming to my eyes.”

[X]

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An encounter with a pregnant woman with cancer was a pivotal episode in the first part of [Flora Gualdani’s] career as a trained midwife, when she was in her early 20s. The sick woman was being pressured by doctors to abort, against her wishes.

Abortion was then illegal in Italy, and it was not uncommon for Italian women to travel to London to procure the procedure, which Flora was shocked to learn on a visit to England as a young adult. Abortion was legalized in Italy in 1978.

With Flora’s support, the woman carried to term and gave birth to a healthy little girl...

...These buildings [for maternity homes], mostly small houses, were constructed by Flora in the 1970s, out of her spare time and money and with the help of volunteers. She would not take money from Church or state.

The houses were built to host women facing difficult pregnancies; women with no place to go and at risk of seeking an abortion. Many of these women, she said, had been thrown out by their families, or were working on the streets, when they came. She recalled that many of them showed up at her door with only a plastic bag in their hand.

Flora could give shelter to up to seven or eight women at a time. The young women, many of whom were of different races, could stay with her for as little or as long a time as they needed.

[X]

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[Rebecca] Christian pointed out that for many younger people “reproductive justice” suggests advocacy for abortion access and birth control, a limited focus often shared by the pro-life community. But in her upcoming presentation, Ms. Christian plans to explore a broader understanding of reproductive justice that might surprise people who only know the term from popular discourse.

“For a Catholic woman who walks into her doctor’s office and doesn’t want to be pressured into using birth control, that would be a reproductive justice issue. For a woman or a family that is having a baby and wants to have full access to her maternity leave or family leave, that is a reproductive justice issue. Even where to have a baby, how to have a baby…with dignified health care that affirms a family’s personal choices, that is a reproductive justice issue.”

Ms. Christian is a birth and postpartum doula, and she supports families after miscarriages through their bereavement. As she explained, doulas provide “physical, mental and spiritual support to families during pregnancy, birth and the postpartum period.” She has also recently been certified as a lactation counselor and educator.

[X]

----

Some midwives (and other birth workers) support or even perform abortions, others do not and are neutral, and still others are against abortion and actively fight against it. In the past as well, some healers were aware that some herbs caused early abortions while others assumed it was merely a period. You can not look at the current and historical evidence and claim that all health care workers/healers were mostly pro-abortion. It’s just not factually correct in any way.

If you think a midwife or other birth worker “needs” to support legal or illegal child killing to be able to protect the health of pregnant women and their unborn children, then you are excluding a lot of competent, talented, and life-saving women from the health care world -- and that’s a problem pro-life birth workers like me will never, ever tolerate. Get used to it.

(And btw: a majority of OBGYNs do not want to perform elective abortions. So you don’t have support on that end either. Sit down and contemplate as to why no one likes to be involved with the death of unborn children.)

#midwifery #midwifery history #pro-life midwifery #mad pro aborts get blocked ❤️#black midwifery #italian midwifery #french midwifery #polish midwifery #black doula

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kikis-writing-world · 3 years

Text

Flags and Labels

Part of Writer Wednesday by @flightlessangelwings & @autumnleaves1991-blog

Pairing: Modern AU, pan!Din Djarin x Bi!Reader (GN, no pronouns, no Y/N)

Word Count: >2k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of a religious upbringing and trauma from that past. Essentially Din grew up in “The Children of the Watch” and was very sheltered, but is now exploring the real world. If I’m missing anything else I should tag in this vein, please let me know.

pride / “Kiss me again, like you mean it.”

You smiled brightly at Din as he gazed around, a look of wonder on his face. The street was alive with colour. Walls, windows, fences, parking meters: Everywhere you looked were multicoloured flags of every kind, representing the various people taking to the streets to celebrate their freedom to be who they are. The people themselves in the streets were just as colourful. They sported flags and bright colours and all kinds of eccentric accessories, showcasing who they’re proud to be. The joy in the air was palpable, contagious even.

You had been friends with Din for nearly two years now, the two of you having met at the local library. He always took out such interesting books on a variety of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction, and shortly after becoming acquainted with him you found out why. He had grown up in a very strict religious sect - some would go so far to describe them as a cult - and had been sheltered from many things until his early adulthood. When he became comfortable with you, he had just as many questions for you about the “real world” as you had about his past.

One topic that had come up as you two talked about Din’s past was his sexuality. He had known from a young age that something was different. His religion had been strict about heterosexual couples being the only way, shunning all other types of love. You happily helped him find books and resources he could look into, to further explore his feelings. You also opened up, sharing your own personal journey and experiences as you came to terms with your bisexuality.

When you suggested taking Din to this year’s pride, he was both nervous and excited. He still wasn’t a fan of large crowds, a side effect of his upbringing. He also didn’t know what to expect when he got there. With some research and reassurance from you that you wouldn’t leave his side, he agreed. You were so glad he did now that you were watching him take it all in.

“All these people…” Din trailed off, losing his voice.

“They all support love.” You finished the thought. “Regardless of labels, they all just wanna be who they are, love who they want. There’s always some protesters, but whatever, don’t pay them any mind. We outnumber them.” You chuckled.

“I had no idea this was out here, all this time.” He breathed.

You had to bite your lip to keep your own emotions in check. The look of awe, the unshed tears in his eyes. You felt drawn to the sweet, quiet man like a moth to a flame. You’d been falling for him for months, the embers of your crush only stoked when he opened up about his sexuality and yes, you were in his spectrum. The glimmer of hope that he might be attracted to you dangled in front of you like a feathered cat toy… but you just couldn’t risk it. He had opened up to you, come to you for guidance and a shoulder to cry on. You felt guilty taking that away from him if you pushed that line too far. You’d crush on him silently while remaining a pillar of support.

“C’mon,” you wrapped your hand around his forearm - a safer place than taking his hand or feeling the enticing muscle hidden under the sleeve of his t-shirt - “let’s dive in.”

You watched Din carefully as you two walked the streets and took in all the sights. You wanted to know if he was getting overwhelmed or uncomfortable, but he took it all in stride. He had lots of questions about the performing drag queens, and not all that you could answer yourself. You laughed heartily at the look on his face when one queen draped her boa over his shoulders with a shimmy.

There were people doing tarot readings, which while he seemed intrigued about, didn’t want to miss anything else by waiting in the long line. You shared a rainbow coloured ice cream sundae which turned your tongue different colours as you went, both of you laughing as you stuck your tongue out periodically - you forced yourself not to think about how the flavors would taste on his tongue every time it came out a different colour.

You made a point to stop at some information booths for local groups, picking up flyers for Din to look over later. Sports teams, choirs, friendship/support groups; Din was absolutely shocked to find there were arms of religion that not only accepted but supported LGBTQ+ rights. You knew he was struggling with reconciling his religious teachings with the “real world” and thought maybe these groups might be able to help navigate it more than you could with your limited experience.

A face painting booth caught your eye and you dragged Din over, not that he was putting up much of a fight. There were a few people doing the face painting, some clearly artists who would do a full-face of whatever you requested, but also there were some that were simply painting pride flags on cheeks for the price of a donation to a local queer youth shelter.

You and Din looked over the board they had set up of different flags, all that you had seen throughout the day as you explored.

Dropping some money into the bucket, you sat on the stool and asked for a bisexuality flag. Din stood by and watched as the artist painted. You kept quiet, not wanting to cause them to mess up.

“Well? What do you think?” You prompted when they were done.

“It looks nice.” Din nodded.

“Did you want one too?” The artist asked, looking Din’s way.

You looked over to Din, smiling as you waited for him to answer. As comfortable as he’d grown in your time walking around and meeting new people, you didn’t know if he was ready to wear anything pride related. It was his call, but you looked as encouraging as you could.

“Um, can I get this one?” He asked, pointing at the Pansexuality flag. Your heart soared for him. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of finding the right label, but feeling comfortable enough to display the flag on his cheek was definitely progress.

“Of course!” They answered, gesturing for Din to sit in the stool as they got the right colours ready. As he sat, you gave his shoulder a squeeze. He looked up at you with a soft smile, eyes shining with excitement.

“Have you ever had your face painted before?” You questioned, realizing that it probably wasn’t the kind of thing he’d grown up with.

“I don’t think so.” He shrugged.

“Oh, it’s been a while since I had a virgin.” The artist teased with a wink, making you laugh as Din blushed bright red. You ran your hand across his shoulders to soothe him through the embarrassment, although all it did was make your own face flush as you felt the firm muscles twitch under his shirt.

“All done!” It took the artist only a few moments to swipe the three colours evenly along his cheek. They lifted a handheld mirror so Din could see for himself. He nodded his approval with a quiet thanks, adding some more money into the collection bucket.

“C’mere, let’s get into the sun for a picture!” You suggested as you skipped ahead of him. He followed, grinning at your excitement as you found the perfect spot and opened up your camera.

He leaned over you, head nearly resting on your shoulder as you started snapping selfies. Happy ones, goofy ones, serious ones. Your thumb automatically tapped every few seconds as the two of you made different faces. When Din pressed his lips to your cheek, the picture captured every ounce of surprise you felt.

“Thanks for bringing me here.” Din smiled as you tucked your phone away, trying to hide your burning face.

“Y-yeah. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” You stuttered, picking at some non-existent lint on your shirt.

“Did I do something wrong?” The flatness in Din’s voice made your head shoot up. He was frowning, the excitement of the day all but vanished from his expression.

“No. W-W-Why… Why would you think that?” You shook your head, internally cursing yourself for the reaction you had to a simple, friendly kiss.

“I kissed you, and you…” He trailed off, gesturing at you in lieu of verbalizing his thoughts. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, Din. Don’t apologize-”

“I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now-”

The two of you began speaking at once, only to both pause when you realized the other was talking.

“Trying to tell me what?” You asked, feeling that familiar heat rising up your neck into your cheeks.

“I… I like you… more than just friends…” Din admitted, looking down and kicking at a rock on the ground. “I guess today just… made me feel… brave.”

“Really?” You squeaked, voice malfunctioning as you fought to keep your body under control. You wanted to jump, sing, cartwheel, hell you would fly if you had the ability.

“You don’t have to like me back. I don’t want it to change anything.” Din continued, still focussed on the rock.

You tucked your hand under his chin, forcing him to look up and see with his own eyes how you felt about his confession. His eyes widened a fraction when he took in the wide smile you wore ear to ear.

“I definitely like you back.” You confirmed. “And you are one of the bravest people I know.”

A sigh of relief gave way to a matching smile on Din’s face, the two of you smiling at each other widely, neither sure what to say next.

“Din?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me again, like you mean it.”

The only regret the two of you held from your first real kiss was the smudged flags on your cheeks.

Tagging @wickedfrsgrl @din-damn-djarin @seasonschange-butpeopledont @kesskirata @phoenixhalliwell @vonschweetz @insideafictionaluniverse @driedgreentomatoes @computeringturtle @spideysimpossiblegirl

#Din Djarin x Reader #Din Djarin x You #Mando x Reader #Mando x You #Din Djarin imagine #din djarin drabble #Din Djarin fluff #WookieTales #jey’s pride celebration 2k21 #Writer Wednesday

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dear-yandere · 4 years

Text

☽ darling, don’t leave me.

yandere! jojos + dio. general headcanons. tw: mentions of physical abuse, gaslighting, confinement, and noncon (dio’s part).

art credits: rosuto, ぴの, wW 武 Ww, unknown, suan, tumbleweed.

Jonathan Joestar is obsessive.

A true gentleman, Jonathan knows better than to let his feelings stray from his control. Still, he’s never been one to pursue love, so these feelings are entirely new. He courts his darling like any other self-respecting man of his time, allowing them the space to choose whether or not they desire him too. He doesn’t take being turned down personally as he’s perfectly content with merely being by his darling’s side. Even seeing them fall for another man is something he cannot force himself to intervene in; every smile and laugh not directed at him hurts far worse than any punch he’s ever received, but Jonathan thrives in seeing his darling happy and carefree.

Clingy as he may be, he isn’t above taking a few of darling’s possessions should the opportunity present itself. A head band or hair tie here or there, perhaps a pair of gloves or a hat his darling is sure to not miss — Jonathan is surprisingly adept and subtle at stealing and keeping these little trinkets. Darling may notice a few missing possessions, but it’s nothing Jonathan can’t laugh off as a misplaced item and easily replace with something new and extravagant. Money isn’t a problem, especially when it comes to his sweetheart. If it means they’ll stay by his side — or even look his way as more than a friend or confidant — he’ll give his darling the world.

Overbearing and well-meaning as he is, even gentleman aren’t without their flaws.

“You don’t have to feel the same. All I ask is that you don’t leave me.”

Joseph Joestar is protective with a hint of possessiveness.

Acting much more like an older brother rather than a lover — similar to his grandfather Jonathan — Joseph is hyper-aware of anyone that might hurt his sweetheart. He’s not sure how it came to be this way, really; it’s a first for him to not know even his own feelings. His darling is easy enough to read, and perhaps that’s what got him into this situation, where even the slightest brush of skin against his or the mere sound of them saying his name sends his nerves on edge. He likes the attention they give him when he acts like a brotherly figure; there’s no need to worry about unwanted feelings developing between the pair. At least, darling doesn’t have to worry, because Joseph falls in love despite his precautions. It isn’t until a competent rival appears that Joseph becomes rather intensely possessive and competitive — a rival like Caesar.

He hates losing, especially when he had his eyes set on the goal first. The moment a suave man like Caesar sets their sights on Joseph’s darling, he’ll turn snarky, snappy with even his darling. It’s a brutally stark contrast to the playful, chipper demeanor he usually bears, but it’s easy for darling to play it off as him having a bad day — until he doesn’t relent. His grip is harsher these days, his tone more grating and condescending whenever darling shows interest in his rival. At some point, he’ll lash out whenever they show interest in any man other than him.

If his insecurities and one-sided love are kept unchecked, he has no qualms with cutting his darling’s connection to anyone he deems a threat.

“Of course I’m jealous! You’re mine! You need me!”

Jotaro Kujo is manipulative with a hint of sadism and lucidity.

With a cool and collected exterior, it’s easy to convince his darling that everything they believe is wrong. Even a lionhearted lover will doubt themselves; or rather, Jotaro would seek an individual like this out. He’s used to women and men swooning over his good looks and alluring physique, though he doesn’t care much for the attention. Even when he degrades and admonishes his admirers, they fawn and swoon over him — it’s nothing short of disgusting, really.

His ideal darling — the only type of person he’d seek out, rather than let come to him — is someone with a steel heart, someone hellbent on rejecting his words as law, someone who puts up a fight. Degrading and humiliating them will be a treat, a fun little challenge to come home to. He doesn’t want them to enjoy this in the slightest; he wants them to slowly break, to slowly doubt every piece of information they hear unless it comes from his mouth. Even the death of a loved one will seem surreal, exaggerated, fake unless he says so himself, and even then he won’t allow his darling that sort of luxury.

Once he’s tied his darling down (with a ring, and with ropes), they won’t see very much of him. As he pursues his career in Marine Biology, he’s often away on business trips, his only excuse for long periods of absence being “it’s too dangerous”, or some slew of insults thrown his darling’s way. He isn’t fond of divulging much of his personal life with them even if they are the love of his life; to him, secrets come hand-in-hand with relationships. Darling’s life is in danger simply by association; it’s best to act as if they don’t exist. Still, that doesn’t mean he’ll let them slip through his fingers. When he wants something, he’ll get it even if it’s eventual.

Darling was doomed the moment he found an inkling of interest in taming them.

“Don’t look so scared when I’m around. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

Josuke Higashikata is protective with a hint of delusion.

Sweet and compassionate as he may be, Josuke isn’t immune to feelings of inadequacy, jealousy, and obsession. He rationalizes these feelings as merely being protective of a good friend of his, but it’s not until his friends point out that what he’s feeling is love that he truly understands why his heart pitters and patters like raindrops when his darling’s around. He completely understands if darling doesn’t return his feelings — these things take time, he’ll say — but he doesn’t take kindly to jealousy of any sort. A mere mention of liking someone else will have him moping and distancing himself, but he’ll stay around just enough to ensure his beloved’s protection.

