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alpaca-clouds · 8 months

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The Punk-Factor of Punkpunk Genre

So, when I posted my history of Solarpunk, someone (probably not in good faith) asked: “So, what about the punk in all the other punk genres?!” towards my request to put the punk back into Solarpunk. And given that my autistic brain obviously cannot just let that stand… You know what? Let me talk about the other punk genre and in how far they are “punk”. I tried to be as exhaustive as possible, though there is a good chance, that I might have missed some of the punkpunk genre. So feel free to add.

Trying to judge the punkiness I do not assume punk as simple counter culture, but a specific ideology. Quote from Wikipedia:

[Punk ideology] is primarily concerned with concepts such as mutual aid, against selling out, hierarchy, white supremacy, authoritarianism, anti-consumerism, anti-corporatism, anti-war, imperialism, conservatism, anti-globalization, gentrification, anti-racism, anti-sexism, class and classism, gender equality, racial equality, eugenics, animal rights, free-thought and non-conformity

Most of the artwork here has been taken from concept art of either of the examples listed.

Sorted from most futuristic to pre(historic). Yes, the list is long.

Cyberpunk

We start with the OG punk genre, the one after which all other punk genre were named. Yes, you could argue that in fact the two genre following are more futuristic – but Cyberpunk kinda just had to start the list.

As a genre: Given that Cyberpunk had its start completely in literature it is the best defined in this regard. Taking place in a late stage capitalist dystopian world in which most is owned by megacorps who don’t follow anyone’s laws but their own, the protagonists usually are social outcasts fighting against their own oppression, trying to keep themselves alive in a world hostile to them. With cybernetics always being a core of the genre, it also tends to deal with the question of humanity in a “ship of Theseus” sort of way. How much can the human body be altered, before the human vanishes?

As an aesthetic: Cyberpunk is the most punk in terms of aesthetics, really. There is a lot of punk and grunge going on in terms of character design. Neon hair colors, fishnets and thorn up jeans jackets can be found here. As well as of course cybernetics on the characters. The world usually is a megacity with a stark divide between rich and poor, tons of neon signs, a slight Japanese influence, flying cars and somehow a constant downpour of rain.

Punk-Factor: Cyberpunk is the one punk genre, where the “punk” was chosen very knowingly as a name. Usually the protagonists are “punks” fighting for their place in the world against a suppressive capitalist system. (Also, they usually fit the punk aesthetic, if they don’t wear leather dusters.) It should be noted however, that especially in newer western Cyberpunk often the punkiness vanishes more and more – for the same reason we have so little Solarpunk: media that outright confronts the problems of capitalism is just less supported.

Examples: Neuromancer (1984), Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology (1986), Snow Crash (1992), The Matrix (1999), Dredd (2012)

Biopunk

As a genre: As a genre biopunk is still fairly ill defined, as it mostly shows up as a subsection of Cyberpunk. Rather than the characters having cybernetic implants (or additionally to it) they are augmented on a genetic level. This can be all sorts of augmentations, changing anything from appearance to giving characters higher strength and agility, giving them claws or night vision, or in some cases even “magic” powers. Usually the genre tends to be set in worlds similar to Cyberpunk. In fact it might well be set in a cyberpunk world, only that characters with bioaugmentations exist parallel to those with cybernetics. Additionally, though, there is a subsection of this genre, that concerns reproductive rights.

As an aesthetic: Ironically biopunk is even less defined as an aesthetic. There is not a lot of biopunk art out there and most that exists can go in different directions. As such it often mixes elements from other punk aesthetics – like Cyberpunk, Steampunk or Dieselpunk – with an assortment of bodyhorror elements.

Punk-Factor: It is hard to define the “punkiness” of a genre, that barely exists for the most part. Usually, when it is set against a Cyberpunk backdrop, it might be very punky, but in other settings those punk elements vanish.

Examples: Ribofunk (1995), Altered Carbon (2002), Bioshock (2007), The Windup Girl (2009)

Nanopunk

As a genre: Like Biopunk Nanopunk mostly exists as a subsubgenre to Cyberpunk, often being set in a mostly Cyberpunk world, only that instead of or additionally to Cybernetics, the technology used to alter the human body is nanites. These serve the same function as the genetic manipulation in Biopunk, giving the human in question more strength and agility and at times more or less magical abilities. There is one common plot that comes up again and again, with an AI or megacorp turning the nanites against the people they inhabit or trying to control them.

As an aesthetic: Aesthetically Nanopunk does not have much in terms of its own identity. Most artworks relating to Nanopunk feature a similar aesthetic to Cyberpunk, with megacities and lots of neon.

Punk-Factor: This genre is so small, that it is kinda hard to judge the exact punkiness.

Examples: The Diamond Age (1995), Prey (2002)

Solarpunk

As a genre: Being another genre, that started as such, Solarpunk is a bit better defined. Solarpunk usually takes place in a world post-strive. It is post-capitalist and decolonial in its settings, usually featuring a world that has either formed against the backdrop of preventing climate collapse or in the aftermath of it. A lot of it features people rebuilding – or alternatively building communities. It always features elements about living in harmony with nature or trying to do so. So far, the genre is mostly defined by short stories, partly because there is still disagreements within the movement, how far a conflict can be taken to still qualify as Solarpunk.

As an aesthetic: Solarpunk has a very strong aesthetic definition, mostly featuring all sorts of cities and urban areas, that incorporate natural elements into the urbanity, with greenery growing on roofs and concrete car-centric streets being replaced with more natural, walkable areas. The character design aesthetic is not quite as clearly defined, but usually features natural materials and patterns usually seen within indigenous art.

Punk-Factor: Contrary to what many say, Solarpunk is fairly punk, as it very much embraces the entire anti-hierarchical, anti-capitalist mentality. With the big difference, that the punk mentality is no longer counter culture, but the mainstream culture.

Examples: The Dispossessed (1974), Nausicaä (1984), Laputa – Castle in the Sky (1986), Princess Mononoke (1997), The Summer Prince (2013)

Lunarpunk

As a genre: Lunarpunk is pretty much a subsubgenre of Solarpunk, just as Nanopunk and Biopunk are sprung off from Cyberpunk. It is so far ill-defined as a genre, but the general consensus is, that it is set in solarpunk-esque worlds, but with a heavier focus on mysticism or spiritualism, at times outright including magic. It also tends to feature a lot darker places, being set in underwater or underground settings – or alternatively at night.