Josuke wouldn’t fare well with a darling who’s familiar with getting under his skin. Even an insult or two to his hair isn’t enough for Josuke to give up on his one-sided love; if anything, it’s an opportunity. Crazy Diamond has the power to heal after all, and when Josuke’s emotions run away from him, his darling may end up with more than a few cuts and bruises. Bones will be shattered, blood will be spilled, and apologies will fumble past trembling lips as darling’s abuser fixes them up — as if nothing ever happened. The only trace of evidence are the tears in Josuke’s eyes and the excuses on his lips — this easily becomes the norm. Both he and his darling will constantly tread along eggshells, the former worrying that his actions destroyed any chance of a relationship and the latter worrying the next time they step out of line, they’ll die.

But Josuke wouldn’t let his sweetheart die, no. He can heal whatever wounds they may receive, even its its from him. He’s a platonic yandere, at worst, and an overbearingly violent one at best.

“Please don’t scream. People will think I did something terrible to you.”

Giorno Giovanna is manipulative with a hint of protectiveness and lucidity.

This soldato is cunning and intuitive, a natural-born leader with charisma rivaling his true father’s. He turns heads wherever he goes, inspires everyone he meets — it’s almost laughable how easy it is to twine people around his fingers. As a mere Passione soldato, he isn’t much threat to his darling, but as don, any hope of escaping his suffocating love is slashed. His control reaches farther than his darling can ever tread, and although he understands why his little coccinella would go so far as to run away, the thought of being without them is inconceivable. How can he protect them if they’re not at his side? Without him, darling could fall in love with the wrong person, someone who wears a mask and will hurt them once they’ve settled down together; without him, darling could fall in love with a monster. His step-father was like that, and he’d made Giorno’s childhood a living hell. So how could he let his darling tread that same path?

With a well-behaved darling, the don is a fairly normal lover... once they get past all the bodyguards and paranoia-filled lifestyle. Unlike his father, Giorno is not sadistic in the slightest; rather, seeing his darling in physical or emotional turmoil hurts him. He’s more apt to manipulate them in subtle, gentler ways rather than through brute force or threats. After giving them a new identity, he’ll keep them someplace safe, a private island off the coasts of Italy, somewhere heavily guarded and devoid of life except for his beloved and their bodyguards. It’ll be lonely, he’s sure, so he’s certain to visit whenever he has an ounce of free time. But even he can’t replace one’s need to feel social, safe, normal. That’s just the price his lover has to pay as the future spouse of a mafioso.

If he lived a different life, there’d be no need for all of this. Giorno’s love is bittersweet at best, but that realization isn’t enough to let his darling go. They need him, perhaps just as much as he needs them.

“I really can’t take it when you cry like that… smile for me, alright? You’re so pretty when you smile.”

DIO is sadistic, manipulative, and possessive.

Love has never done much for him, not in the way feeling powerful has. He prefers ruling over others rather than giving someone the ability to rule with or over him. His darling is nothing more than a plaything, at best — something to pass the time, something to sate his curiosity. Just how far can he push them before they crumble between his fingers and shatter like a precious gemstone? He takes pleasure in testing these boundaries, humiliating his darling as if that will help him understand this odd feeling humans call love. It’s possible for him to truly fall in love with his darling, but they will never take priority over his desire to end the Joestar bloodline. Perhaps, once he accomplishes this goal, his darling will be something nice to come back to, something stagnant and forever his.

He’ll go to lengths to break his darling, over and over again, see how much torture they can withstand before they realize that crying out or begging gets them nowhere. Will they hide their defiance under a facade of obedience, or will they truly break? It’s all an experiment to Dio, but either way, he’ll force them to be his little sex slave — sometimes, if they’ve behaved particularly nasty, darling will be the sex slave of his devoted followers, a little reward for being such wonderful subordinates.

Apart from sexual torture, he’s keen on testing his darling on tidbits of information from the books he reads — completely mundane and often vague questions designed to make his little slave fail. It’s just a precursor, really, because he likes seeing them shine with determination only for it to shatter before their eyes. Punishments always follow, usually humiliation or sexual assault of some sort; though if he’s in a particularly bad mood, he won’t shy away from physically hurting his darling. All the better to break them with.

It’s a miracle if darling survives this little game of his, but if they do, he’s certain to keep them around for far longer than he originally anticipated. Being immortal can get so boring, you see, and what’s the fun of bottomless money and endless casual sex if he can’t keep an entertaining and worthy slave here or there?

“Tell me you love me as I fuck you into the mattress.”

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anthonyed · 3 years

Text

There's a flower on his table-top. It's the last thing Tony notices; shrivelled, half hidden under a stack of folders with a leaf torn and browned.

He stares at it for a full five minutes, muscles tensing further and further until the wrench cuts bluntly into his right palm and he hisses as he drops it, feeling burnt.

It's a quick second distraction from that aged flower but it serves its purpose perfectly.

Tony turns away, calling for Dum-E to throw it into the trash.

Habitually, he drinks his coffee black and hot. No sugar, no milk needed. Just a quick fix to boost his system so it can function for another four hours.

Natasha catches him at 4am, wrapped in a woolen cardigan with an irritated frown on her pretty face.

She stares at him, and stares while he stares right back at her. It's like they're both trying to shift through words to find the right one to say.

Eventually she turns away and leaves.

Tony's not surprised, nor is he going to admit it bothers him more than he likes to think.

Clint is blunt. And brutal.

It's perhaps all the times he'd fallen on his head throughout his life, that he doesn't shy away from calling Tony an asshole, face forward.

"You just gotta destroy someone else along with yourself don't you?" His words cut like daggers.

If he's honest, Tony cries.

Two weeks after that dried rose, he stares at a teardrop on its spot. He hates the stream that doesn't stop but guess that's the price he has to pay for breaking someone's heart.

It's a strange sort of thing, to notice a drop of clear liquid before realising what it is and then, where it's from. Humiliating too. For Stark men don't cry but Tony always manages to break that streak somehow.

No wonder Howard hated him when he was alive.

It's the sight of Steve that does it in the end.

Forlorn in his long cotton sweatpants and thick beard and he's as good as he'd last seen him, or maybe better. But his blue eyes shine less, like something's hardened over them and when they meet Tony, they stare right through him as if he's a stranger.

And that's way too brutal than what he did, Tony thinks.

Indifference versus rejection and the former will always be the grand prize winner.

One night, after four months of turning away from each other, Steve comes to stand by the window where Tony's at; nursing a glass of whiskey for his rotten heart and his presence is so thick that it moulds around Tony like a warm cocoon. Comfort which he's been yearning for ages now within his reach but it's not really his to own, is it?

They don't speak. They don't look. They simply stand there right next to each other as if testing their boundaries and it goes on for hours and Tony feels tired; his eyes burn with sleep and whiskey but something in his veins pleads him to stay cause it knows if he leaves now, this will be it.

He doesn't leave.

Two days later, Steve puts a strip of bacon on his plate of breakfast and carries on flipping pancakes like there is nothing out of normal.

Clint's bite of waffle catches dust on its fork while his jaw hangs slacken staring at both of them.

Natasha's smirking, but it's barely there, for barely a second before it's gone behind a mug of jasmine tea which scents the whole kitchen.

Tony chokes on a strawberry, is what all of them think, but really it's a huge lump of tears stuck in his throat which grows and grows until Sam whacks him on the back with all his strength combined.

"Jesus Christ," he hisses between shaking his head.

Someone tells him on a Saturday, while the Sun is pouring hot into his workspace that Steve is still hung on him as he was before the mess.

Tony puts a name to that someone when he discards his goggles and meets piercing grey eyes behind a swath of long brown mane and, "My God," he says, "Do you have no plans to cut that lump of grease, Barnes?"

One day, he passes by a flower shop on the busy New York street while in search for caffeine post board meeting and it's a slight hesitation in his steps before he hurries along that sits with him until the dead of the night and he recalls vividly the smell of that dried rose he trashed that day and the ache in his chest which feels better now and he's thinking and thinking and -

He orders a bouquet the next day.

100 red roses within a mass of baby breaths and it's delivered to the garage, not to its intended recipient because Tony is still not sure this day.

And he still isn't sure even after a day, and another and those roses lose their luster and they wilt and they rot and Dum E kindly blends them into a smoothie which Tony pukes into the toilet bowl a week later.

The thing is, it's not the roses but Steve that he isn't so sure.

Sure, Barnes was a twittering little nosy bird who sprinkled some hope in Tony's dead garden. Sure, their friends tease them during battles or sometimes some random moments when their eyes meet, or fingers touch or Steve places an extra pancake on Tony's plate or when Tony gives Steve's shield back looking shinier before ever -

Sure, there are instances but, nothing was ever said between them after Tony tossed Steve's heart into the trash can and everything feels broken still sometimes when it's only two of them in a space together.

Courage comes in the form of a death threat when a rebar goes through and through Steve's chest but it barely misses his heart and Tony loses his shit like never.

If ever Rhodey has seen him so still, it is now by Steve's bedside smelling miraculously of both blood and antiseptic. Even Pepper couldn't get through him, in the end.

It takes 10 days and three hours for Steve to open his eyes and the first thing he smells is sweet floral.

Almost too much to the point that he scrunches his nose. Too much that he forgets the pulsating pain at his right temple and the tearing one in his breastbone. But he sees Tony in the mass of red, white, yellow and almost every other color in a rainbow and he understands immediately where the source of it comes from.

"Maybe I went overboard," Tony rubs his nape, looking oddly out of place but beyond desperate.

Steve's hand, already in his, gives a good squeeze and he feels better, marginally, but still unearthed. Like he shouldn't be here, but he couldn't help himself because he needs to and he just has to.

Steve croaks, "Just a little," and the twitch of his mouth gives more hope than a lake to a man in a desert. Tony drinks all of it like a starved man and he lets out a sigh he's been holding for ages. And the apology too, slipping through his lips into the clasp of both of their hands.

"I'm sorry," smelling sickeningly sweeter than the rose which came with Steve's 'I love you' eight months ago and it makes Tony wince.

Steve's silent through it. Through another hour Tony spends rambling over nothing and everything because Steve hasn't said anything and even then, even when Tony leaves, closing the door behind him, Steve doesn't say a single word.

"Maybe you're wrong," Tony wants to tell him. It's the only reason why he climbs out of his workshop at 3 in the morning because that's when their resident Robocop comes out for late night munchies.

And he almost says those words because that pair of shoulders are familiar as well as the black hoodie draped over them, except the owner of that body turns and Tony stops dead in his tract, breath caught in his chest because that is not Bucky Barnes but Steve Rogers.

And then he turns 180 and bolts out of the kitchen.

Once upon a time, the only person who'd dare to call him coward to his face would have been Rhodey. But now he's got like 10 of him and everywhere he turns, he seems to run into one of them.

"What are you running from?" Bruce asks him one day and Tony almost tells him. Almost. Cause it's Bruce and he would never judge but that is about it.

Something about all of this with Steve makes Tony feel like he should be judged. Bound to a stake and forced to face his judgement day because that's what he deserves for breaking Steve's heart.

So he opens his mouth, and he closes and he shakes his head and pretends Bruce never asked him a thing at all.

And then Steve walks into his shop - Jarvis, that bloody traitor - and Tony is so shocked about this turn of event that he misses the close proximity Steve puts himself to Tony when he asks roughly, "Did you forget I almost got killed?"

When Tony shakes his head mutedly, he asks, "Then you don't care to see if I recover. Is that it?"

Aghast, Tony opens his mouth to protest but Steve doesn't let him.

"You spent days sitting and mourning by my bed when I was unconscious and you bought so many flowers as if you wanted to bury me in them. Did you want to bury me in them? Is that why you're running away from me now that I'm back alive?"

And that hurts because, "How dare you?" Tony whispers, breath lost in boiling blood and he blinks back hot tears, looking up at the man he loves.

Those hardened blue eyes melt and they shine with tears when Steve cups his face and demands, "Then why are you avoiding me?"

"Honestly? Cause I think you hate me," and there it is. The ringing truth which Tony didn't know existed until it comes tumbling out of his mouth and his throat pains when he tries to swallow a building lump cause it hurts to look at Steve when he looks like he's been cut by a thousand knives.

So he tries to turn away but Steve pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and hisses into the crown of his head, a remarkably unfamiliar word to ever be directed at Tony Stark.

"Idiot."

#stevetony #stony #mine #and i finished this last night

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oddlyhale · 3 years

Note

I really feel like CRWBY interacts too much with its fans in a way that I never see the crews of other similarly sized or bigger media productions doing. Honestly I think there’s been some extreme irresponsibility with the things the crew has said. I think it’s totally fine that Barb and Arryn love bees, but I genuinely think that BB wasn’t planned from the start and that CRWBY was kind of forced to go with it because of the things Barb and Arryn were constantly posting without clarifying that their statements weren’t canon, which is why Blake’s relationship and development with Sun was just dropped completely like it never happened and why BB development has been so slow and awkward, giving us just crumbs for years. Because they don’t know what they’re doing and it wasn’t planned but they realized during v5 that fans so earnestly believed it’d be canon that they couldn’t NOT do BB without severe backlash. Thoughts?

This is what I've always wondered about if RT has a backbone or not. Do they just bend over to any demands in hopes that it'll please the crowd of fans that'll still demand more things?

The thing with fandoms is that you give them an inch and they'll take a mile. Not just with the RWBY fndm, but fandoms in general. You have to ultimately create a healthy distance between creator and fan, you can't always be every fans' friend, but that's not the creator's fault. If a fan thinks you're an asshole for never talking with them, or just giving them small talk, it's still not the creator's fault.

I remember (back in my day) when creators were practically untouchable, unreachable. You forget half the time they even exist. With such close contacts, we have now with the internet, I feel as though every creator should practice distancing themselves from needy fans. Any fan that's trying to pry into their business. Quite honestly, as much as fans love you, they have no reason to be prying into production and changes, unless it's absolutely necessary. But other than that, creators should take what fans say with a hefty grain of salt.

If RWBY was truly "planned from the beginning," there should be no need for the obvious fanservice fodder that they've been feeding viewers. It'll bump the flow or just unnecessarily twist the story. I still believe nothing was planned from the beginning, the clues of that become clear over time when you watch the show itself.

I do see what you mean when using BB as an example. This ship is the embodiment of "give them an inch, they'll take a mile." I feel like this ship had a manufactural setup, rather than being organic and true to a normal relationship. An organic relationship growth was BlackSun, no contest. It was setup, it was aimed to become something more, but then the manufactured BB ship came along and things began to look bleak for BlackSun.

Not saying I am a fan of BlackSun or BB. Honestly, Blake doesn't deserve either sun, haha. She's become too aggressively moody, it mucks up positivity that these two radiated (or Yang used to). These sunny dragons deserve a better outlet in their lives.

Now, I do know that it happens a lot within production crews: how they happen to have a favourite pairing from the show they're working on, and they'd like to express it online. That's fine! They're entitled to show that! But also, they shouldn't shove it on the creators to make it canon. While they're free to ship whatever, whoever they want, in no way should they demand the creators to make it happen.

I feel as though that's where RT should've grown a backbone. It's dumb to even force a ship to become canon when the real focus should be about the story and characters. And if they have an established ship (BlackSun,) and they were aiming for that to become a thing then, by all means, they should've buckled down and kept that route ongoing.

They wouldn't even have to be mean about it. Demeaning fans for liking a ship won't solve anything. All you can do is politely, but firmly, ask that the fndm respects all ships, respect what someone ships, and please respect canonical ships. That's really all you can do. It's not the creator's fault if the fans want to throw a fit until they get what they want. Continue with the canonical ships and be done with it.

Sometimes you can't fight fire with fire, because somebody's going to get burned in the end.

How they went about deconstructing BlackSun was more of a stain of Blake's character. She's nasty to Sun, something I seriously won't forgive the writers for. Not because it's Sun, but because Blake shows a terrible side of being an abuser. Using this horrendous writing as a way to spit on BlackSun to please the BB fans was a slap to the face.