As an aesthetic: Lunarpunk is far more of an aesthetic than a genre so far. It features dark places, often with bioluminescent elements in it. Often featuring a mixture of black and dark blue with lighter blue, violet or light green elements shining in the middle of it. Mushrooms – especially glowing mushrooms – feature repeatedly in artwork.

Punk-Factor: Given that Lunarpunk is barely defined as a genre it is hard to estimate the punkiness in it. If it gets more stories, will those still feature the anti-capitalist and anti-hierarchical messaging we see in Solarpunk? This should be the defining factor. Some of the artworks use little aesthetics from the punk scene, but nothing much more.

Examples: Bioluminescent: A Lunarpunk Anthology (2023)

Hopepunk

Honestly, I had no idea where to put this one, given that it might technically be set at any time and place.

As a genre: Hopepunk is very much a genre, not an aesthetic. It has been defined as the opposite of grimdark by its “inventor/name-giver” Alexandra Rowland. The basic idea is to create fiction that instead of taking a dystopian, defeatist and violent approach, takes one defined by hope and to some degree pacifism. As such the genre can be set in any setting, real or fantastic. It mostly is defined by the protagonists taking opposition to cruelty and violence, fighting for a better world and, crucially, also partly archiving it. Other than in usual Cyberpunk, where the best possible ending, tends to be, that the protagonists get to live a somewhat better life themselves, Hopepunk aims to better the life at least for groups of people.

As an aesthetic: Being fully a genre, Hopepunk has no aesthetic associated with it.

Punk-Factor: Hopepunk is punk less in the sense of the protagonists or things happening within the story, which might or might not be punk, but was named such rather because it is considered counter cultural towards the gross of media at the moment, that often strives for a “realistic, gritty, grimdark” outlook on the world. Basically it is saying: “Hope is punk.” I will not make any judgement on whether or not this is true.

Examples: The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet (2014), Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), The Good Place (2016)

Mythpunk

As a genre: Another one, that does not really fit into a temporal sorting system, because once again it can be set anywhere between the stone age and the far future. The basic idea is, that the story interweaves postmodern storytelling with elements from mythology or folklore. This can mean mythological, genre-traversing retellings, but it can also mean, that mythology seeps into any given story bit by bit. As such the genre with probably the most media in the subgenre is Urban Fantasy, which often borrows from mythology and incorporates these elements.

As an aesthetic: Mythpunk as an aesthetic is a bit strange. There is definitely a mythpunk aesthetic that exists, often mixing familiar elements with elements from mythology and folklore (at times also including quasi-folkloric works of literature, such as Alice in Wonderland and the Wizard of Oz). Often just a bit dark and twisted.

Punk-Factor: To be perfectly frank, for the most part, there is not a lot of punk to be found in this genre. While there have been definitely punky stories told within the genre, this is more a story decision than something inherent to the genre.

Examples: Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), Over the Garden Wall (2014), Inscryption (2016)

Dustpunk / Rustpunk / Desertpunk

As a genre: Kinda grouping those above all together, because people argue about what they might entail and in some interpretations they kinda are similar: Post-apocalyptic stories set in a world of sand and rust. Often featuring a loner character, having to go up against everyone to ensure his own survival – and at times being forced to learn, that the lonerness might not win him (and most often it is a him) anything.

As an aesthetic: Aesthetically this tends to be very much post-apocalyptic, maybe in some cases with some more classical punk elements added to characters and surroundings.

Punk-Factor: Given that there is neither a system to rage against – nor a new, less hierarchical system – usually there is not that much punk outside of some aesthetic choices. Neither tend those stories go into constructing worlds of mutual aid or working against oppression.

Examples: Anything Mad Max should count for this.

Atompunk

As a genre: Atompunk usually deals with themes connected to the cold war – in some cases directly, in some indirectly. Often it overplays the American ideals that were pushed for during the cold war era and portrays scenarios in which American Exceptionalism slowly reveals itself as the dystopia most punks already know it to be. Outside of this vague idea for the setting, the genre is less described, as there is less of a clear script an Atompunk story might follow. So, little description of who might be the protagonist and what their role is.

As an aesthetic: The aesthetic of Atompunk borrows heavily from the Raygun Gothic aesthetic. So, futurism, as it was imagined in the 1950s and 1960s, with heavy influences from late pulp age science fiction art.

Punk-Factor: The aesthetic in this is definitely not punk. The stories often have some vague punk ideas of recognizing how fucked up the world has become, but given the genre is fairly wide in terms of stories, it is hard to give a definite answer to how “punk” it is. One can definitely tell punk stories within this genre, though.

Examples: Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy (1978), Fallout (1997), Futurama (1999)

Dieselpunk

As a genre: Dieselpunk is once again an example of “strong aesthetic, but no clear genre identity”. Generally, Dieselpunk is concerned with the interwar period, but might cover either of the world wars. In some cases the genre features alternate timelines, in which one war happened and not the other, or in which another faction won, with the technological development being influenced by this as well. But as a genre it is not much defined. A lot of stories building on Lovecraft’s legacy feature Dieselpunk in some regards. And there is definitely a subsection of Dieselpunk stories centered around “what if Nazis won” or “what if Nazis somehow went underground and did their own technological development after the war”. Also, there are a lot of stories about pilots of war planes in this genre.

As an aesthetic: As an aesthetic Dieselpunk is more clearly defined. A lot of bare metal and the sorts of technology you would expect from this era, often with retro-futurist and art noveau elements in between. A lot of the fashion within the genre is defined by pilot and military clothing of the times, but at times also dipping into “roaring 20s” fashion styles.

Punk-Factor: In this genre I would generally say: “If the story involves punching Nazis, you might get a couple punk points – but otherwise this is not really punk.”

Examples: The Iron Dream (1972), Brazil (1985), Dark City (1998), Iron Sky (2012), Bitter Seeds (2010)

Teslapunk

As a genre: Yet another one of these, that exists mostly as a vague idea, with no clear definition. The basic idea is a world, that works on Tesla’s inventions. And as those of you, who watched Doctor Who, might know, Tesla sorta, kinda already invented the internet or had an idea of what it could be and how it could work. So a Teslapunk world is based in an alternate timeline, but might in fact go into light futurism. There is not much in this genre though with a unique thematic identity, as stories that use Teslapunk as a backdrop rarely have coherent themes.

As an aesthetic: The aesthetic of Teslapunk is basically “Steampunk, but with Tesla-coils and electricity”. Which is not a big surprise given that Tesla came from the same era that would also be the inspiration for Steampunk. So, we have a lot of Victorian fashion, maybe some light augmentation, airships, and – again – all the tesla coils you can muster.

Punk-Factor: As, again, I think punk is more about themes than aesthetic, this is once more not really possible to judge, because there do not seem coherent themes within the genre so far.

Examples: The Prestige (2006), Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2011), Bioshock Infinite (2013)

Arcanepunk

Another one of those that do not neatly fit into the timeline…

As a genre: Arcanepunk takes place in a world, where both magic and technology have developed. In some cases both developed side by side, in others, we might have a technological world, that suddenly discovers magic by some happenstance. The fact is, though, that both exist parallel to each other or might at times be intertwined, with technology being powered by magic. This can exist at different technological stages, usually featuring settings inspired by the late 19th or early 20th century. But usually futuristic stuff that includes magic might be considered Arcanepunk, just as might stories that mix 18th century technology with magic. While also a vague genre, there is a repeating theme of magic being hoarded by those in powers and the poor and downtrodden finding ways to still use it in their own advantage.

As an aesthetic: Given that Arcanepunk’s setting is defined by the co-existence of magic and technology, rather than a specific technology, Arcanepunk has less of a defined aesthetic. Never the less, we have a part of punk aesthetics that often come up, as a surprising amount of Arcanepunk features characters with neon colored hair.

Punk-Factor: Another genre that is rather thin, yet, there is a surprising amount of stories featuring some punk ideas of fighting against an oppressive system and being counter culture to a main culture build around suppression.

Examples: Too Many Magicians (1966), Shadowrun (1989), Bartimaeus (2003), Arcane (2021) duh

Steampunk

Steampunk was the second genre to pick up the “punk” suffix and hence is as much responsible for the punk-punk as Cyberpunk as the originator.

As a genre: Being named as early as it has been, Steampunk kinda suffers the same issue as Cyberpunk itself. There is a lot of ideas there, but some are only vaguely defined. In general, though Steampunk always takes place in a world where the steam engine became the defining technology and was never replaced with the combustion engine. As such cultural aspects from the steam era, especially Victorian England and the Belle Epoche, still carry over for longer, than they did. So often we will see noble households based around similar values as the puritan Victorian English families, while the very poor are made to work in workhouses. At times we might also see themes of colonialism here. In some cases magic might exist in these worlds, as might electricity for some aspects. There is often a heavy inspiration from Jules Verne and H.G. Wells. Though it is still hard to define the “stereotypical steampunk story”, given that Steampunk offers a wide variety of stories, from adventure stories and romances, over to stories where people rise up against the Victorian-esque society.

As an aesthetic: Steampunk as an aesthetic is very much influenced by Victorian aesthetics and the time period of the late 19th century, mostly in the USA, Great Britain and France. But as all other punk genres it knows very well: “If it is worth doing, it is worth overdoing,” so steam-related elements are added to everything. Could

Punk-Factor: In the original idea for Steampunk was a lot of punk. “What if we took Cyberpunks ‘rage against the unjust system’ and made it 19th century” they asked. But given that the genre branched out so much, it is not necessarily there in all the stories. There is a ton of stories where people rage against that steam powered Victorian machine – but also a ton in which the Victorian world gets idealized and romanticized.

Examples: Thief (1998), The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (1999), Wild Wild West (1999), Clockwork Century (2008) – also half of all Sherlock Holmes adaption made after 2000 in any medium usually use Steampunk elements

Silkpunk

As a genre: Silkpunk is hard to define, despite there being a clear definition. The reason for this is, that the person who coined the term – Ken Liu – had a very specific idea in mind. He explains that the idea is of a world that has technology as language. In which form is as important as function, is made to speak a language all of its own. Inspired by ideas from W. Brian Arthur and Chinese philosophy. However, what the wider Science Fiction and Fantasy community made from it was “Steampunk but East Asian!” But given he coined the term (and also the alternative feels vaguely racist) I am going to go with Ken Liu for this. While Silkpunk will usually be set in an East Asian inspired world, the central idea is about the duality of technology, which will also be addressed within the stories.

As an aesthetic: As said above, the idea Liu had for it was a world that features some technology, but technology that is as much about form and communication through it, as it is about function. So the technology here has strong visual ideas. At least that was, how Liu intended it. Once again, the wider community made “Steampunk, but East Asian” out of it.

Punk-Factor: There is not a lot of stuff in this genre for now – however so far I do not manage to see a lot of punk ideas in it, even though some of Liu’s stories definitely feature the concept of challenging a higher power.

Examples: Dandelion Dynasty (2015), The Black Tides of Heaven (2018), The Tea Master and the Detective (2019)

Clockpunk

As a genre: Once again storytelling in this genre is not really defined, but the worlds diverge a bit before the wide adaption of steam, instead featuring mechanical devices powered by coils and springs and somehow kept alive, often at least implied through some form of arcane magic that gives “live” to these mechanical inventions. Most examples of Clockpunk, however, tend to show up as settings for parts of fantasy stories. Any fantasy world might have this “Clockpunk” area, where protagonists might travel. Especially games tend to feature this. While there is definitely a trope of the “mad inventor” often going along with this, few other tropes stand out.

As an aesthetic: The aesthetic of Clockpunk tends to take some inspiration from the early 19th century, but tends to add a lot of gears to everything, with even city wide gear constructions keeping things working. We often will find mechatronic characters, such as wind up soldiers or wind up dancers.

Punk-Factor: Once more, there are so few stories told, that it is kinda hard to speak about how punk this is. Most stories told so far, however, do not feature punk elements.

Examples: The Great Mouse Detective (1986), Hugo (2011), Clockwork Planet (2017)

Whalepunk

Please note: This is one of those genre, I would love to see more in, though so far it is barely explored.