I've got better ways of how BlackSun could've been put down, but the point is, RT has the backbone structure of a noodle. They just twist and bend to whatever fans want and push aside the criticism that they get for doing so.

I also don't think RT knows what they're doing with BB. It's just been a very awkward trek to make them an official pairing. There's nothing wrong with liking BB, but I do wish the fans of this ship would've been given better representation than just scraping for whatever they see. Then again, aggressive BB fans that demanded this ship and were influenced by Barb and Arryn's shipping should always be ignored. You don't want to give the spoiled kids what they want. Because again, you give them an inch and they'll take a mile.

Now it seems like Yang and Blake are paying the price in the writing. Yang is terribly moody and Blake just stands in the corner being sad. They don't have any motivation, other than to be each others' girlfriend. I don't know about you, but that's a really sad existence. It's even sadder when the fans don't seem to notice or realize it, they're just also in the narrow mindset of "oh all they need is a girlfriend and they'll be happy."

#rwde #toxic fndm

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letsunity · 3 years

Text

Not Afraid - Chapter 4

Summery -

The Bad Batch go to Tatooine to resupply and avoid the Empire. As per the usual, Omega gets separated from the group. Fortunately for her, Krayt's Claw just so happens to be nearby. Bossk and Embo guide her to Boba Fett, who takes interest in why the Kaminoans want her. It's a reluctant partnership, with the Bad Batch having to rely on Krayt's Claw to navigate non-military life.

With some wandering around, Bossk managed to get them a job.

It wasn't anything big, but the pay was good enough - They could get rations, fuel, the essentials.

According to the client, someone is stealing from local farmers. All they have to do is catch them, get their reward and move on. With Hunter's tracking, it shouldn't be a difficult task to complete. They were only dealing with a thief, so Omega would be fine to tag along, which she was happy about.

Seeing how excited she was to join was sweet.

"Don't expect anything, laddies and lady. It goes to plan if you don't have one!" Bossk hissed, cocking his blaster with a grin.

"That doesn't make any sense," Echo countered, pulling a face at the reptile.

"Because you're thinking like a soldier," Bossk smirked, flicking Echo's head. "Plans seldom work. All you need is explosives, knowing what you're doing and instinct. Trust yourself, your abilities, and retreat to bring back more explosives."

"Sounds great!" Wrecker agreed, itching to blow something up. "You guys can get the col illegal stuff, right? We can make things go boom?" The reptile snorted, equally happy about explosions.

With them so happy, Hunter was curious about something. Why didn't they rent speeders to this location; why walk?

The only reason would be that Boba wanted them to see something.

"You wanna see something cool?" Boba asked Omega, having a confident smirk on his face.

He whistled loudly, changing the tune with a harsh rhythm like he was imitating a call. Bossk already knew, rolling his reptilian eyes at his nephew. He knew that it was to give the squirt something special, but still, he was showing off.

Omega waited, uncertain of why he made that noise. While waiting, she saw a wolf-like creature climb atop a hill. Several others appeared, though far darker than the main one. The white one slowly stalked towards them, sniffing warily.

Boba knelt, lightly guiding her hand out and upwards. There was tingling at her fingertips like there was an electrical charge coursing through her. The titanic canid stepped to her, their wet black nose brushing against her palm. In that brief touch, there was the spark of connection.

She could feel it, and it could feel her. It lowered its head into her hand, making eye contact through the helmet.

The wolf grunted towards Wrecker, Echo and Hunter, shaking their head. It grumbled, making several sounds towards them as the other wolves began to run away. With a stamp of its reptile-like paw, it barked and ran off, leaving them confused.

"The centre returned makes seven; burnt comes and makes it six. Anguished are the five, particularly the four. Soon to be three, suddenly two. One shines through, seven again," Bossk translated, thinking over the cryptic warning.

"That's incredibly ominous," Hunter stated, unsure of what to make of that.

"You always get stuff like that from them. It's part of their cryptic 'future sight' or whatever they call it," Boba shrugged, not overly bothered. "Other than the ominous warnings, they're cool to meet. Get them some Wookie meat, and they love you; they're obsessed with it."

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

This new Empire seemed interesting. It didn't affect the Bounty Hunter's Guild, but it could prove profitable.

"Cad Bane. Am I right?" asked some stiff-upper-lip rookie.

Bane didn't care about them, not bothering to remember their name. Admiral Ram-whatever, it wasn't important.

"I prefer meeting on planets without incontinent clouds, Admiral. I don't like rain," Bane hissed, his distorted voice shivering the blank human. Humans had a habit of looking similar to one another. "My price is doubled for that alone."

"I understand, Mister Bane. I can assure you that you'll be incredibly well paid for," said Admiral Rampart, sitting across from the Duros. "There is a bounty on a child named Omega."

"Don't bother. That little brat Boba's probably already involved. At least with his father, you could make a deal, but the boy is annoyingly stubborn."

The kid wasn't popular because of that and was a pain in Bane's ass. His commitment to his rules was somewhat admirable, but it wasn't practical. Even with his little club, the jobs he'll get won't do him much good. He's not going to amount to much in the future.

"You misunderstand, Mister Bane. The Kaminoans want to capture her, and I suspect it's to encourage Tarkin to keep the cloning program. I want you to stop it."

"As I said, it's not worth the time. It doesn't matter where I go; the brat will follow. I'd lead him straight to you, meaning I lose credits."

"I don't want you to capture her, Mister Bane. I want you to kill her."

"Now, that's far simpler. That's triple my pay, but if you'd like, I'll bring you the skin like a rug."

"No, I only need her eliminated. The cloning program must end. To assist you, I'll have my best team to work alongside you. CT-9904 will follow your orders without question, and the other three will follow his example. If this 'Boba' gets in the way, kill him."

"Bounty hunter's aren't allowed to kill each other. I can certainly maim him, though. Give me some credits upfront, some immunity, and I'll bring you her head on a platter."

This was going to be easy.

With the weird female clone out of the picture, project War Mantle will be ahead of schedule. The Empire can grow and prosper without the expensive republican remnants. Unfortunately for this Bane fellow, he couldn't be in the picture afterwards. When the girl was dead, 9904 will kill the hunter as well.

Nobody will know that she existed or mattered. Even with this 'Boba' character, he doubted that things would go wrong. It's only a matter of time.

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

Meeting the wolves were amazing; the white one was soft and warm.

Omega liked the feeling of the grass against her hands, picking a few to inspect them.

While fascinated by the blades of green, she failed to see a nearby Loth-cat. It hissed and lunged at her, its fur raised and bristled.

Instinctively, Hunter aimed his blaster at the animal. It growled, the creature deceptively savage. Boba got on one knee and took some dried meat from his pocket, encouraging the animal to approach.

It hesitantly stepped forward, its pupils widening. It licked his hand then took the meat, backing away from whence it came. It climbed down a hole, poking its head back up again some moments later. Three minuscule heads popped up, chirping at the newcomers. It's only a mother protecting her kits.

Wrecker got down, wanting to have a go as well. Boba handed him some meat, motioning for it to come again. This time, one of the kits investigated, sniffing the food. The mother joined, then the other two kittens.

The family of feral animals chewed the meat, unusually passive and docile.

Omega lightly stroked one of the kittens, amazed by the feeling of their fur. Wrecker grinned, his gloved hand licked by the other two kits.

"Can we keep 'em?" Wrecker begged, looking at Hunter with puppy eyes.

"This is their home," Hunter answered, letting him down easy. "This is where they want to be, so this is where they'll stay."

First, it was reading their emotions, and now communicating with animals. It stank of force-sensitivity, even though he doubted it.

They skipped back into their hole, chirping at them as they passed. Omega waved goodbye, excited to see even more animals.

"How do you do that?" She asked, eager to learn it herself.

"Instinct. Mandalorians are raised from birth to trust themselves, to trust what their gut tells them. It told me that she was only protecting her babies, nothing malicious. You'll learn someday."

"I want to meet all kinds of creatures!"

"There's no limit to what you'll see in this galaxy, Megs," Bossk assured, ruffling the helmet she wore. "So long as Dad Batch are right next to ya."

"We're not the Dad Batch," Echo corrected, although he didn't sound so certain.

"Dad Batch or Bro Batch, either's good with me!" Wrecker smiled, slapping Bossk's shoulder. "We need a fight!" The Trandoshan snarled in agreement, eager to bruise the clone.

They were only a few minutes away from the farm, and in three hours, dusk would begin to set. The more Hunter hung with these odd pair, the more they grew on him. They were capable of skinning folk alive but having that protecting Omega was alright.

Boba was showing Omega a lot of things, even giving her his helmet. He was only three or four years older than her; he had a lot to teach. He was good with kids, too, something Hunter was still learning.

Then there was Bossk's nickname, Dad Batch. Hunter was mimicking what Cut did, so was he being a father to Omega? He never thought of being a parent before, but the past two weeks were unexpected. Maybe he could be a dad to her, be someone to look after her as she deserved.

Not only would Hunter learn a lot about being a mercenary, but interacting with children, too.

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

Saw looked over the bodies, the stench of burnt flesh searing his nostrils. His face scrunched in rage, practically seizing with pure rage.

"I'm sorry, sir, but none survived," Lorc sighed, shaking his head. "They were all wiped out. Not just that, but the dead trooper's wounds are the same as our departed. Friendly fire, presumably."

"Which damned clone was it?"

"That's the issue. It wasn't a clone; it was a random guy in clone armour," Edrio continued, confusing the man. "We've estimated five to have been shot by precise skills matching a clone. The rest were random people. The damage indicates a distance, probably a sniper."

"I know who did it," Saw spat, looking away from the burned bodies. "And we're going to make him pay for it. I want the Bad Batch; I want the one that killed these people as though they were swine. We'll make him suffer for this."

"He and the empire, sir," Mari agreed, charging her rifle.

Saw would destroy this empire, even if it killed him.

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

The farmer was both overjoyed and miserable.

The thief stole food and much of his equipment, most of which she can't replace due to financial struggles. Bossk terrified his Tooka cat, and Wrecker kept bumping his head on the ceiling. Being the second smallest, Boba wasn't concerned with the Toydarian's accommodations.

"Every night, the loth-rat takes more and more. I've set up traps, boobytraps, I even bought a droid, but they stole all of it!" She cried, hovering in distress. "I need them gone. I don't care what you do with them, so long as they leave us be."

"How're you going to pay?" Bossk asked, getting an elbow to the side from Echo. "If you want to afford rations, this is how."

"The local farmers have pitched in. The most we can do is fifteen thousand credits," she sighed, slowly drifting onto a chair. "Our crops haven't done well this year. That war has stripped the galaxy of life; even the planets are too exhausted from it."

"We'll take half," Boba decided, much to Bossk's annoyance. "Lothal's yaim par pirates bal smugglers. Vi ne'waadas eyn sur'haai olar," he added in a strange language, getting a grunt in response.

From the sounds of it, that was Mando'a, the tongue of Mandalorians. Hunter wasn't the best at languages; Tech was more specialised for that.

"By the light of Lothal's moons, you're a blessing to this valley," she whimpered, wiping her eyes. "We wish you luck on this bounty, Fetts."

Plural?

"I'm his uncle," Bossk explained to the confused four, patting Boba's shoulder and glancing at the Toydarian. "We'll make sure that they won't come again."

And so, the quest is on. Find the thief, get paid and get the hell off of Lothal. Omega was happy to be tagging along, asking about boobytraps and the sort. Wrecker picked her up, concerned that she was getting tired from the walking.

Echo would rather have stayed with Highslinger, but walking alone at night wasn't a good idea. Bossk took notice of his hesitancy, snorting for the clone's attention.

"I'm assuming it's all Techno Union?" Echo nodded at the question, the lack of feeling in his 'legs' creeping through his spine. What was left of 'his' spine. "We know a gal who can help with that. She fixes Dengar and Highslinger up after jobs. A friend of Omega's is a friend of ours."

"I'll have to take you up on that. I'd be happier to leave this all back on Skako Minor."

"We can blow it up if that'll ease the anguish."

"Did I hear blow up?" Wrecker interrupted, practically shaking from excitement. "What's going boom?"

"Nothing for now," Echo sighed, shaking his head. "You're going to drop Omega."

"I'm fine!" She assured, gripping onto Wrecker's armour. "Your eyes are pretty."

"Thank you," Bossk said, making a mixture of a chirp and purr in response. "You're a lovely young lady yourself. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, Lil Mega."

Ever since meeting Hunter, things just got better for Omega. She had Clone Force 99 and now Krayt's Claw, an odd but loving family of misfits. They made her feel special, more than just a mere assistant or failed experiment. Bossk talked to her like she was an equal, as did the others.

Being around them only added to the coldness of Kamino. They didn't show nearly the compassion Bossk did, and he'd only known her two days or so. Hunter, Echo, Wrecker and Tech were more family than the Kaminoans ever were, and she wanted it to stay that way.

Even though Crosshair was under the chip, she wanted to get to know him. The lads missed him, and she wanted to know who he really was. Not what the chip made him into or was making him do.

With Boba and his gang, it should be a whole lot easier to help him.

Far away, sitting atop a pile of stones, Fennec lowered her rifle.

#the bad batch #Krayt's Claw #Not Afraid fic #fanfic #star wars #bossk #bossk and boba fett #clone force 99 #mando'a #omega

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primatechnosynthpop · 3 years

Text

Wow! Against all odds, I finally got around to actually writing the follow-up to I'm Gonna Be The Anti-Hero that's existed exclusively in my head for months! Well uh here it is :3

---

The secret underground room beneath Plymouth rock was dark and silent as always, save for the faint dripping of water through a crack in the ceiling. It figured that, after living there for countless centuries, the structural integrity would finally begin to erode. That dripping sound, although highly irritating when it first started a month or so ago, had now settled into background noise which John Smith paid no attention to. He was a pilgrim, not a witch; it wasn't like the water could hurt him.

Then again, he realized a few moments too late one rainy spring day, perhaps he should have reevaluated that statement. He was minding his own business sitting in his chair and reminiscing about the very old days (that was the only thing he could really do anymore, slowly decaying as his body was) when the soft and steady dripping suddenly escalated at an exponential rate into what sounded like a small waterfall. He turned his head to see a semi-transparent humanoid figure taking shape out of the water pooling in the corner--strangely tinted red, as though the water were mixed with blood. As the old pilgrim watched, jaw agape, the figure strode purposefully toward him, taking on a more solid form as it did so.

"What are you doing here, intruder?" John Smith demanded, one hand tightening around the hilt of his sword while his other hand reached behind his back to fumble for his musket.

"This secret underground room isn't government sanctioned," the stranger hissed. (Although... was he a stranger? John Smith somehow felt that he'd seen this youngster once before, but he couldn't quite place where or when.) "And you have no official identification registering you as a legal citizen. Not to mention, you haven't been paying taxes... disgraceful."

Before John Smith had the chance to concoct a retort or draw either of his weapons, the masked man's hands were around his throat and crushing his windpipe with a force that could only be driven by an inhuman amount of bloodlust. And within seconds, the life of a pilgrim that had been extended for centuries past its expiration date was finally put to an end.

"I can't believe they want us to make a clown movie at a time like this."

"I can believe it," Neil replied without looking up from the shopping list in his hand. "The studio wants a lot from us, remember? They're not going to care how sad we are. Anyway, it's been four months--" The emotions bubbling up within him refused to let his voice stay level, so he gritted his teeth and hissed out the rest of his sentence rather than let himself start crying in the middle of the dollar store. "We should be over it by now."

"Neil..." Kevin began in the way he'd often addressed Neil over the past few months--brow furrowed, voice edged with an obvious and vaguely patronizing concern--only to trail off and shake his head with a sigh. Apparently he'd finally given up on trying to make Neil feel better, which was just fine by him, because things are never gonna go back to the way they were before and it's my fault and I don't deserve to feel good about it.

"Anyway, we've got what we came for," Neil muttered, waving his hand in the general direction of Kevin's shopping basket without looking him in the eyes. "Let's go."

At the checkout counter, the cashier frowned and shook her head when Neil offered her a five-dollar bill. "Sorry," she told them, "But all this is going to cost $29.99."