As a genre: And you might ask: “Why do you even name those genre, that exist mostly in theory?”, to which I might answer: “Because I am a nerd.” As all these retrofuturists genre, Whalepunk imagines mostly an alternate historical timeline, where the technology that became defining was based around whale oil. This means that in Whalepunk often whalers or harbors play a big role, though as the genre is again very thinly spread, it is hard to say what “THE whalepunk” formular is. It seems there is a tendency, to mix some mysticism or magic into the genre, though, as the idea of hunting sea monsters often plays into it as well. Good chance that it could at some point merge with Cthulupunk (which I did not name separately, because most of it is either covered in Whalepunk or Dieselpunk).

As an aesthetic: The aesthetic of Whalepunk is basically “Steampunk, but with more sailors, ships and sea monsters”. There is definitely a bit of Oceanpunk mixed into it as well, with some aesthetics being somewhere between Steampunk and Dieselpunk. (Which is kinda ironic, because whale oil was mostly used in the early 19th century.)

Punk-Factor: And again. There so far is not a lot of connective thematic tissue within that genre, so exploring themes is kinda hard.

Examples: Dishonored (2012), Dredge (2023)

Oceanpunk / Piratepunk

As a genre: It really is hard to divide the Piratepunk out of the Oceanpunk, though some might call it different. The idea here is that this genre features stories mostly set on the ocean and often more heavily leaning into fantasy, than science fiction. While the worlds might feature technological elements, they will almost certainly feature magical elements of some sort. The characters will usually be seafaring one way or another and stories might involve any sort of adventure. There might be a storyline, though, about one company or nation trying to control the seas – often times through magical means – with the characters often unwillingly being made to oppose them. This genre might also take place in a post-apocalyptic setting with a flooded planet.

As an aesthetic: While the aesthetic is not clearly defined, there is a good chance that it borrows heavily from the late 17th and early 18th century and the golden age of piracy, when it comes to both ships and fashion sensibilities.

Punk-Factor: Pirates, at least as far as modern media imagines them, tend to be very punk, as they tend to inherently oppose any sort of government and what not. While the punk is not there in all of the stories, a lot of the most popular stories from the genre will feature at least lightly punky elements.

Examples: One Piece (1997), Pirates of the Caribbean (2003), Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag (2013)

Dungeonpunk

As a genre: So, the idea of the genre is basically “What if Cyberpunk, but Dungeons & Dragons?” Usually set in a vaguely medieval world, this world still shows the same corporate corruption as your usual Cyberpunk world. Adventurers are just another resource to be exploited by the system, their day job involving going on yet another dungeon crawl. For this there might be some technology entirely powered by magic, with those magic items taking over the same functions technology might have in a Cyberpunk world. And yes, indeed some brave dwarf, elf or halfling might rise up and challenge the corporate dungeon syndicate. (As you might sense: Yes, this genre tends to be at least partly a bit of a parody of the punkpunk idea. Though it also can be played straight as “Cyberpunk conflicts, just that all technology is somehow magic.”)

As an aesthetic: This is once again one of the examples, where there is a clear idea behind it – but absolutely no clear aesthetic, as this genre might cover anything from medieval settings to a lot more modern stuff.

Punk-Factor: The base idea, being heavily inspired by the base idea of Cyberpunk, just from a very different perspective. But too many people read the genre as “Magic Technology, yay”, in which case, no, it is not punk.

Examples: Dungeons & Dragons can be played this way, also Final Fantasy VI – XIII definitely counts.

Sandalpunk

As a genre: I mostly include this for the sake of it, because this genre tends to boil down to “fantasy set in ancient Greece or Rome, but with vaguely anachronistic elements”. It might also include alternate history stories (even going so far as Science Fiction) based on the idea “What if Ancient Rome/Ancient Greece never fell?” There is no real overarching themes, even though I could imagine some interesting way one could build those up. So far, though, it is mostly a vague gesture towards: “SciFi Fantasy, but with more ancient civilizations.”

As an aesthetic: The aesthetic is usually just Ancient Rome or Ancient Greece, but with more magic or anachronistic elements.

Punk-Factor: Given the super vague nature of the genre and the fact that it seems more like a genre of hindsight (with most media being declared this having been released even before 2000)… Nobody wrote those stories to be punk. The one punk thing I can see about several of these stories is people challenging Gods, but… That’s about it.Examples: Hercules: Legendary Journeys (1995), Xena: Warrior Princess (1995), God of War (2005)

Stonepunk

As a genre: The basic idea of Stonepunk is, that it is set in a stone age world, but with the technology being pressed towards a very anachronistic end, which is often played for laughs. Basically it gives stone age people a modern seeming world, though not really. Often enough this is used to make a point about the modern world and parody it in some regard. An argument can be made for stories, that feature stone age technology people being somehow subjected to modern technology (for example through time travel or space travel) also possibly falling into this genre.

As an aesthetic: Usually the aesthetic of Stonepunk is one of an overplayed stone age setting. The clothing characters might wear are not what we know is historically more accurate but really just “everyone wears a pelt around their shoulders”. Meanwhile stone age tools get spun to be used as all sorts of modern technologies.

Punk-Factor: The genre does usually not feature punk themes. However, the nature of parodying and challenging the modern world tends to be punk in its own merit, I assume?

Examples: The Flintstones (1960), The Croods (2013), Horizon: Zero Dawn (2017)

That's it. That's the list.

Feel free to add to it.

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reilliane · 3 months

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Fatalism ⊱⊰ Scaramouche

✤ she/her ✤ words: 9.5k

The oh-so-great Balladeer was a puppet on strings. Despite this, he has a dream to fulfill, and he would do whatever it takes to achieve it—even if it meant forsaking his 'heart'. But pride always comes before the fall. He could never ever write over fatalism.

✤platonic angst :) ✤we're going to break him all over yall

“Awaken.” commanded the Electro Archon as the heavens growled.

The violet pool within the golden laver swirled, the entwined hands coruscating with a divine spark of Electro. Her command was obeyed, and two pairs of eyes opened at the same time.

His birth was most unorthodox. Disparate in the sense that he wasn’t born of flesh and blood, but of methods inexplicable to human comprehension—even to him.