"What? But we don't have that kind of money!" Neil lamented. "And we got this stuff from the clearance section... plus this is the dollar store, so shouldn't everything just cost a dollar?"

For a visual aid as he spoke, he grabbed one of the items they were ringing up--a bargain pack of multicoloured clown wigs--and shook it in the cashier's face. Apparently unmoved by his bargaining, she pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

"Maybe you should have checked the price tags first, sir."

"Huh? But, but..." Neil trailed off when he looked down at the price tag on the item in his hands. The bright orange tag had the original price, $7.50, crossed out and replaced with $2.35... but then below that, scribbled in tiny and barely legible font, it read "just kidding, it's actually eleven dollars now." "Aw, man," he groaned, tossing the pack down on the conveyor belt and sticking his hands in his pockets. "Just our luck."

Kevin had a thoughtful look in his eyes while he drove them home empty-handed. When he pulled up outside the clubhouse a few minutes later and they climbed out of the truck, he suddenly laid a hand on Neil's shoulder.

"Say, Neil, let's not get discouraged," he said. "I've got another idea for how we could get our hands on some props."

"Really?" Neil asked, perking up despite himself. "How?"

"Well, I think--" Kevin broke off as unexpectedly as he'd started, encouraging smile briefly dipping into a grimace. "...You know what, I'll take care of it myself. You can hold down the fort here, okay? I won't be long."

Neil's brow furrowed. "Okay, but what are you...?"

Without explaining himself any further, Kevin clapped him firmly on the back, hopped back into his truck, and drove off. Neil watched him recede down the road with bewilderment. Being all secretive like that wasn't like Kevin... Unless he's trying to protect me from something, he realized with a twinge of bitterness. That would be just like him, the way things had been recently. Ever since the past winter, and what had happened with Ryan, Kevin's latent big-brother-ish tendencies had escalated; now he watched over Neil like a hawk and freaked out every time he so much as stubbed his toe. Under different circumstances Neil would have relished being fussed over, but now it was more annoying than anything else. The thing was, he didn't deserve it. If anything... his fingers strayed up to absentmindedly fidget with the four-leaf clover pinned to his shirt. I deserve to have bad luck. I deserve to suffer, after what I did to Ryan.

Still, there wasn't much he could do about it now, and he wasn't going to say no to having the clubhouse to himself for a while. With a sigh, he disentangled his fingers from the clover's leaves, ran a hand through his overgrown bangs, and turned to head inside. Maybe he could play cards or something to pass the time.

A thick layer of dust had settled over everything in Ryan's house. That made sense, of course. It had been four months--no, five, since Ryan hadn't come home once while he was being a vigilante--since anyone had set foot there. Even so, Kevin was unprepared for the full-scale assault on his lungs when he opened the door, and promptly broke into a coughing fit.

"Man, good thing Neil stayed home," he thought aloud as he batted thick, swirling clouds of dust and spiderwebs out of his face. "The way things have been going for him lately..."

He'd probably choke to death on all this dust, he thought but didn't say aloud, and then felt bad for thinking it in the first place. Kevin didn't understand what had happened to Neil in the course of the past few days, but ever since picking up that clover, he seemed to be having a run of uncharacteristically bad luck. Whether it was random chance or something more suspicious was afoot, it sure wasn't doing much for his already thoroughly frayed nerves.

"Alright, calm down, James," he muttered to himself, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and ideally dispel the rest of the dust. "Focus. Concentrate. What are you here for? Props for your webisode. Right."

Keeping that objective in mind, he made his way past the front entrance and into the living room. There, a few objects were strewn around that caught his eye: a mannequin bust wearing a colourful wig; an eccentrically patterned jacket draped over a chair; a brush dipped into a rusted metal container filled with what he hoped was red paint. After looking around a little more he found a large cardboard box filled with mutilated stuffed animals, which he mostly emptied out and started filling with the useful items he came across.

All the while, a persistent feeling of unease stirred in his gut, becoming increasingly hard to ignore with each belonging of Ryan's he packed away. This is wrong. I shouldn't steal from him. Kevin paused and looked down at the box in his arms with a frown. One of the items sticking out the top, a blank-faced doll head, seemed to stare accusingly back at him. For a moment he saw it not as a plastic figure, but as a human form encased in ice and then broken apart. He blinked and the illusion quickly vanished, but an unsettling feeling remained in its wake. Neil was right; it had been months already. So why did going through Ryan's things make him feel so dirty? Ryan didn't need any of this stuff anymore. He was gone. Wasn't he?

With a weary sigh that, had anyone been around to ask, he would have accredited to the physical exertion of carrying heavy stuff around, Kevin set the box down and stepped back to survey the room he was in now. If he remembered right, this kind of room was called a study--there was an armchair with a few suspicious stains lurking beneath the dust, a desk strewn with papers all scrawled full of nonsense like the ravings of a mad scientist, and an ornate bookshelf. He wandered over to the latter furniture piece and ran his hands along the spines of the books, letting their leathery texture ground him in the present. He noticed several unusual bibles and other ancient texts, and a stash of calendars, some of which he was pretty sure had originally belonged to him or Neil; the up-to-date calendars and one of the more normal-looking bibles went into the box, while he decided everything else was better left where it was.

There was one other set of books he recognized: a teen fantasy series that Neil had often gushed about. Thinking back to the previous fall and all the events he normally tried not to think about, he experimentally lifted one of the fantasy books off the shelf. At once, just as he remembered from when Neil showed him, the bookshelf rumbled to the side and revealed a narrow staircase descending into the basement.

If anyone asked him, Kevin couldn't really say what compelled him to go down those stairs. The secret chamber was as empty as he remembered, with nothing down there that could possibly be of use for the webisode. And without a lantern, he could barely even see the only things that were there to speak of: the paintings of Ryan's ancestors.

"Ryan..." The name manifested on Kevin's lips unexpectedly as he stared, squinting through the dust and darkness, at the row of portraits grinning lopsidedly back at him. He knew the paintings couldn't hear him--hell, they weren't even paintings of Ryan himself, just his relatives. But their faces were practically identical to him, that face he hadn't seen in person for nearly half a year, and that alone was enough to clog up his throat with unbearable emotions.

The thought of It's a good thing Neil isn't here for this surfaced again, and this time Kevin had to agree with himself. Losing a close friend was... well, there was no way not to take it hard. But Neil seemed to have taken it particularly hard, even blaming himself, to the point where any mention of Ryan would immediately send him straight back into a depressive spiral no matter how happy he'd been a moment earlier. That was why Kevin had kept this idea a secret from his friend in the first place--that, and he wasn't sure if it was going to pan out and didn't want to get Neil's hopes up. He figured that if Neil asked where he got all the stuff he'd found, he'd just say it was from a garage sale.

Now, looking into the achingly familiar manic blue eyes of those portraits mounted on the wall, Kevin thought of those news reports about the mysterious killings that had been going on around town. If that really was Ryan, and he was somehow still alive...

"Why?" he whispered. Without really thinking, he reached out and pressed his hand against the painting as if to cup its cheek. "Why haven't you come home, Ryan? Where are you?"

The target was at home, alone in her bedroom playing video games. Casual, unbothered by any harm her actions may have caused. Shameful. In an icy swirl of perhaps not-so-righteous fury, the vigilante took form in the corner of her room and crept up behind her. With an average build and no weapons at the ready, she would be no trouble to dispose of.

"Playing dead in order to toy with an innocent man's feelings," he growled. "Some people would call it ghosting. I call it a crime punishable by death."

"Jesus christ, what the fuck?!" Wendy yelped as she spun to face the vigilante. "How'd you get in here?"

"You shouldn't worry about that," he told her, gloved hands already flexing in anticipation of tightening around her neck. Or perhaps this time he'd thrust his hand straight through her chest and rip out her heart--an appropriate punishment for her crimes. "You'll have plenty of time to figure it out once I send you to hell."

"Okay, seriously? What is happening here?" Eyes narrowed, Wendy put her game on pause and got to her feet to stare the vigilante down. "You said something about me playing dead..." Her eyes suddenly widened with recognition, and the vigilante waited for the fear to set in along with it, but instead she shook her head and laughed. A pitying laugh. "Wait, you're not friends with that, uh, that filmmaker guy, are you? Geez, I seriously must have dodged a bullet there."

"Filmmaker..." the vigilante murmured as the word echoed in his mind. Yes, that's right. The man she stood up was a filmmaker... of a sort. (How did he know that? How did he even know who this woman was? Those questions weren't worth dwelling on, he decided.) "You may have thought you dodged a bullet back then, but I'm here to see that the bullet circles back around and destroys you like you deserve."

Wendy crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow, any trace of fear on her face outmatched by her sad, pitying smile. "Sure, keep the edgy sayings coming, Mr. Hot Topic. And what's with the getup, anyway?" she added with a nod to the vigilante's predominantly dark outfit. "Must be kinda warm."

Warm? The vigilante snorted derisively. No, of course he wasn't too warm. His blood, as it always had for as far back as he could clearly remember, ran cold like that of a snake. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been warm. And he certainly couldn't remember a time when he'd worn anything other than his current ensemble. Rather than waste time telling this insufferable woman as much, though, he simply took a few purposeful strides to close the distance between them, hands extended and more than ready to kill.

"Ugh, get away from me, creep!"

In a startlingly swift motion, Wendy's leg shot out and connected with the vigilante's ankles, sending him toppling to the floor. He hissed in irration, though not in pain--when his sensations were already perpetually numb, it would take a lot more than that to hurt him--and got to his feet, dusting himself off with a scowl. In the few seconds this took, Wendy grabbed a baseball bat from the corner of the room. Now she stood brandishing it in perfect athletic form with a battle-ready glint in her eye.

"Not another step, you hear me?" When the vigilante didn't dignify her with a response, she gritted her teeth and gave the bat a twirl--attempting to show off, it seemed, but her hands shook slightly and she nearly dropped the bat, only barely managing to regain her grip on it. "My mom is in the other room right now, and... well, she hasn't done anything wrong, so you don't want to punish her, right? And if anything happens to me..."

He stiffened at Wendy's mention of her mother. An innocent citizen? That was the type of person a vigilante was meant to protect at all costs; otherwise vigilante justice was no better than the police. But no one is innocent in this city. Even so, he understood the implicit threat--not that Wendy's mother would bring him down herself, but that either woman could very well call the police. And the last thing he wanted was to get law enforcement involved.

"...Fine," he snarled at last, turning on his heel with a twirl of his vigilante cape. "You can live a while longer. But I'll be back, and then you'll regret your sins."

He heard her gasp but didn't bother sparing her another glance as he let his form dissolve into a splash of red-tinted ice, sinking through her floorboards and off to thwart another criminal.

Slowly and carefully as a technician deactivating a bomb, Neil set the three of spades down across the top of the three other cards he'd lined up on the table. The humble beginnings of a tower stood for a moment, and he held his breath eagerly as he reached for another card to place on top, only for it to suddenly shudder and collapse like an anime girl who'd stood in the rain for too long.

"Dang it!" Neil threw his hands in the air in exasperation. When he did, a droplet of his own blood landed on his glasses, and he realized with a start that his hand was bleeding--just a paper cut, but still, he'd better wash up.

As he ran his hand under cold water, transfixed by the sight of the blood swirling down the drain, a sudden cracking noise rang out just above him. His head snapped up to stare at the spontaneously cracked bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back, stricken and gaunt, as shards of shattered glass rained down into the sink, where they mixed with the water and the blood. Neil shivered, his breath quickening.

Icy water... ice, blood, broken mirrors. All mixed together. Shattered. Blood, guts, ice, mixed together, down the drain. My fault my fault my fault my fault--

"No," he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his nails into his scalp as hard as he could. "No! I didn't do it, I didn't... I didn't mean to..."

Deep breaths, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. It sounded like Kevin's voice, worried to the point of being slightly patronizing. Neil grimaced, annoyed at his own brain for manifesting its self-preservation in such a way, but he complied nonetheless. Keeping his eyes wrenched shut, he took several deep breaths in and out until his heartbeat slowed to normal--he hadn't even noticed it speeding up--and his hands didn't shake when he lowered them away from his head.

"Hey, you know what'd really make me feel better?" he said aloud to nobody in particular, putting on a broad smile and wiping his hands off on a towel. "A nice hot bath! Yep, that'll counteract my blood running cold, alright..."

He ran his hands up and down his arms as he spoke, although he didn't know who he was trying to fool; the chill that had settled into his bones had nothing to do with the temperature. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure who this whole performance of forced cheerfulness was meant for... the studio, maybe. He wouldn't put it past them to hide cameras everywhere. Either way, even if it wouldn't fix his psychological issues, a bath really would be pretty nice. He put the plug in and started running the tub, with the water temperature set just hot enough that it would scald him a little at first.

He wasn't sure exactly what happened when he sat down on the edge of the tub to take his socks off, whether he slipped on something or leaned too far back or what, but suddenly he lost balance. And by the time he realized he was falling backward, he only had a split-second to curse his rotten luck before his head connected with the wall and he blacked out.

In the end, Kevin managed to get a pretty good haul from Ryan's house. In addition to the stuff he and Neil could use for their webisode, he'd retrieved the calendars and a couple other things it looked like Ryan had stolen from them, as well as their old communicator wristwatches. (He wasn't sure if the watches fell into the camp of things Ryan had stolen, or if they'd just brought them over to his place for a sleepover once and forgotten them there. Either way, Kevin figured it could come in handy to start using them again.)

"Hey, Neil," he called as he stepped into the clubhouse with the box in his arms and kicked the door shut behind him. "I'm back."

There was no reply. Frowning, Kevin set the box down with a slight grunt of effort and wandered through the living room and down the hall. There were a few playing cards scattered on the table, suggesting that Neil had been trying to make a house of cards but given up halfway. Kevin couldn't really blame him for that; assembling cards in such a way that they'd actually stay upright was yet another thing that had been more in Ryan's ballpark than in either of theirs. Still, that didn't explain where Neil was now...

"Neil? You there, bud?" Still being met with no answer, Kevin came to a stop outside the bathroom door, which was ajar with water pooling out from inside. "Oh, man, that's not a good sign..."

He gave a tentative knock, and when there was still no response, grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. The sight that met his eyes when he did so immediately made his breath hitch and his blood run cold. The broken mirror over the vanity reflected his slack-jawed expression as he stared at the overflowing bathtub, the pair of still-clothed legs dangling over the rim, and the smudge of blood on the wall leading down to the head of the man those legs belonged to, slumped inside the tub with his head submerged in the water.

"Neil!!"

Kevin sprinted across the room to lift Neil out of the tub. It then took him a few seconds longer to turn off the faucet and pull the plug, as by that point the shock had turned to dread and his hands were shaking. Once the water was slowly starting to drain, he fell to his knees and pulled Neil tight to his chest, one hand clutching at the back of his soaked-through t-shirt while the other fumbled across the back of his head searching for the source of the blood. It didn't take long for him to find the slightly matted patch of damp hair indicating where Neil had banged his head against the wall. Kevin swallowed hard as dread leapt up to claw at his throat. The only question is... how long was he submerged?

"Neil," he whispered, and was almost embarrassed to hear how hoarsely his own voice came out. "Wake up. Please."

No response. Kevin reluctantly pulled back to hold Neil at an arm's length, and shuddered at how limply his friend's body flopped forward. He noticed, with a white-hot jolt of irrational anger, that the four-leaf clover was still in place. Fat lot of good that thing's done for him. He grabbed the clover and crumpled it in his fist, all the while tears pressed against the back of his eyes; he struggled not to let them fall. Damn it... first Ryan, now Neil... What kind of protector was he? What kind of friend?

He slammed his fist, the useless clover still clenched within, against the drenched floor tiles. At that moment, the lightbulb above his head exploded and sent sparking wires raining down around him. As soon as electricity met water, it sent a nasty shock through Kevin's veins; he screamed out of equal parts surprise and pain and scrambled up onto the countertop, which was barely wide enough to support him.

On the floor below, Neil's body convulsed. Then his eyes snapped open and he drew in a gasp that turned into a scream halfway through. Although touching his friend's hand sent the current through his own body for a moment, Kevin was quick to grab him anyway, and he managed to pull Neil safely out of the electrified water and into a fierce embrace. Neil kept shrieking, and he squirmed frantically around, not seeming to recognize his surroundings at first.

"It's alright, Neil," Kevin assured him despite how hard his own heart was pounding. "I've got you."

"Oh..." Neil's body slackened, and he pulled back to blink slowly at Kevin, realization dawning in his eyes. His cheeks coloured with embarrassment and he ducked his head. "Uh, thanks."

Neither of them said anything else, for lack of ability or perhaps willingness to put it into words. After a moment, Kevin realized he was still holding the clover, and he handed it back to Neil, who took it with a dip of his head and a murmur of acknowledgement, and pinned it to his soaking wet t-shirt.

Somehow out of everything in the room, themselves included, that little scrap of plant matter was still intact. And although he wasn't superstitious, that simple fact was what would stick in Kevin's mind for the rest of the day, turning it over until he could only conclude: Yep, there's definitely something weird going on with that thing.

Despite the many months he'd prowled the city, this was the vigilante's first time in the hideout of a proper gang. It looked about the way he expected: dimly lit, no windows, weapons hung up on the wall and cigarette butts littering the floor. The gang members, dressed primarily in leather jackets with a few in denim, lounged in chairs leaning too far back, or on top of tables, or on their motorcycles parked right in the middle of the room. Most of them didn't even notice the vigilante as he approached. They were too caught up chattering and cackling amongst themselves like a nest of overgrown crows. The one gang member who did seem to notice the vigilante from the get-go simply looked up at him with raised eyebrows and addressed him once he got close enough to strike.

"Hey, haven't seen you around before. Looking to join the club?"

"Hardly," he snarled. "This whole place is crawling with criminals."

The whole room broke into laughter at that. The vigilante gritted his teeth, fists clenching at his sides. These people were different from the criminals he'd taken down before; between their numbers and all the weapons they had easy access to, they might just pose a serious threat if he wasn't careful.

"You're the ones, aren't you?" he went on once the laughter had died down and the gang members were all watching him with a mix of bemusement and curiosity. No trace of fear amongst them yet, but that would change... "Throwing bricks at innocent people, even seeking to damage their property. Absolutely detestable."

"Woah, hang on," another of the gang members cut in sharply, reaching for a weapon as they stood. "First off, the whole brick throwing thing was months ago. Second of all, we never did that to innocent people, you know!"

"Yeah!" yet another gang member cut in, pumping her fist in the air. "Only to those losers who blew up our boss!"

...Boss?

The vigilante slowly turned, a deeper chill than normal running down his spine, as a strangely familiar smug cackle echoed from behind him. He came face-to-face with a man in a tank top and baseball cap, sneering at him with his arms crossed. Max. Gulping, the vigilante took a step backward. He's their boss?

(How did he know that name? How had he known Wendy's name either, for that matter? Why, out of all the criminals in the city, did a select few ignite disproportionate resentment within him? He'd dealt with some of these people before, he knew, but when he tried to remember when and how it all just turned to slush in his brain.)

"Yep, those losers got what was coming to 'em," Max said. "Except not really, 'cause they didn't suffer enough. But it's okay, we'll get 'em extra hard next time."

"No..." For reasons he couldn't quite explain, the vigilante's voice shook with equal parts fury and sudden fear. "Don't you dare hurt them."

"Huh?" Max tilted his head, already slightly squinted eyes narrowing further. "Heyyy, wait a minute, aren't you one of--?"

Before he could finish that thought, the vigilante was upon him with a karate chop to the windpipe. It was a more reckless attack than he'd planned, and even as Max stumbled backward coughing, he could hear the rest of the gang grabbing their weapons and running up behind him. But it was fine; the vigilante could take them all on and then some. He could kill any number of people if it was for the sake of defending his friends.

(Friends? Did he have friends? Somehow it felt that he must have, once. But that was strange, because the only thing he could clearly remember himself ever being was a cold-blooded vigilante.)

"Don't you see? Society's the one to blame! It's society's fault that he had no choice but to become this way!"

As Kevin delivered this speech, waving his arms dramatically toward the focus of the scene, Neil spun the video camera around to point it toward himself. Hopefully the studio would think of the disorienting cinematography for this webisode as a bold artistic choice rather than thinking of it as amateurish and embarrassing. He then leapt back, breaking into maniacal laughter with his prop gun raised in the air. Under ideal circumstances, this role might have been better suited to Ryan, but... well, they couldn't stay hung up on him forever; they had a job to do.

"Eh-heh-heh! Thanks to society, I have the urge to kill!" Neil twirled around to show off his clown costume, while just out of frame, Kevin hastily put on a wig and fake mustache. "And now... I'll kill this innocent man, who's different than the guy who was talking a minute ago!"

(It was fascinating--fascinating and dumb--how a broken mirror and a bit of blood could set him off, but something as heavy as a gun in his hand only brought him the faintest twinge of discomfort, easily ignored for the sake of making a webisode. After all, as Kevin had assured him many times over the past few months, it was the gun and its villainous weilder who were to blame for what had happened to Ryan. On an intellectual level Neil knew that was true--and besides, if he hadn't deflected that bullet, all three of them would have died. But knowing that did nothing to redirect when and why the darkness in his brain manifested.)

Now, much to Neil's surprise as he took aim with his prop gun, Kevin shouted "Cut!" and walked across the abandoned lot they were filming in to turn the camera off.

Neil lowered the gun, confused, as his costar removed his costume with that now all-too-familiar look of concern etched across his face. "What's the matter?"

"I don't know... somehow I've just got a bad feeling about this," Kevin muttered. "Maybe try firing into the air a couple times first."

Neil complied, and was met with the expected result from the prop: a couple of clicks indicating an empty chamber. "You worry too much these days, Kev," he said as he fired one more blank into the sky and then lowered the prop again. "It's not a real gun; it can't--"

As he spoke, his finger accidentally pressed the trigger again, and he broke off with a yelp at the sudden burst of pain in his right foot. He dropped the apparently very real gun with a clatter and clutched at his injured appendage, losing his balance in the process. Kevin swore under his breath and rushed forward to catch him. Before his friend could reach him, Neil's other foot came down on a wide crack in the pavement. A chill ran through him, momentarily distracting him from the throbbing pain, but it passed as quickly as it arose without seeming to trigger any effects.

"By god, what's happening to you?" Kevin exclaimed as he grabbed Neil by the shoulders and held him upright. "You've been so unlucky lately, it... it almost seems like a curse."

"A curse?" Neil stiffened, but quickly forced himself to shrug and morphed his grimace into a dismissive eye-roll. "Pfft, what are you talking about? There's no curse! I've just been, y'know, having an off-day..."

"Neil." There was that concerned look again, that almost parental tone of voice, as Kevin stared him down and tightened his grip on Neil's shoulders. "A couple hours ago you almost died, and now... you can tell something weird is going on, right? And, look--" He sighed, gaze darkening. "I don't exactly know how to fix it, but whatever's happening, I can't just sit back and watch you succumb to it. I can't lose you, too, Neil... not after..."

He trailed off with a faint warble in his voice, lowering his head. Neil gulped, a heavy weight surfacing in his chest. It was true; though he hated to admit it, at this point it was hard to deny that he was cursed. And yet, even as his foot throbbed around the spot where the bullet was lodged and his shoe was slowly stained from within by his own blood, it was hard to convince himself that he should accept help. On some level, didn't he deserve this? Wasn't this a fitting comeuppance for getting one of his friends killed?

Yet here was his other friend, clutching at him ever tighter to the point where his grip on Neil's shoulders was nearly as painful as hitting his head or getting mildly electrocuted or shooting himself in the foot. I'm not the only one who lost Ryan, he reminded himself--another thing he knew perfectly well on an intellectual level, but easy to forget in practice. Kevin is hurting too. I shouldn't make him hurt any more.

"Fine, I admit it," he sighed, letting his tensed-up shoulders slump. "I'm unlucky, okay? And if you think it's possible--" He tore the clover off his shirt and glared down at it-- "then we're going to beat this thing."

For as tough as the gang presented themselves, it must have been most of these people's first time in an actual fight. The vigilante swerved to avoid weak punches, clumsy kicks, poor attempts at stabbing. It all blended together after a while, and he stopped thinking of the gang members as individuals; they were just an indistinguishable swarm of insects whose attacks were easily dodged. Unimportant, save for their leader.

The vigilante had Max pinned to the floor now, holding his thrashing form in place with one arm while he brought his other fist down on the ruffian's face, over and over, as hard as he could. Not every blow connected cleanly, and Max had managed to bite him several times already, but that was irrelevant. Criminals must be brought to justice. That was why the vigilante hated these people, wasn't it? Because they were criminals. Yes, what other reason could he have, when this was all he'd ever been?

And then, just as he managed to land a blow to Max's jaw that left him defiantly spitting out blood and a couple of teeth, the vigilante's spine snapped.

It took a moment for him to register what had happened. He just heard a loud crack, and a sharp pain shot through him, and suddenly he couldn't hold his legs in place and collapsed. Max wasted no time taking advantage; he delivered a kick to the vigilante's gut that sent him flying back across the room, where he hit a wall and slumped to the ground, gasping in breathless agony. At once the other gang members closed in on him. Grimacing, the vigilante drew himself up onto his hands and knees, then braced himself against the wall and, with a far greater strain of effort than expected, dragged himself upright. By the time he'd managed to get to his feet, dozens of knives were inches away from him.

Then, to his surprise, Max pushed through to the front of the crowd and held his arms out to hold back his underlings. "Nuh-uh, this one's mine," he told them, sneering as though oblivious to the blood dribbling from between his lips. "I said I'd get him twice tomorrow, and I meant it."

The vigilante flinched as Max took a swipe at him. But rather than a fist connecting with his face, he was met only with the shock of exposure as the bully grabbed his mask and triumphantly yanked it off his face. He was left dumbfounded, blinking, as his vision readjusted to the light.

Wait a minute, I remember--

And then came the punch, square in the nose. Ryan yelped, pressing his gloved hand over his nose to stop the bleeding. When he dodged another punch, his body failed to cooperate and he crashed to the ground again, back aching furiously and heart pounding against his ribcage.

How and why his back had broken, he couldn't say, but one thing was clear: he was horrendously outmatched. Max was saying something now, gloating as he advanced on Ryan with a dagger in his hands, but Ryan couldn't make out the words over the blood rushing in his head. Why on earth had he gotten into a fight like this in the first place? What was he doing? He had to get out of there!

With that thought, yet another thing happened that Ryan didn't entirely understand. (Ryan didn't understand, but the vigilante did. It was one of the few things the vigilante knew: dissolve, reform, enact ruthless vengeance, dissolve again.) His body shuddered, and suddenly he found his solid flesh and bone giving way to a slurry of blood and ice that slipped through the cracks in the floor and disappeared. Then he was formless, freefalling through the dark, or at least that was what it felt like. When he took shape again it felt like dragging himself out of quicksand. Yet when he raised his slowly resolidifying head and looked around, he found himself in the basement of his own home, staring up at the portraits of his ancestors that had started it all.

No. Not started it all. "I had a life before this," he whispered, voice raw with the shock of memory and too many months spent speaking in an inhuman growl. "My name is Ryan, I have a life and a job and friends, I..."

Yes, that's right. Friends. Where were they? He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Each recent memory that took form in his mind was accompanied by a crashing wave of guilt and regret, and soon his body shook and tears pricked at his wrenched-shut eyes. That's right... I became a vigilante, and I teamed up with such a horrible person, let him manipulate me, all because I was too afraid to go back and apologize. And then...

The last thing he remembered, just after the flash of light and shock of paralyzing cold, was the sound of a gunshot, something shattering, and Neil screaming.

"Oh, dear god," Ryan whispered. He raised his head, opening his eyes and lowering his hands from his newly tear-stained face, and sat back on his heels as though worshipping the paintings before him. "What have I become?"

The ropes were just slightly too tight around Neil's limbs to be comfortable; he couldn't resist squirming a little as Kevin laid out the open bible on the end table next to his proton pack and began reading from it.

"Okay, um, let's see... ex-or-ciz-amus te, omnis immunde spiritus..." He squinted at the yellowed, faded pages, biting his lip. "Omni satanica pot-es-tas, omnis incurs--incursio infernalis adversarii... uh..."

"You're doing great," Neil called from his position tied to the bed frame; Kevin gave him a weary smile and thumbs up.

As Kevin continued reciting the verse, occasionally stumbling over a particularly tricky Latin word, the room's temperature eventually dropped a few degrees. Neil shivered, but his heartbeat picked up in excitement. He could feel something stirring in his blood like ripples on a lake, and when the furniture in the room began to quiver, so too did his body in eager anticipation.

"...Crux sacra sit mihi lux! Nunquam draco sit mihi dux..." A chill wind swept through the room; Kevin gritted his teeth, one hand pressing down on the bible to hold its pages in place while he grabbed his proton pack with the other. "Vade retro Satana! Nun-quam-suade mihi vana!"

The furniture rumbled louder. Neil's eyes widened as an entire bookcase lifted off the ground. "Kevin, watch out!"

"Hang on, Neil, I'm almost done. Uh, where was I... sunt mala quae libas..."

"No, Kevin, the--"

"Just one more line, okay? Ipse ven--"

"KEVIN!"

That last terrified yell was what it took for Kevin to finally turn, just in time to see the six-foot block of polished oak fly directly into him. Neil shrieked and thrashed against his bindings with all his might, but even if he weren't tied up, there was nothing he could have done. The bookcase came crashing down, its contents spilling out onto the floor around it in a flurry of paper. And when the dust settled, Kevin was pinned beneath it, unmoving.

"N... no..." Neil whimpered. Dread tightened like a noose around his throat as the horrible thought seeped into his mind: This is because of me. Now I've gotten them both killed.

"Oh, yes, what a tragedy... just your luck, isn't it?"

Neil's blood ran cold. He raised his head to see the translucent, smoke-shrouded figure of a giant clover looming over him. Its four leaves, dark green tipped with crimson and speckled with barnacles, opened down the middle to reveal a row of needle-sharp fangs. For a second, "Where did you come from?" was on the tip of Neil's tongue. But it was just as well that he was too terrified to speak, because no sooner than the question appeared in his mind, he realized the obvious answer. Oh, right. This is the demon that cursed me.

"Don't worry, your friend is alive... for now," the demon jeered. "But that could change. It's so easy for accidents to happen, you know?"

As if to demonstrate, the demon's leaves fluttered and suddenly a fire sprang up dangerously close to the scattered pile of books on the floor. When Neil screamed in protest, the demon laughed, and part of the ceiling gave in, sending down a controlled shower of debris to put out the fire before anything flammable could catch.

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Neil exclaimed with a shake of his head; he'd be almost exasperated if he weren't so terrified. "You're really powerful and want to hurt people, geez, not exactly a challenging concept. So, what do I have to do?"

That question seemed to give the demon pause. "...Do?"

"You know, to appease you or whatever. If you're threatening me with Kevin's life, then there must be something you want from me, right?" An idea occurred to Neil just then, and his already hammering heart beat even harder, to the point where he hoped the demon couldn't hear it and tell how freaked out he was. "Hey, it must suck having to be a clover. What if a lawnmower or forest fire had gotten to you before I did? And if you like hurting people so much..." He paused, smirking as the demon leaned toward him with obvious interest. "Wouldn't it be easier just to possess my whole body instead of wasting time messing with my luck?"

"That's..." The demon hesitated, its leaves curling up in what looked like excitement. "Ah. Ah-ha-ha! You're a clever little mortal, aren't you?"

"But don't get it twisted," he put in, glaring defiantly up at the demon despite hardly being in a position to threaten anyone. "You have to promise not to hurt anyone else. Especially not Kevin."

"It's a deal!"

Before Neil could stop and reconsider whether this was really a good idea, the demon dove toward him, row of fangs wide open as though it were going to bite his head off. He flinched a split-second before something cold and stinging like nettles clamped around him.