It began with a tranquility like no other, enclosed in a spacious black void in which no other creature lived but his consciousness. But in that cloister of nothingness, he felt safe, he felt a closeness to something he couldn’t pinpoint. The contiguity would be ascertained soon after he heard an obdurate voice calling- ordering him to be roused from slumber.

So he did.

And he bore sight to his creator, his mother, the Electro Archon, as she regarded him with a countenance that spoke little of what she felt. Her hand upon his forehead was warm, but her eyes withheld an everlasting winter that bespoke of no potential summers.

She murmured something under her breath before withdrawing her hand and turning her back for a moment. An inauspicious action.

This churn of discomfort was set aside upon recognizing the same warmth somewhere on his limbs and he followed its origin. With a short incline of his head and a twist to the left, he blinked.

There were two sets of long tables, occupied by two figures, him included. His left arm was outstretched to the side, dipped into a gilded laver that contained a liquid tinted with violets that reminded him of his creator’s eyes. It shimmered and emitted a sense of divine power.

But what kept his hand warm in the cold pool was the hand of another.

Her gaze upon him was a mirror of his own upon hers. She spoke not with her tongue but her [c] eyes, and he too, did the same. They were parallel to one another, distant yet entwined by their fingers that had the same length, down to the fingertips.

They were both without a name, without a defined personality. Canvases that were white and stark, hoping to be filled with color. Hoping to be a magnum opus.

He wouldn’t be able to utter anything in that moment, as they were then separated, whisked away by strangers that appeared to be of service to the Electro Archon. He would only see his mother and that girl he reckoned to be his twin sibling later in a privy room, where the tall woman would first come to his sibling, who dipped her head.

Her figure would close in on itself, glowing [c] until she became nothing but a small accessory floating upon their creator’s palm. It—his sister—had become tinier than his own hand.

“A pawn piece,” a voice came from the left, and a sly-looking woman with pink hair hummed. “How appropriate for you to liken her to one.”

“But of course,” responded his mother. “If the puppet is to hold the Gnosis, then I must first see if he can handle something in its likeness. She holds at least half of the power, and for that I see no reason not to shape her as a pawn. I surmise it is the only piece in the board untouched by the Heavenly Principles.”

The foxy woman smiled impishly as she concluded. “For though pawns are capable of attaining majesty, they are still expendable.”

“Precisely. Now..”

The Electro Archon came upon him, her violet gaze stormy and steely as she neared the floating ‘pawn piece’ closer to his chest. “May your being be emboldened by that which is meant to be your core; a prototype heart of power.”

Like congealed water, the piece disappeared through his clothes, into his skin, and into his very being. What previously was a mere accessory took a different shape in his consciousness, and he felt whole.

Complete. It was a feeling like no other.

Raiden Ei hummed, satisfied at the sight of the spark of life in the puppet’s eyes. “So it has worked.”

“A good thing, isn’t it?” Yae Miko questioned, her tail swaying leisurely at her back. “But her very case is a pseudo-power half of what is authentic, no?”

“Yes and no.” The little puppet did not understand what they were speaking of, there was only the innate kind of euphoria provided by the comfort of the pawn piece within him—his own heart. It was his twin sibling, his other source of power, if he managed to comprehend the conversation correctly.

He felt full, like when he first opened his eyes and saw his mother. Felt safe, when he saw that his birth was in synchronicity with his heart.

So when the hand plunged back into his chest like nothing to retrieve the small pawn, it felt as though he was engulfed in a banquet's inferno. His limbs lit with flames and it was difficult to get a grasp of his environment, mind befuddled, voice lost.

He could barely see the way the priestess scrutinized him as a different item was thrust into his chest.

It was bigger and weighed much more. It was a heart that thrummed with so much divinity and power that he turned statuesque in its glory. The difference was profound.

His little heart—his twin, rather—held a peace akin to a nest of comfort, but the heart his mother had newly provided was laden with somber wisdom. He sensed not the presence of the girl who bore only the slight likeness to him, but he felt that of a different one, kind and prudent, yet desolate with life. It was so much that it brought tears to his eyes.

And thus, with a sharp, narrowed look of his creator, the decision was set in stone.

Not even a fortnight—no, a fortnight was most generous. Not even a week, and they’ve been forsaken.

“I need not a vessel whose gaze was more scrupulous than callous. He isn’t fit for the purpose I built him for.”

Haunting words.

“And what of the nexus you built with him? Essentially, they are one.”

Sickening truths.

“... She is a prototype I am not disposed to confine, either.”

Vexing failures.

Reminders of the reason as to why he had pursued this path. Too many betrayals, too many faux promises, and too little mercy in a world that was filled with naught but the evil end of the spectrum.

The puppet clicked his tongue as he gazed upon the lacerations on his skin, his clothes torn and tattered, fringed off the hems with licking flames. He stared at the remnants, condemning the beasts inwardly with a series of curses only unfortunate peers ever had the tragedy of knowing.

“Closer,” he murmured as the mob dispersed, only for another horde to approach. “Closer, and closer..” to greatness.

The Abyss was even more ruthless than the surface world of Teyvat, yet he found the darkness within it reminiscent of the void that came before his creation. He ignored the sting of his injuries and opted to gird himself with the beckon of power.

“Don’t push yourself.” the warning was in his head, but it sounded as if the voice came from behind him, always in his shadow. “I can’t have the Doctor poking needles into you as though you’re a labrat again.”

Funny, isn’t that what he was to that man, anyway? Besides, that sort of event happened each time he returned from his expeditions and battles in the Abyss.

“Kunikuzushi.” the voice was stern.

“Fine.”

He always meant to go overboard, that was a metier fit only for someone of his constitution. Fragile and enervated humans couldn’t hold a candle to his sturdiness as a puppet, and it was primarily this facet of his existence that corroborated his mileage to the Fatui.

So, he welcomed it with open arms, for he knew this path, though toilsome and arduous, would pave the road to his fate as a god.

He had forgotten the exact length of his ‘tarry’ in the sinister Abyss, but the darkness was a close companion that he’d known for his whole life.

In the rare interludes in which there would be no scourge or cataclysm in his stygian ventures in the otherworldly realm, he would rest and allow the extent of his injuries to overwhelm him. Only then would there be an effulgent flicker in the suffocating coat of black, coming upon his will.