When he opened his eyes again, the world was tinted dark green as if viewed through a dingy screen, his head felt hazy... and he couldn't move, at least not of his own volition. Even opening his eyes just then wasn't his decision. He heard himself cackle, felt his arms and legs flex far harder than he'd known he was physically capable of flexing, breaking the ropes that bound him to the bed frame and setting his body free to do whatever the demon wanted.

"Hah..." the demon muttered in his voice as it made him walk over to where Kevin lay, still trapped and unconscious. The demon knelt down and poked experimentally at Kevin's shoulder and forearm. "This one has more muscle. It might have been a better choice for possession, if it wasn't so damaged already..."

For one petrifying moment, the demon grabbed Kevin's head and stared intently at him, stretching Neil's face into a grin so wide it made his whole face ache, and Neil's mind raced with horrible thoughts of things the demon might make his own hands inflict upon his poor helpless friend. But the demon simply laughed and dropped Kevin, who let out a low groan as his head lolled to the side--an indication that at least he really was still alive. But all of a sudden Neil had trouble believing that small mercy was really worth it.

"Ah, well, this body will do," the demon decided. "Let's take it out on the town and see how long it lasts!"

This time when the vigilante materialized in Wendy's room, she did little more than roll her eyes and move to grab her baseball bat. However, rather than try to attack her or even growl out any threats, the vigilante took two shaky steps and then collapsed, catching himself against her dresser. Wendy's eyes widened as she took a closer look at his face. His mask was off now, revealing a pair of striking blue eyes glistening with obvious distress, cheeks flushed with exertion, and a streak of half-dried blood running from his bruised nose. And when he spoke, it wasn't in the gravelly tone she'd heard from him before, but in a quiet higher-pitched voice--almost a whimper.

"Please... tell me..."

Wendy hung back, caught between a sharp tug of sympathy in her heart and a very rational wariness based on their previous encounter. The vigilante tried to walk again, and again nearly fell; his face wrenched up and he let out a pained hiss. At that, sympathy won out over rationality. Wendy edged toward him with her baseball bat in hand, and when she was close enough, held it out to him.

"Hey, uh... here. It's not exactly medically sanctioned, but maybe you could use this like a cane?"

"Oh... good idea, thank you!" He broke into a grin, and Wendy shivered; somehow he was far scarier when his eyes were bright and cheerful. "Terribly sorry for how I treated you last time, by the way. I really wasn't myself."

"Uh-huh?" While the vigilante tested out the makeshift cane, Wendy sat down on her bed, arms crossed. "And who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Ryan... or at least I think I still am." His smile faltered, and he looked away, anxiously running a hand through his hair. It was starting to come unpinned, and his hat was askew; evidently he'd been through a lot in the few hours it had been since their first encounter. "It's been... strange, lately. I don't think I'm entirely human anymore, if I ever was. But I came back here because there's something I want to understand."

"You want to know why I ghosted your friend?" It was just a guess, but Ryan nodded; Wendy smiled privately to herself for having figured it out. "Alright, I can tell you..."

She uncrossed her arms and leaned back on her bed, thinking back to the disastrous date she'd gone on several months prior. It was a story she'd recited many times to friends, relatives, other first dates as sort of a half-joking warning ("So, as long as you don't blow it as much as that guy did, we should be good...") and the more she told it, the more warped and exaggerated it became within her memory. But when she really thought back on it now, it hadn't been so disastrous at all--pretty damn awkward, sure, but not even close to the worst date she'd been on.

"Kevin actually seemed really sweet," she recalled, smiling despite herself at the memory of his big dorky grin. "I would have gone on a second date with him. But then, first thing the next morning, I read in the news that some guy got arrested right outside the restaurant while we were on our date. And the criminal's name? Neil. Same name as the 'friend' Kevin had said was helping him out." She shrugged, lips twisting into a frown. "I just got kinda freaked out, you know? Like, 'oh geez, did I go on a date with a drug dealer or serial killer or something?' Of course it probably wasn't anything that serious, and pretending to be dead was probably an overreaction, but... well, what's done is done."

Wendy was so caught up in her own memories as she explained all this that she wasn't really observing Ryan's reactions. Once she concluded her story, she glanced over to find him sitting on the floor with his legs tucked up awkwardly beneath him, the baseball bat in his lap; he was staring at the floor, expression unreadable. He stayed like that for a long moment, not seeming to notice that Wendy had stopped talking, until she cleared her throat. Then he jumped to attention, eyes flashing like those of a woodland cryptid in headlights.

"Ah! Yes, of course... well, I still don't entirely understand, but I think I resent you less now." Ryan tilted his head and shot her another shiver-inducing grin. (Whether it was supposed to be threatening or not, she had no idea.) "And you're right; I almost forgot--we're all criminals too, Neil and probably even Kevin and especially myself! So how can I be a vigilante?" He answered his own rhetorical question with a shake of his head, manic grin softening into a melancholy smile. "It's ridiculous. I've been so foolish."

With that, his body began to ripple, losing a little of its solidity. But before he could break apart and dissolve through the floorboards like last time, a chirpy little beep-beep-beedle-beep noise rang out. Ryan's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced down at an accessory around his wrist... Wait, is that one of those communicator watches like the one Kevin had?

If it was, Ryan wasn't quick to answer it. He simply stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at the beeping device in silence. Although she knew even less about Ryan than she knew about his apparently only slightly more normal friends, and she didn't normally care to get too involved in the personal affairs of strangers, he was still in the middle of Wendy's bedroom. And the longer that little jingle repeated, the more annoying it got. So she cleared her throat again and asked, in as polite a tone as she could manage given the circumstances,

"So, are you gonna answer that, or what?"

It was a stupid, pointless idea. Not an idea at all, really. Just the last scraps of... not even hope, that was pretty much deplenished at the moment, but effort. The effort not to let everything fall apart even further than it already had.

Kevin had woken with a throbbing pain throughout pretty much his whole body. Judging by the crushing weight pressing down on his torso, he was lucky to have woken up at all. The only parts of him not pinned down were his head and right arm, and even those hurt to move, though at least the spinning in his head put some degree of separation between himself and his broken body. Forget about trying to wriggle free when it hurt just to breathe.

So there he was, stuck, the shelf slowly crushing the air out of him, and Neil was gone. Where to, he didn't know. When he craned his neck he could see the empty bed frame, and the ropes broken and discarded at the foot of it. The bible he'd gotten from Ryan's house was facedown beside the tipped-over end table, next to a crushed and twisted lump of metal and plastic that he was horrified to recognize as his beloved proton pack. So wherever Neil was now, he must have still been cursed... or worse. And there was nothing Kevin could do about it.

Unless. Grimacing at the way his joints twinged, he raised his unpinned arm above his head. There on his wrist, perfectly intact despite everything he'd been through, was his communicator wristwatch. In all the hubbub of that day, he'd never gotten around to mentioning them to Neil, so his friend wouldn't be wearing his. But what if...?

It was stupid. It was pointless. There was no way in hell. But it was the only thing he could do. In a display so lacking in dignity that he was grateful nobody was around to see it, Kevin used his teeth and tongue for lack of a free hand to dial in the frequency and send off a signal. The watch's screen flashed in affirmation; he let his head flop against the floor with a weary sigh. Now all he could do was wait.

When he was at Ryan's house going through his things, and he found those communicator wristwatches, he'd only found two of them. And although that could have meant a dozen different things, there was just one wild, far-fetched possibility that any last semblance of hope now rested upon: that the third watch was missing because Ryan was alive, and he was still wearing his.

He didn't expect to get a response. By the time he did, he was struggling to stay awake--funny thing, trying to breathe with fifty pounds of wood pressed directly on your chest really takes it out of you. But he snapped to attention, or the closest he could get when his head was swimming and his body was beginning to go numb from lack of circulation, the moment he heard that voice crackling through the speaker.

"H-hello? Kevin?"

The relief that coursed through his veins was so overwhelming, especially on top of everything else, that he could only laugh--only for it to quickly turn into hacking as his ribs offered a sharp jab of protest. He raised his sleeve to wipe away a streak of blood that dribbled from his lips before speaking into the watch.

"Ryan. Where are you?" He regretted wasting time with that question the moment he asked it; he could tell from the way his organs felt like they were curling in on themselves as he spoke that he didn't have the energy for a full conversation. So before Ryan could stammer out a proper response, Kevin continued: "Neil is in trouble. You've gotta help him."

"What?" The shrill uptick of anxiety in Ryan's voice was palpable, and even just hearing that voice in and of itself stirred up a whole miasma of feelings that there was no time to properly react to. "What's going on? Are you okay? You sound--"

"I'm fine," Kevin lied through gritted teeth. "And... I don't know exactly where Neil is, but I know he's in trouble." A choking mix of emotions and his own blood swelled in his throat as his slowly blurring gaze wandered to the facedown bible. "I've tried to do some stuff today that I couldn't do without you. I-- we need you, Ryan. So, please... help."

With that final plea, something broke within him like a dam that he hadn't even realized was cracking. His arm flopped to the ground, wrist landing near his ear, where the communicator watch kept emitting Ryan's voice as it slowly rose in pitch until he was almost shouting. But even as his friend called frantically out to him, Kevin found it harder to make out the words. He groaned, letting his head loll to the side and his eyes fall shut. The last sensation he was aware of as darkness closed around him was that there was something wet on his face.

"Kevin, are you still there? Hello? Kevin!"

He wasn't responding. Why wouldn't he be responding, if the situation was so urgent? Maybe because he couldn't respond. Because he was--

"What are you going to do?" Wendy's voice cut into the swirl of panic Ryan was rapidly descending into. She hovered over his shoulder, peering down at the watch with wide, anxious eyes. The watch's screen had gone dark. No signal. Yes, indeed, what to do?

"What else? I have to save Neil."

If Kevin didn't know where Neil was, then there was no way that Ryan should have been able to instantly find him. But when he closed his eyes and let his vigilante instincts take over, he found that he didn't have to know where someone was. Whatever dark magic was infused in him now, letting him exist in this not-quite-human state even after what should by all accounts have been his death, it was hardwired for vengeance. And saving Neil meant exacting vigilante justice on whoever or whatever was harming him. With that in mind, the vigilante dissolved in a flurry of blood-tinted ice and reformed seconds later in the place it somehow knew it needed to be.

The first thing Ryan noticed when he appeared on the rooftop was the storm brewing overhead. He raised his eyebrows at that; earlier that day there hadn't been a cloud in the sky--and for that matter, when he looked around, it appeared that most of the sky was still perfectly clear, with the storm clouds being localized around this building. The second thing he noticed, upon peering over the edge of the roof, was that he wasn't on just any rooftop, but a skyscraper that towered above every other building in the vicinity. Lastly, he noticed a flagpole at the far corner of the rooftop, several feet away from him. And that was when his gaze fell upon Neil.

Neil was laughing as he swayed back and forth, clad in a brightly patterned jacket that wasn't his usual style at all, his arms and legs wrapped tight around the tall metal pole. Above him, the dark clouds lit up in a flash, followed almost instantly by a rumble of thunder. Although these particular stormclouds didn't come with rain, Ryan shivered. An incredulous exclamation was on the tip of his tongue (What on earth are you doing, stop it, you'll be killed!) when Neil locked eyes with Ryan, and he realized with a jolt of horror that this wasn't Neil at all--his body, yes, but someone or something else was controlling it. His mouth was stretched into a grin far wider than what a human face could normally achieve, and rather than their usual brown, his eyes glowed a sickly shade of green.

"Why, if it isn't my dear friend Ryan!" Neil--or whatever was piloting him--called, raising one arm off the pole in an exaggerated wave. "Oh boy, the guy I got this body from is sure surprised to see you alive! And as much as I'd love to send you plummeting off the edge of this building, I did promise not to hurt anyone else, so..." He waved his hand in a circle, unnaturally glowing eyes crinkling with amusement. "How about instead I pull you in a little closer so you can get a nice good look when your friend's body fries?"

With that, a sudden gust of wind blew into Ryan from behind, sending him stumbling forward. When he attempted to regain his footing, his broken spine betrayed him once again and he flopped to the ground with an undignified oof just a few feet away from the base of the flagpole. Grimacing, he pushed himself up and crawled the remaining short distance to grab Neil's ankle. As he did so, he noticed there was a bloodstained hole in his friend's shoe, and that his pant leg was slightly damp and already bore a few singe marks. Between that and whatever had happened to Kevin... he shuddered at the thought of what his friends had gone through in his absence.

"Nice try, vigilante," the thing in Neil's body jeered. "But I've gotta say, you don't pose much of a threat since I broke your spine."

He stomped his other foot down on Ryan's hand; Ryan yelped and instinctively released his grip. And at the very instant he let go, in such perfectly unlucky timing that only a supernatural entity could orchestrate, the stormclouds above them opened up with a searing, crackling, blindingly bright lighting strike.

Neil tilted his head back and laughed at the top of his lungs as countless volts of electricity tore through him. That horrendous laughter drowned out Ryan's screams of protest, not that there was anything he could do anyway in his current state, when he couldn't so much as get to his feet. All he could do was lay there and gape in horror as Neil's body shuddered and his flesh began to sizzle and burn.

Though it felt like an eternity of torture, the lightning strike couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds. When it ended, Neil dropped like a ragdoll into Ryan's arms. Ryan, too stricken to even check for a pulse, simply stared blankly into his friend's glazed-over eyes. Then Neil blinked, and his eyes were glowing green again, and he laughed, the sound rougher now that it was being produced by a charred set of lungs.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha! I wasn't expecting this body to survive that! Can you believe Neil is still kicking in here?" He tapped a finger against his head, then sat up with a playful kick of his legs. "...Or is he? It would be just like a demon to lie, wouldn't it?" He grabbed Ryan's chin with his burnt and blackened fingernails and forcefully tilted his head up so their gazes met. "You can't tell, can you, vigilante? So, how hard are you willing to throw your broken body around to try and save someone who might already be toast? Maybe you should just give up and go on with your day, hmm?"

While the demon taunted him, Ryan's mind raced to concoct a plan. Some miraculous last-minute solution that would fix everything... Neil would be able to think of one. Perhaps he already had. But that wouldn't do them any good when Neil was trapped and helpless within his own mind. If this really was a demon, and a powerful one at that, the only thing that might work was an impromptu exorcism.

"Crux sacra sit mihi lux! Nunquam draco sit mihi dux! Vade retro Satana!" Reciting the passage from memory as rapidly as he could without tripping over his tongue, Ryan grabbed Neil by the wrists and held him tight while he hissed and tried to jerk away. "Nunquamsuade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas. Ipse venena bibas!"

An ungodly noise somewhere between a shriek and a roar erupted from Neil as he tossed his head back and convulsed. It was far too visually similar for comfort to his electrocution less than a minute prior, and Ryan wondered if the demon was doing it that way on purpose in an attempt to scare him into stopping. If so, it wouldn't work. Even if this process was as painful for Neil as it was for the demon possessing him, it had to be done.

Sure enough, as the final line of the chant echoed across the rooftop, Neil shuddered and slumped to the ground next to Ryan. When their gazes met this time, the demonic glow was gone, but Neil was breathing fast and shallow and his eyes were wide with lingering terror.

"Ryan," he whispered. "You're... alive."

"I think so," he replied with a tentative smile. "It's all a little confusing. But we're going to be okay now, Neil."

However, no sooner had those words left his mouth than Neil stiffened up again, eyes momentarily flashing green. "No," he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head as if to dispel the demon's grasp. "Not yet. Still gotta... get rid of it..." He grabbed Ryan's hands and held them desperately tight, like a scared child clinging to their parent or older sibling. His eyes flashed once more, and this time when the glow faded, his face bore a strained smile. "I've got an idea. Ryan, don't freak out."

And with that, before Ryan could process what was happening and reach out to stop him, Neil sprung to his feet and took a running leap off the edge of the building.