His twin sister embodied that light, as she was a creation more mystifying than he was in essence.

She was—as he recalled his creator called her—his heart, who awoke in his moment of sheer desperation when he tried to ask the Electro Archon for help many centuries ago, and who had been with him ever since.

Humans were born with one, and he was created with her in a similar aspect, and both their eyes opened at the same time.

A puppet with a heart.

Kabukimono and Nisemono.

Kunikuzushi and Kenkoroshi.

Names that undoubtedly would only stockpile on the other as they traversed this path to their shared dream.

His heart was his main source of power.

Yes, he was strong on his own, but his sister was created from the godly power of Raiden Ei, emboldened by the influence of the Gnosis—the piece that was meant to be his. It meant that his sister was essentially a lesser version of the Gnosis, a facsimile—an imitation.

It was a connotation that conjured a frown on her usually blank face, but one that was wiped off with ease whenever Kunikuzushi would remind her that he was a literal puppet created in the likeness of their creator. There was a peculiar comradery in their shared existence as imitations, but that did not void their identities as ‘creatures of their own’.

Kunikuzushi would receive word from one of Harbingers themselves to return to Snezhnaya sometime later when he would be in one of his seldomly taken respites. The puppet would wordlessly stare at his hand, which was in the grasp of his twin sister, who had taken up a corporeal form to accompany him in the physical realm.

He never failed to assert that it wasn’t needed—for he could literally hear her voice in his head—, but she also never failed to exhort that accompanying him physically was a different kind of company in itself. He disliked how it was a sound reason, so he relented every time.

This mutually indulgent quietude was infrequently broken by either two, but it was fractured by the ‘pawn’ the second they arrived in Snezhnaya. Personally escorted by a handful of Fatui soldiers upon the Jester’s management following the order to return from the Abyss, she tugged away at his sleeve.

“Something weighs the wind.”

During times like these, when she would speak in riddles and figures, the puppet would be less than enthused, yet he humored her. It was inexplicable, but his twin always seemed to have some kind of prescience.

“It doesn’t feel dangerous, though.” Ah, so that meant it was something good.

Kunikuzushi could not help the snark in his voice as he responded. “I’m disposed to believe that you’re lying in the face of our ‘life’s’ usual pessimism. When has anything remotely good ever come to stay?”

“This one will, perhaps.”

It was unnecessary to tone down their voices, even though their peers regarded them with puzzlement. Why should they? No one would understand the context of their conversation, anyway.

The factuality of Kenkoroshi’s presage would be ascertained in a castle bespeckled with the rigidity of snowflakes. Diamond flakes annealed with solemn ‘love’, sharpened as though to appear like icy dirks, yet refined as if they also symbolize frozen tears.

The loveless motherland of Snezhnaya was a wintery Kingdom he had only come to at least once or twice. Little did he know, as his twin retreated back into the pawn piece in his chest, that he’d later be acclimated to the snow that was as pale and bleak as his perspective of life.

“You are hereby appointed as the Sixth Harbinger, take upon a new name as Scaramouche, the Balladeer.”

Ah. So that was what the entourage was for.

The Tsaritsa was with the voice of a daemon, yet the undertone withheld the echo of a lamenting cherub. Time was scant to bother wondering over why—after all, it wasn’t like it was a responsibility or duty of his to answer to the Cryo Archon’s emotions. He was yet to even cross his own quagmires.

His inauguration as the Sixth Harbinger, the Balladeer, was well-received and esteemed within the Fatui, but he had no doubts that it was because it was mere pleasantries. The rest of the Harbingers could hardly be impressed, but that was his own personal conjecture, for they showed probable facades that probably belied their ennui.

The celebration lasted a week, and he came to admit the complication in adjusting to the sudden attention brought with the bestowment of a rank he had come to travail over.

On the eve of its final day, he was ‘alone’ in his personal quarters that were leagues above what he was used to. Or perhaps he should rephrase that and mention that it had been a long time since he had chambers he could call his own, one that supposedly matched the majesty of his identity.

The last time he had something of this splendor, he was still on the watch of the Electro Archon, and that lasted less than five days.

What an irritating reminder.

“Is this everything you sought for?” as always, Kenkoroshi’s hand was void of any kind of temperature–she was insipid in a literal fashion, and it wasn’t meant to vilify her existence as an imitation.

For a moment, Kunikuzushi—no, Scaramouche, was quiet.

It had been a long and exhausting week of celebration, no matter the novelty and pride it brought him to be able to reach such a monumental stone in his ‘life’.

He looked down at the hand on his own, finding [not admitting] the gesture comforting. It was a reticent gesture between them, to just hold hands whenever they were alone—it was homage to their ‘birth’, when they awoke to an unknown world.

They had nothing, no knowledge, just the hand of the other and their presence and existence split as two but deemed as one.

“No.” He answered later, “I wish for what was meant to be mine.”

The Gnosis.

In a fleeting moment, he sensed her slight tension before it was easily awashed with her usual nonchalance. “... Why do you covet it so much?”

He scoffed. That was a stupid question, why else would he want something that was his in all putative angles of logic and reason? He was solely created for it.

“My purpose—no, my destiny. It was mine, that power.”

“And my power is not enough for you?”

Snezhnayan winters were algid—bone-chilling. Albeit he was far too acclimated to such temperatures and was far from being bothered, he could feel its biting frost on his skin, still. It was something that a measly hearth in the far left of his chambers could ever hope to drub.

Yet the question that she asked sent a chill down his spine. She asked it with the same, monotonous delivery, but for some reason, it sounded much heavier in his conscience. He despised it.

“Adequate enough.” He deigned to respond, their hands motionlessly entwined, still. “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

There was no response. He despised that, as well.

For the first time that night, he turned to her—only to find her [c] gaze pointed towards the crackling flames of the hearth. He almost heard the crisp sound of burning wood and could almost smell the scent of burning flesh, but that was a memory in the crevices of his mind. Imageries and sounds that forego his mission to be divine.

“You’ll help me, won’t you, my dear twin.” there wasn’t exactly venom in his voice, just a poignant edge that prompted the [c]-haired pawn to look at him. When she said nothing again, he clicked his tongue.

“Kenkoroshi.” he admonished.

Finally, she answered.

“I will.” He could tell that it was genuine, it just took her some time to respond.

Good. With that, he turned away, and she did as well, though their hands remained connected. It wasn’t sooner when he spoke again, his tone carrying a sense of realization and pride altogether.

“We’ve to think of a new name for you. I’ve already taken up another. Any grand ideas?”

Silence. He wasn’t surprised. He was the one that offered to establish themselves with new names each time they decided to leave a piece of unwanted tragedy behind, so it came to perspicuous reason that he was to do the honors again—

“[Name].” in awe, he turned to her. “I’ll go with [Name].”

The astonishment would’ve lasted had she worn an actual expression on her face. He did not give any sort of critique about her chosen name, however. He simply nodded, testing the name on his tongue.

“Good.” he squeezed her hand. “A new chapter burns bright. One step closer to the finale.”

Their work was cut out as a Harbinger, although, technically speaking—[Name] wasn’t the Harbinger. Missions for the Tsaritsa and her endeavors proceeded without fail, and under those zealous quests, she was aware that the Harbingers had personal assignments of their own.

It was ostensible in an organization like the Fatui, she knew, that people’s interactions were transactions in their own right. Her twin brother preferred to intuit it the same way, in contrast to her own beliefs. When she told him of this, that she thought that there needn’t be any ulterior motives to causeries, he rolled his eyes.

“I looked at the world similarly once.. Look where that landed us.” he had sardonically quipped, and the conversation ended there.

Still, even with the facts transfixed, the way she conceived things did not change. It was to the chagrin of her sibling, but he did little to dissuade her from thinking otherwise—for she knew that as long as it wasn’t an impediment to his goal, he’d let her do and think as she pleased.

He was bitter about it, though, later on mumbling that the ‘ginger-head war addict’ must’ve influenced her. He spoke of Tartaglia, the young soldier who somehow found and believed that there could be goodness in a league that founded morally questionable coups and schemes, the pawn noted.

Although she never truly met the youth who eventually came to be promoted as the Eleventh Harbinger face to face—her existence wasn’t broadcasted for the entire organization to know—maybe, she thought, maybe she was influenced a tad.

Or perhaps she always was just meant to be on the spectrum in opposition to her twin.

It had always been that way since the start of their lonesome ventures and idiosyncrasies about the nation of Inazuma.

When he had gotten jaded over the betrayals the world had thrown them in, he swore to scrub every trace of emotion that stained him until not even vestiges could be sensed. Yet, here he still was, the one who felt emotions the most. It was not to disregard the fact that she could also feel, but rather, he was just a feelings-kind of puppet and there was nothing wrong with that.

Scaramouche said that it was because he had her, his heart, so he could feel.

[Name], ever circumspect, was worried—but she knew it to be true. If he had no heart, if he just had power, then what would he be like? She didn’t want to imagine it.

What, exactly? Didn’t want to imagine him without a heart? Or didn’t want to imagine him with all the power he could ask for? She didn’t know, either, and that in itself was frightening.

He assured that he would not get rid of her, however, he always did—for they were twins, they were two beings as one. Kabukimono and Kunikuzushi said it himself, and she took comfort in that.

But a wise man knew better. Someone, a third party guided and led by pragmatism and reason, stated otherwise.

“While it is true that you were created as an expendable tool, even the most churlish will know that your power is valuable.”

[Name] merely shook her head, her legs swinging absently as she sat on a rather tall, metal table that surely must’ve felt cold to most humans. “I’m not interested in your spiel, sir. Spare me the talk.”

The Doctor was that wise man, Dottore, the Second Harbinger. From the start, he had been fascinated by their existence as one being split in two, and whether he was intrigued by which one if specificity was in context, well, she didn’t know.

He unnerved her; his wisdom, his tact, and his rationales.

“Come now, there’s no harm in being honest, is there? The Balladeer isn’t awake.”

She didn’t like how he somehow knew how to transfix ideas through her head, a feat none other than Kabukimono could do. The former was a formidable man, and she had forgotten how many times she expressed that to the puppet.

“I would not have furthered this level of strength without Dottore’s pricking needles,” he had told her before. “So just put up with it.”

Kabukimono was powerful with her, but the Doctor unsealed the hidden strength—that was a truth that she could not deny. So, as advised, she tolerated the Sumerian. Her patience was running thin, however.

The number of Dottore’s laboratories exceeded the amount of fingers a human had. Throughout her time in the Fatui, she had gone to visit them all, and aside from the location of each tool and table, the interior looked ever the same—not to mention the scent of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic. Nowadays, or ever since he had unlocked the full capacity of Kunikuzushi’s powers, it carried the scent of something inexplicable.

It might’ve come from the odd, violet substances she always saw him inject into her sibling.

“You may try to hide under that expressionless facade, but I know you are just as emotional. Not even he knows that, does he?”

The Doctor’s footsteps reverberated in the silent laboratory, coupled with the clinks and clanks of the tools in the metallic tray beside the equally metallic table.

She ignored him, opting to regard the place where Kunikuzushi laid to act as some kind of distraction. To Sandrone, it was an inventing table as much as it was a dissecting one. She mentioned that the names differ with purpose, so if she were to account that into the present, then was it something akin to an inventing table??

The Doctor stopped in front of her, and since her line of sight was pointed to the floor, she was staring at his neatly shined footwear. By then, with him up front, she knew there was no use in blocking out whatever he wished to blabber about.

“It’s precisely the reason why he exploits your power. Because someone who can’t ‘feel’ is therefore less apt to act out on sentimental grounds. They simply obey—like a tool.”

Ah, if he meant to incite something by means of depreciating—more like likening—her existence to her twin sibling, then it was unlikely to work. From the genesis of it all, she already knew who she was. What she was. It came with innate acceptance, so there was no way she’d ever think of herself as more than that; a tool.

“Because that is my purpose for living, to be used as his source of power.”

“Purpose for living or existing? There’s a difference.” Of course, the Doctor always had a rebuttal, and they were eloquent. “Are you truly alive?”

A good question to ruminate over; was she alive? She was, but was she living or existing?

The answer, albeit unsaid, was reticent between them. She was simply existing because she came to this world as such. Beyond the names and purposes she had been given, there was nothing of her own will. Or at least, nothing that extended beyond her will to serve as a means of power.