For a while now, Neil had been having unusually vivid dreams. They weren't always nightmares, but they often were. Dreams about different worlds, different realities, different lives. Ones where him and Kevin and Ryan weren't all friends. Or worse, ones where they still were, but that wasn't enough to save them. One of those recent dreams, which began as an exciting fantasy only to devolve into a nightmare, was about some kind of flying vehicle. Ever since having that dream, Neil had made two vows to himself. Firstly, that as soon as he gathered the funds to afford it, he'd go back to school and complete his aeronautical engineering degree. Secondly, to always carry a parachute, just in case.

But the demon possessing him had no way of knowing that, now did it? And it wouldn't want to still be trapped inside a host body that was splattered all over the pavement. That was what Neil was banking on, at least. Otherwise he might really be in trouble.

As he fell, a stinging sensation rippled through his body. He shuddered, yet there was a smile on his face--no longer a grin stretched unnaturally wide, but an expression of his own volition--and his heart pounded not with terror but with exhilaration and boundless relief. Sure enough, the demon leapt forth from him and departed in a swirl of green smoke. And with it gone, he wasted no time in engaging the parachute--just in time to slow his acceleration enough that the fall wouldn't kill him.

Admittedly, he didn't exactly come down gracefully. He landed in a tangle of limbs and fabric that he had to shrug off the borrowed jacket, parachute and all, in order to escape, and the landing was just rough enough to deliver a painful reminder of the electrical burns covering the better part of his body. Still, Neil couldn't stop grinning as he gingerly picked himself up and dusted himself off. He was alive and no longer possessed; that was a win in his book.

When he craned his neck to look up at the roof, he thought he saw Ryan still sitting there. Neil grimaced as he recalled what the demon had said about breaking Ryan's back; hopefully that injury was undone with the demon being vanquished, but since Neil's injuries were still there, maybe that wasn't so. Either way, he couldn't just leave his friend up there alone.

As quickly as he could run with a bullet wound in his foot, he entered the building and took the closest elevator to the rooftop. But by the time the elevator chimed and its doors slid open, the rooftop was abandoned, with no sign of Ryan save for an abandoned hat, cape, and gloves, and a slowly fading dark red stain.

If Kevin hadn't already been surprised to wake up alive the first time, he sure as hell was now. The only reason he knew he was alive at all was the deep, persistent ache that wracked practically his entire body. That, and the warmth of the hand laid atop his own.

Forcing his eyes open with a pained groan, he turned his head to see the man sitting at his bedside. Ryan squeezed his hand and flashed him a sad smile when their eyes met. His vigilante costume was gone, traded for a simple dress shirt and tie, and his hair fell unpinned around his visibly tired face; the chair he sat in, upon closer inspection, was an old-fashioned wheelchair.

With some effort, Kevin pushed himself into a sitting position. Looking around, he found that he was laying on the couch in the living room with his chest bandaged. How Ryan had managed to pull him out from beneath the bookcase, he had no idea, but he sure wasn't going to complain about it.

"Ryan, you... you're hurt?" It was a stupid question--why else would he be in a wheelchair? "Did the demon...?"

"It's gone now," Ryan responded. "But..." His gaze lowered, and he dropped his hands into his lap to fidget with the blanket draped over his legs. "It was a costly victory, I'm afraid. In order to defeat the demon, Neil--"

His tearful speech was interrupted by the distant bang of the front door being thrown open.

"Geez, you could've told me you were going straight home!" Neil's indignant voice rang out down the hall. "I wandered all over town looking for you."

Ryan's head snapped up, and he and Kevin turned in unison to see their friend running toward them with a slightly crooked gait. With a cry of joyous disbelief, Ryan opened his arms, and Neil tackled him in an embrace that nearly sent him toppling over; Kevin had to lean forward to grab the back of Ryan's chair to keep him upright as he and Neil clung to each other.

"Neil, you're alive! I-I thought..."

"It's okay, Ryan," said Neil. Then, pulling back and glancing at Kevin with a melancholy smile: "I think we're all going to be okay."

"So, what do you think?"

As the ending credits rolled on their latest webisode, Neil and Kevin turned to face Ryan with matching expectant grins.

"Well..." Ryan drummed his fingers against the keys of the laptop and tried to think of something positive to say. "The costumes you used were a lot more fashionable than usual--wait, hold on. Weren't those my clothes?"

They were in Kevin's truck parked outside the studio's headquarters, with Neil in the passenger seat and Ryan in the back. It had taken a little over a week for them to recover to the point where they could comfortably climb inside a vehicle, let alone Kevin being able to actually drive, and the studio had already sent them several notes warning them that their pay would be docked for submitting their webisode behind schedule.

"Ah, yeah, sorry about that," Kevin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"To be fair, if he hadn't broken into your house and stolen a bunch of stuff from you, he couldn't have called you on your communicator watch," Neil interjected cheerfully. "Or tried to do an exorcism... but I guess that didn't really work out for him anyway."

"Hey, c'mon, it wasn't stealing!" Kevin gave Neil a gentle shove, prompting him to briefly wince but laugh anyway. "If we'd known you were still alive, we wouldn't have taken your stuff, Ryan, honest."

"Ah, I'll have to remember that for next time," Ryan quipped. He closed the laptop and handed it back to Neil, who tucked it away inside an oversized shoulder bag. "Well, that may not have been the best webisode we've made, but I can tell you two did your best."

"Yeah, it'll be way better once we get back to making them as a trio," Neil said.

It was still amazing to Ryan that his friends were so quick to accept him back after all he'd done. If anything, it made him feel worse about his prolonged absence, because he knew now that he could have come back at any point and they would have been glad to have him. It was easy to fall into regret when thinking of all that had gone wrong, and all that could easily have gone even worse. But the fact was, they were together again now--altered by what they'd gone through, and not entirely for the better, but still themselves.

And despite it all, the preceding events and the possibility that another horrible thing could happen to them in the future, he found himself agreeing with Neil's hopeful statement.

"Indeed..." Ryan reached out and took Neil and Kevin's hands in his own. They smiled back at him with the same residual traces of relief in their eyes that Ryan had felt every so often over the past week--relief that they were still there to smile at each other. "Gentlemen, I look forward to working with you again."

¤--END--¤

#epic gamer protip: plot something out and then mentally tweak it for the whole summer and then when autumn rolls around #write the whole thing in the span of like three days. works like a charm #hey did you know that i write stuff sometimes?

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touchmycoat · 3 years

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qijiu bingqiu (bingliushen??) fix-it fic planning blabber

so i think i gotta keep it tight on SJ’s POV. Right before his death, he makes a deal with Xin Mo (who’s kind of a lone operator bc LBH too has to fight its power) to create this alternate timeline in exchange for his cultivation. Xin Mo can open up new dimensions no problem, and with SJ’s cultivation, it even manages to rewind the timeline. That’s not enough though—Xin Mo’s goal is only consumption, so it takes the deal but reveals there’s nothing that will actually change. The price SJ paid only opened the door.

But that’s fine, ‘cause SJ saw it coming. He also strikes another deal, this time with Death itself? Some sort of large cosmic force. The only thing he wants changed is Qi-ge’s death, and in exchange...the universe takes him. SJ will not get to exist in that second universe. SJ takes the deal.

And that’s the start of canon. SJ-as-SQQ can no longer exist. Instead, SY-as-SQQ is brought in. In order to stay cohered though, YQY’s memories and personality get a little glitched—he is physically incapable of recognizing all the ways SQQ is now not SJ. That’s why, despite SY-as-SQQ clearly being OOC, YQY never seems to see it.

Canon happens, now we’re in the post-canon world where bingqiu are married and settling down, but SQQ still kicks it with his buddies LQG and YQY every now and then. YQY still firmly believes SQQ is SJ, to SY’s increasing consternation. Is it just delusions and wishful thinking? The more YQY treats him as SJ though, the worse SY feels—he shouldn’t be stealing all this affection that doesn’t belong to him.

It all comes to head when SQQ overhears public opinion on YQY, how he’s perfect in everything but his crazy devotion to SQQ. SY thinks enough is enough. He can’t bring SJ back but he sure can tell YQY that his Xiao Jiu is dead, right? The System warns him he’ll be punished but that’s fine, it’s just not fair, SQQ can take another little mental horror trip down to BinggeLand if it means YQY can have some closure.

Except that’s not what happens. He gets YQY in private and says, “no, you don’t understand, Shen Jiu is dead.” He sees the recognition in YQY’s eyes, but he also sees the moment that recognition gets wiped. The sad smile that had fallen off of YQY’s face returns, eerily happy, as YQY says, “my apologies, Qingqiu-shidi, I must have spaced out just now, what did you say?”

Right before the System kicks him into another punishment phase, SY tries again: “Shen Jiu is dead!” He sees the recognition disappear once again from YQY’s eyes.

Inside the punishment world, Bingge has him again. “I’ve been searching for an answer to why the sniveling pathetic version of me gets you as his Shizun, and I think I figured it out.” For a moment, SY’s horrified by the possibility that Bingge has figured out his transmigrator status—if his punishment figures it out, would he be trapped inside the punishment forever? But instead, Bingge says, “Liu Qingge is still alive, meaning Shizun didn’t kill him in the spirit caves. Did his survival render such a dramatic change?” SQQ”s like “yup, yup that’s definitely it. We’re such good friends, he really changed my outlook on life, so I treated you better, mhm.”

“Shizun’s very clever then to save his own life this way. Xin Mo’s already told me about your little bargain.”

That’s how SY learns that SJ had made a deal. Holy shit, he’d thought it was just random phenomenon this whole time, but the original goods had made it all possible? He didn’t know whether to thank SJ or curse him.

But that can’t be the whole story—Xin Mo opened up a timeline, that doesn’t explain why SY is here. Bingge doesn’t know this part, but it sure feels like SJ made a second deal, paying with his life.

What would motivate the original goods to do all this? Sacrifice his hard-won cultivation and his entire existence in this last-ditch effort?

The memory of YQY’s glitching came to mind.

Holy shit. SY owns the two of them more than he’d ever thought.

After the punishment, SY goes back home. He’s with Binghe, and LBH can tell there’s something troubling him.

“Binghe, there’s something this husband wants to do, and I need your help to do it.”

“Shizun, anything.”

“...But there’s a risk it might hurt you. There’s a risk it might ruin everything. It might be straight-forward, but it also might not be. It’s safer for all of us—but especially you, Binghe—if I just let things be.”

“But it’s not something that Shizun can just let be, is it? Otherwise Shizun wouldn’t have said anything. Binghe is honored to help. Anything to ease Shizun’s mind.”

“...I promised I wouldn’t let you come to harm again, and I meant that. Whatever happens, remember that I am your husband, this is my call, and you must do whatever you need to do to protect yourself, okay? Swear to me, Binghe.”

SQQ begins figuring out how to use Xin Mo to go fetch SJ from the other timeline. He figures that if Bingge could exist in this dimension without destroying the space-time continuum, the same ought to be true for SJ. Only trouble is, he can only go get SJ after SJ’s made the deals, because otherwise it’s a paradox, and he wouldn’t exist.

So SQQ brings home limbless, post-torture!SJ. That’s where the fic starts.

By all accounts, the deals are squared: SJ no longer has cultivation and SJ died in SY’s dimension, so SY successfully exists. SJ and SY can exist in the same space totally fine, and SJ begins healing.

(Currently, the fic is completely from SJ’s POV, and very much about coming to terms with being saved and what the hell is going on in this better world.)

The trouble is, SY doesn’t know what’s going to happen when SJ meets YQY again. SJ very thoroughly declines the offer to go see YQY because part of SJ still believes this whole thing is a trick, and if he goes to see YQY he’ll ruin his end of the bargain and YQY will die again. For SY’s part, he’s afraid of SJ going to see YQY too for similar but opposite reasons—if SJ going to see YQY ruins SJ’s end of the bargain, then wouldn’t that mean SY can no longer exist? Would SY just disappear from this universe?

So we get ragtag group therapy fun times. SJ thinks this is probably all an illusion Xin Mo is tricking him with, so treats everything with scorn but also existential apathy. This actually works to his benefit because he’s not clinging to things as hard, and it’s easier for him to admit, for example, that he was definitely in the wrong for abusing LBH, and yeah he was being a spiteful bitch when he did not need to be.

SY tries to keep LBH away from SJ mostly, because c’mon, he’s not about to make his darling husband face his childhood abuser. He does explain the situation to LBH though, in the same terms that Bingge had (mis)understood it lmfao—that the act of saving LQG’s life had prompted an entire 180 on his personality so he came out of the spirit caves a better man. LBH’s jealous as fuck of course, but damn if that doesn’t explain some things. Given the opportunity to see his old and new Shizun side-by-side, LBH takes it, and really gets a moment to see how horribly he’s been treated by SQQ.

So it actually prompts some therapy between SY and LBH too. LBH used to figure that getting pushed into the Abyss was squared by SQQ sacrificing himself to save him. But ofc it turned out SQQ came back and kept on, in his perspective, trying to get away from him. Trying to leave him behind. SQQ’s tried to treat his abandonment issues by going “okay sorry about that I’ll never leave you behind again” but he’s never really explained it.

SJ’s presence gives Binghe the ability to ask the question again and gives SY an answer: shame and cowardice. They’re able to put SJ’s mistreatment of Binghe right in front of them and SY-as-SQQ gets to explain how much it hurt to look back on that bit of their past, but also how much he feared LBH's retaliation. LBH is a little hurt, but also he remembers how he’d raped SQQ under Xin Mo’s control and, looking at what’s left of SJ now, he sees his own darkest possibilities. He really did destroy the man he loves now in another timeline. That helps him contextualize SY’s fears and why SY chose to push him off the cliff.

LQG crashlands into the middle of this whole party as is his wont. He gets a little fix-it too maybe. SY very staunchly repeats the reason for his personality swap—saving LQG in that cave made him a Better Person™. Meeting the original goods again, LQG is forced to believe it. Or like, it doesn’t really matter to him either way, but now he really does see pre-cave SQQ and post-cave SQQ as two completely different people.

SJ though, has to swallow this really weird pill. He remembers trying to save LQG inside the cave but failing, and then getting blamed for LQG’s death. If he’d succeeded, he and LQG would’ve become...this close?? A life debt between them would’ve changed his outlook on life so much???

Well whatever. Now that he’s put down all his old posturing, he more readily gives his reasons for why LQG gets on his nerves so much: the insufferable confidence (arrogant prick), the skills to back it up (privileged bastard), and a flawless cultivator family with all the money and the training and the pedigree. (Meanwhile SY’s like “oh shit that’s me too hahahahah awkward, good thing he still thinks i’m him so he doesn’t just murder me immediately.)

LQG’s a little weirded out too. SY-as-SQQ is his favorite person in the world, so it’s hard to get angry at SJ-as-SQQ since they’re “the same person.” He’s more willing to talk all this out with SJ and brings up all their old beef on his side too: high-handed snootiness coupled with underhanded dick moves, also the whole sleeping-with-prostitutes thing hurting Cang Qiong’s reputation. Ofc they’re snapping at each other this whole time. “There’s no reason for you to do all that!”

SY intervenes if needed. “Actually there is.” Considering the fact that SJ gets indicted for so many things that actually turn out to be not his fault, SY figures he’ll just get it out there. “Remember Qiu Haitang’s accusations against me? I grew up a slave in that household. I grew up believing it was kill or be killed—it doesn’t make sabotaging others right, but...that’s why the Spirit Caves made such an impression on me. I learned it wasn’t just kill or be killed, I can also save people. It opened my eyes to everything I already had, and everything I should be grateful for.”

This is for both LQG and SJ. And it works, to some degree. SJ knows he managed to claw to the top of privilege, but he still felt horribly insecure there. That’s because, he realizes, he never got the thing that would actually grant him security. It's not power or money or reputation—it’s Qi-ge. Holy hell he misses Qi-ge. In anger and betrayal, he’d pushed YQY continuously out of his life, but when faced with certain death the only regret he actually had was bringing Qi-ge down with him. YQY was meant to have survived, and in this world, he did.

So now, after all that, SJ really, really wants to go see his Qi-ge. It’s nice to have survived (and gotten part of his power back—at the very beginning, SY gives one of SQQ’s eyes to SJ as a bit of his golden core in order to save SJ’s life), but it’s so damn hard to live on in this world knowing YQY is only so far away, still very deeply attached to Xiao Jiu.

They try to Cyrano it at first. SY-as-SQQ goes to YQY with SJ’s voice in his ear, telling SY how to treat YQY as him. YQY is so fucking touched and hopeful, and SY is damn uncomfortable. He goes running back to SJ and says it’s not going to work—it’s not going to work because he’s no longer Qi-ge’s Xiao Jiu. He’s Luo Binghe’s husband, okay? He can’t go back to YQY as SJ.

SJ’s fucking furious at first (what kind of shitty variation of himself saves LQG’s life and then falls out of love with Qi-ge???? bitch?????) but what can he do? LQG tells them YQY’s on his way here and SJ hides for now. They still don’t know what will happen if SJ meets YQY, so SY continues to front as SJ for now.

But during this conversation, something changes. Maybe YQY says something, but SJ realizes he’s actually a little willing to take this chance. If Qi-ge does disappear—easy, he’d just kill himself right after. He’d already experienced Qi-ge’s death twice before, and at least this time, he can follow, knowing he’s at least reconciled with Qi-ge through SY.

And if he disappears on his own, then at least he knows there’s a world in which Qi-ge does not die horribly. That’s enough for him.

That, however, leaves the very last possibility—that SY will disappear. At this point both LQG and LBH have figured this out, and are very, very reluctant to let this be the scenario. They don’t see it as two people, they see it as their version of SQQ vs. YQY’s version of SQQ.

So there’s a little tension, but in the end, SY gets the final choice. As soon as he learns SJ is willing to go see YQY, he chooses that path. He simply owes qijiu too much to deny them the possibility of reconciliation. So despite knowing he might disappear from Binghe and LQG’s life, he makes it happen.

(They should get a very painful goodbye scene.)

SY goes out to explain things. “Zhangmen-shixiong may have noticed my change since my qi deviation and the spirit caves.” “I’m happy Xiao Jiu has a brighter outlook on life.” “Yes, but I think Qi-ge, of all people, might actually prefer how I was before, right?” “If Xiao Jiu’s happy, I’m happy.” “Yes, but Shen Jiu wants you. Is that alright?” “—of course. I want Xiao Jiu too—”

SJ comes out. Everyone holds their breath.

Scene cut.

It’s said that Cang Qiong’s Sect Leader Yue Qingyuan disappeared suddenly one afternoon...

But jk, YQY just ran away with SJ, they’re recuperating in the mountains and everybody’s fine and it’s a happy ending.

#...nice #that's the whole fic planned then #sv fix-it

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ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

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Invisible String - Chapter One

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

back on my bullshit, y’all! got a new multi-chap. here’s a summary:

There's no love lost between Nesta Archeron and the Cauldron. It stole life from her, so she stole Death from it. But not long after the war, Nesta realizes it gave her something, too: a mate.

Nesta knows any gift the Cauldron gives her is only for the worst, and it doesn't take very much to see how, so she does her best to keep it to herself. When someone's truth magic reveals her secret, and a number of relationships pay the price, Nesta knows what she has to do: destroy the mating bond.

On her journey to new lands, Nesta learns her own soul and discovers how her fate is decided, and whether love works into that equation at all.

and without further ado here’s chapter one!

---

It is, like most things, not Nesta's fault when her mating secret gets out.

People mock her for that, she knows. Roll their eyes. She knows they think her childish, that she's not taking responsibility for her actions. But she rarely acts at all; perfectly content to sit quietly on an armchair by herself, reading a book. It's the whole rest of the world that seems determined to keep her from peace.

When she feels it dawn upon her, like a sort of snap in her soul, she innately knows something is wrong. It's not something she wants. Not that it's something she wants but doesn't think she deserves, not something she wants but not right now, just something she does not want.

First of all, the idea sickens her. Especially when she looks at Feyre. Her soul tied to another, whether she likes it or not. It's not equal, despite what her sister thinks. It can't be equal, not when there's centuries'-perhaps millenia's-worth of bloody history, of male violence and aggression. Playing into that makes her want to vomit.

Second, this is not her choice, as Feyre now loves to say. This is that thing's choice-the Cauldron. And obviously, something that hated Nesta as much as the Cauldron did doesn't want anything good for her. So it has to be the wrong choice.

And she knows it with every pulse of blood, every link of bone. He is wrong for her. It's to punish her; that's why the Cauldron did it. It looked and saw what would hurt her the most, hurt her loved ones the most. And forced him upon her.

Well. She's not going to have any hand in it. And she's kept that up for months, with not so much as a word to anyone, and avoiding him at all costs, so there's no chance of him confronting her about it, in case he suddenly changes his mind.

But Elain's got some ridiculous dinner planned, and she can't afford to risk hurting her anymore than she already has, so she goes. And he's there-they're all there.

Nesta sits by Elain, with their backs to the open window. Cassian is on the other end of the table, but he is pointedly looking anywhere but her. Especially at Mor, right next to him.

Fine. That's just fine. She doesn't care.

"This is delicious, Elain," Rhys says to her, and she beams at him, taking the dish and passing it to Azriel on her other side.

They compliment her in turn, more gentle than Nesta normally sees them. Even Amren. She knows Feyre, switching between gazing lovingly at Elain and surveying all of them from the head of the table with narrowed eyes, has something to do with it. While Nesta thinks she herself can never be too vigilant with Elain's feelings in her-er-fragile state, she's not sure she trusts Feyre to handle the situation properly.

As she tilts her head back to drink from the glass of wine she's poured herself, the gust of wind that blows in through the back window teases a strand out of her braid, and she knows she's right not to. Because Feyre stiffens, looks at her, and says, "What's that in your hair?"

Everyone turns to Nesta, and it's all she can do to keep her face from burning. "It's called a coronet," she says through gritted teeth, knowing full well that's not what Feyre means.

"No. That smell."

"Vanilla scented soap," she says coldly.

Feyre's mouth parts open a little. "Are you...mated?"

"Of course not," she snaps.

Nesta keeps her eyes determinedly away from them all-from their wide eyes, white faces. What right do they have, anyway?

Another slight breeze strengthens Nesta's scent in the room-and they can smell it on her. Smell him. And this ridiculous...this unwanted...bond.

"It's Az." Cassian's voice is flat, hollow, seems to echo in the otherwise silent room as they all register what he said.

Nesta doesn't entertain their silence. "Of course it is not," she says forcefully.

Morrigan lets out a small gasp. "It is," she says, voice catching.

Nesta swears inwardly. Her stupid truth magic. She had forgotten.

There's nowhere to look now. Not at either of her sister's faces-one desperately trying to catch her eye, one staring at her lap, unmoving; not at Rhysand and Amren looking at each other; not at Morrigan, whose eyes are flickering between her and Azriel; not Azriel himself, for she has never wanted anything to do with him and she will not start now; and most of all, not at Cassian.

In a most unbecoming display, Nesta, hands curled against the table, shoves herself backwards-Feyre flinches at the sound of the chair scraping against the floor-launches herself up, and, seething, sweeps violently out of the room.

She can barely see, for all the anger burning her vision. Can't hear, either, for the roar in her ears, but she knows her sister well enough not to be taken by surprise when she leaps out in front of her.

"Nesta!" Feyre cries. "I'm so sorry-I had no idea-I'm sorry, I-"

"When are you going to learn," she hisses, "not to intervene in matters that do not concern you?"

Feyre's eyes shine silver-this she did not expect. "I'm sorry-I thought-I thought-"

"I know what you thought."

"I'm sorry," she repeats miserably.

Nesta doesn't reply. What is she supposed to say to Elain now? She probably won't show any anger; just retreat even further into herself. Wonderful.

"And Elain..." Feyre says. "Oh, this is all my fault, Nesta!"

"I know that," she snaps.

"I just thought..."

"I'm not interested in hearing your excuses." Her voice is a particular sort of harsh she never uses with her sister.

But Feyre, to her credit, does not flinch. She only closes her mouth, nods once, and says, quiet, sorrowful, "You're right."

This irritates Nesta even more. She knows she's right. She doesn't need to be told. "Go home. Do not talk to Elain," she says.

"Are you going to talk to her?"

"I need to think. Go home."

"What about-?"

"Do as I say." Nesta marches past her and makes her way to her apartment. The walk normally takes longer; she's there within a quarter hour.

She rips her scarf off and throws it down. It doesn't crash, obviously, just falls limply on the floor. Not satisfying. Does little to assuage her anger at...everything.

Such rage she feels. At Feyre for ruining the façade she had built. At circumstance. At Azriel, for existing, for allowing a blossoming something to occur between him and Elain when he knew, he knew they had this stupid bond and obviously that could only ever end in one way: her sister's heartbreak.

And at Cassian. Whenever she leaves her apartment, she can feel his presence somewhere above her, tracking her. He'll find some way to corner her whenever she drags herself to Feyre's house, to irritate her or try to provoke her. How she'd hiss at him and hurl insults to get him to leave her alone. And now what is it that has stopped his incessant obsession of finding her wherever she hides? This thing that she didn't even choose. It's honestly disrespectful, above all. Irking her was his favorite pastime until now, only because she's been marked by some ancient thing.

Then she feels more anger at Azriel, because a part of her isn't angry, it's sorrowful and pitying, and then she realizes-that isn't her. That feeling inside of her own body-it isn't hers! It's his!

And it's...close.

Nesta whips around and rips open her door, some tiny bit of her hoping she is wrong about who it is.

She isn't.

"I came to see how you're doing," he says, in that low, cold voice of his. Cold enough to make her shiver. For all the wrong reasons. Perhaps it takes time to get used to, but they've barely ever spoken.

"I'm fine," she says shortly. Then, "You should not have come."

"We need to talk."

"We do not."

He doesn't offer a retort, only stares at her. If she couldn't feel his ever-present sadness, she wouldn't be able to read him at all.

"I would like to talk, please," he says finally.

Nesta locks her jaw but steps aside to let him pass. He sits down on one of her couches, wings drawn tight against his back-she does not have any of their big armchairs to accommodate them. She takes her seat across from him.

She has not been alone with him very often, but every time, she is struck anew by how it feels when they are together. It feels...like nothing at all. No, worse than nothing. Because this is a mistake. Some magnet inside of her is pulling them together...but she doesn't want it.

"I'm sorry this happened," he says. "I should have taken better precautions. I know we agreed...to keep this between us."

The one time they had spoken, he means. When they both felt the bond snap into place. She had not known what it was, how it worked. He had explained it all to her. Naturally, she had been horrified.

"So now...we're...we're just... we have to..."

"No," he had said firmly. "We don't have to do anything. The mating bond...it's always going to be there. A part of you-us. But we can just ignore it."

"We can ignore it?" Nesta asks, thinking of when she had watched her sister and her own mate, before they had gotten together. Even then Nesta had thought their connection remarkable, how they moved in sync with each other.

She'd been horrified, even without knowing any magic was involved.

"We can," he said. Hesitated. "It's...it might be...there'll always be a pull. But we don't...care for each other like that. So it shouldn't really affect you too much."

"And you?" she'd asked.

"It won't affect me either," he said forcefully.

But he had been wrong. It has affected her-and now it's ruined her.

"What other precautions would you have taken?" she asks. "Was there something we weren't doing?" For she knows they did everything they could. They kept apart, never even spoke about each other to anyone. Everything taken care of...but her meddling baby sister.

He doesn't answer, but she can feel him begrudgingly accept her words. How she loathes this-this invasive, parasitic feeling. It's not as miserable as it might be, of course, neither of them are Daemati, so they aren't constantly bombarded with each other's thoughts like Feyre and Rhysand, but his presence in her mind...his emotions...like she never has a minute to herself anymore.

And he's so cold. Every part of him is so cold. Even when he's happy-when he's listening to Elain chatter about her garden or training with Cassian or doing whatever the hell with Morrigan, whatever she does in her spare time-even then it's a detached, guarded sort of feeling.

"I wanted to tell you I understand you're upset, but there's no reason why things have to change."

Nesta looks at him sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"We are still in agreement regarding our own relationship," he says evenly, "and I know...well, this doesn't have to affect any other relationships we may have."

"Did you come here for reassurance from me? Because you're not going to get any," she says, blunt.

"I believe I was reassuring you."

"You forget," Nesta says, a grim set to her face, "I know when you're lying."

He gives her a rueful smile. "So you do."

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Nesta says, "Look, Elain just needs some space. She's private. But I'll talk to her tomorrow and explain."

He doesn't answer. Why he bothers pretending like he doesn't fancy her sister around her, she doesn't quite understand.

It's not that Nesta wants him to have a relationship with Elain. It's just that she needs Elain to know that there is nothing going on between the two of them and there never has been and there never will be. She tells him as much.

"You are at perfect liberty to tell your sister anything you desire, of course," he says, but she can feel his relief.

"All right," she says, standing up. "That's settled. It'll be fine. But they'll all see we've been this way for months and nothing has happened so nothing needs to change."

"Right."

"Your coming here to speak to me is an outlier," she says. "You should tell them that."

"Would you like me to tell someone?"

Nesta clenches her fists. His tone is careful, measured, but it doesn't matter, because she knows what he's asking.

And her answer is no. Not even a little bit.

"Tell Feyre," she says, "so she doesn't get any more prying ideas."

He nods his head once. He doesn't like how she speaks of Feyre, she knows, but he doesn't say anything, which she appreciates.

Besides, she realizes, pleasantly surprised, he's not too happy with her either.

---

Nesta lets herself into Feyre's riverfront home after a trek through the gardens reveals Elain is inside. Mercifully, she makes it to her room without bumping into anyone.

Perhaps it's less mercy and more everyone is avoiding her, but no matter. She doesn't care. In fact, she prefers it this way.

"Elain?" she calls, knocking softly on her door. She opens it slowly and peeks her head in.

Her sister is lying on her bed, still in her nightthings. She stirs as Nesta sits down next to her.

"Nesta," she says sleepily.

"You're still in bed?" Perhaps her optimism from last night's conversation with Azriel is misplaced.

"No, no, I was just taking a nap."

She's...lying. Elain is lying to her.

And she's in bed at one o' clock in the afternoon.

"Oh," Nesta says. "Well. I just came to talk to you..."

"There's nothing to say," Elain says.

Nesta bites the inside of her cheek. "Yes there is. I need to tell you that Azriel and I are not in a relationship."

"Oh, Nesta-"

"And we don't ever want to be in one."

"It's none of my business, of course-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Nesta says, slightly bewildered. Elain had very much considered Nesta's two or three suitors entirely her business when they were silly human girls; why should this be any different? "But it's not real, anyway. It's a mistake."

Elain goes very still. "It's not," she says quietly.

"Of course it is."

"It is not."

Right. Because the Cauldron loved Elain. So Elain...what, worships that vile thing like everyone else here?

"I think I'm going to shower," Elain says, voice falsely bright. "Are you going to spend the day here?"

Nesta starts at the sudden dismissal. "I...no."

"Oh," Elain says, enough disappointment in her tone that anyone who doesn't know her as well as Nesta does would believe it. "Well, I'll see you soon. And please don't worry, Nesta, dear. Everything's quite all right."

With that, she hurries into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.

So perhaps, Nesta muses to herself on her walk home, she was wrong about how much time she should give Elain. Perhaps tomorrow she'll be more willing to talk.

Except she isn't.

And not the next day, either, and not the whole week after.

And Cassian's not springing up around the city anymore.

It's only Feyre who talks to her, too much guilt and uncertainty in her darting eyes telling her far more than her words do when Nesta asks her would-be-casually why her Inner Circle no longer stalks various of her favorite haunts and why does she think Elain has once again taken ill and is missing their lunch.

Well. Feyre might stutter through a non-answer, but Nesta knows exactly what the matter is. And she might not know how to solve it herself, but she knows who does.

So three weeks after her secret is let out, Nesta books passage to the Spring Court.

---

Chapter Two

#nesta archeron #nessian #azriel #acotar #so glad to finally be sharing this!#i think of this chapter as more of a prologue really #anyway it'll be short! only four chapters or so

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