There was nothing wrong with that… she liked to believe.

It was like being a Vision to a Vision-holder.

The sight of the Doctor’s feet ambling away recaptured her attention, and so, she looked up for once. She glanced at him with his hands at his back, his steps taken leisurely as he wandered about the cold, sterile laboratory. She wished she hadn’t though, for it seemed like he knew whenever someone looked at him, for he tilted his head to meet her eyes with a small, sharp smile.

“You mention being more than fine with being used, but I doubt that it doesn’t bother you, not when you know of his objective.”

He turned to her and she stiffened.

“You don’t wish to see him be a god, am I correct, [Name]?”

The place grew even colder than it normally was.

She felt as though she was being adjured and criticized at the same time as the Doctor detoured to traipse back to her location upon the table next to the sleeping figure of the Balladeer. Subconsciously, she scooted closer to the latter, his presence her sanctuary, be it awake or not.

Her lacking response seemed only to serve as reason for him to continue and oh—

“Because once the Gnosis is fully in his hands, then he will have no use for you anymore. And you don’t want that, no?”

—how she hated it.

“Be quiet.” she mumbled.

He did not stop. “As far as I know, the Electro Archon created both of you at the same time; him, in the likeness of your mother, but to be a vessel. And you, in the likeness of a Gnosis, you are his heart…”

“Be quiet.” she demanded, this time transferring her gaze to her sleeping twin brother in dire hopes of the sight of him easing the turmoil in her chest. It was rare that she felt willful acrimony, as more often she was influenced by Kunikuzushi.

But now—now she felt its poignant swath within, which left no room to circumvent the intense emotion. The Doctor knew this, of course, he always knew when anyone’s buttons were pressed, it was in his repertoire of endless moxies.

“... A heart that he’ll willingly cast aside in favor of reclaiming true divinity.” he whispered close to her ear and she snapped.

“I said be quiet!”

Dottore retreated with a smile as he felt an invisible shockwave cleave through the atmosphere, distorting space itself. His laboratory, which was pristine and kempt a mere second ago was now in complete disarray. Broken test tubes and glass lay scattered, metallic tables and shelves were capsized, and charts and papers were either torn or a mess.

Tiny zips and zaps of electricity surrounded [Name], ensconced by the power that was created in imitation of a true Gnosis. It flickered and jolted like a shield, warning the Doctor not to take a step further—ah, she was an elaborate picture of power. Her [c] hair floated all around her figure, [c] eyes gone, replaced with stark white. It looked like she could float off the ground at any moment or launch things to her will.

He understood thoroughly her ability, despite being ‘faux’. It was the power the Balladeer often harnessed.

A power that still held hidden potential.

“Mother? Sister? There’s no such thing as familial bonds to a pawn and a puppet. It is as you said, you are just an expendable pawn.” he spoke, noticing how in spite of the destruction from her rare outburst, the table Scaramouche was laying on remained untouched.

Oh, how she cared for him. The Doctor grinned. Perfect.

“But I can make you greater than you are now.”

The gradual return of the pawn to her ‘docile’ state cemented his conjecture; he had her hook, line, and sinker.

“What do you mean?”

[Name] was seldom swayed by promises. Compared to Kunikuzushi, she had always been a tad more cynical, but the Second Harbinger was a man of his word despite his devious and unscrupulous manner of handling affairs. She knew he was genuine—and that was what made his offer so tempting that she could not resist asking him to elaborate.

And he gladly did.

“I’ve only tapped and tinkered with the gears of your ‘twin brother’, and have unlocked a myriad of possibilities. What if I were to do the same unto you—his main power reserve? In theory, you will become far better than what you are now.”

He was not vigilant, he was far too complacent as he trailed his steps back to her, his towering figure peering down from his mask.

He snapped his fingers. “You mentioned that taking up a physical form and consciousness demands power from your very being, no? This means that if you seal your consciousness and become a simple pawn piece as you were originally created, then he will be able to use your power as freely as he wishes. Without thresholds.”

Sacrifice her consciousness and physical form to be a raw core of power-?

“You will be enough.” he added. “Don’t you want that?”

She sucked in a breath. “I..”

It was everything she wanted; being enough. To her chagrin, she was reminded of the night of her twin’s inauguration as the Sixth, in those chilly, chilly quarters where she took up a new name. She recalled asking the question she dreaded the most.

“And my power is not enough for you?”

She did not have a heart of her own, but she could easily grasp the emotion she always felt whenever she was with him in the aftermath of his tragedies; dread. Fear.

“Adequate enough.” his voice was still clear in her mind, “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

That time, the world blanked out on her—she had so many things to say. So many things to ask.

When had he become so detached from their inherent bond to the point of saying without hesitance that he would disregard her as soon as his godly form was built? As soon as he was fit to centralize the Gnosis he had taken from their [mother] creator? They had been together for so long it was not even an exaggeration.

For centuries, through the names, there had been no one but her and him. And countless tragedies that shouldn’t be named.

Wasn’t it she that held him close when they awakened in the domain as he shuddered and cried when they realized that they were abandoned? Wasn’t it she that was with him through thick and thin, holding his delicate hand that refused to leave hers when Katsuragi and Niwa welcomed them in Tatarasuna? Wasn’t it she that accompanied him in the Abyss?

She, that promised that she would not let their story as twins be as tragic as the supposedly blessed encounters they had with humans.

[Name] had done her part, she had done exceedingly well, she knew. He even told her countless times. So why—why, why, why did he even begin to entertain the idea of casting her aside? It was unfair, it was unacceptable.

Ah! She was to blame.

There was bliss in ignorance, and she chose to be willfully ignorant. Ever since the death of the child that succumbed to Tataragami, he burned and charred the ambitions he usually had. She remembered watching the little doll in his likeness turn into ash and couldn’t help but assimilate it to him.

For in a way, he and the little doll were one and the same.

Except, the little toy doll had no heart of silver, but Kunikuzushi had one; her.

She had refused to believe it then, but the moment he denounced emotions, he denounced her existence. Sure, it wasn’t her that directly influenced how he felt, because even without her in his chest he could still feel—but in essence, wasn’t that the ability of a heart?

To make one feel? So when he anathematized emotions, he condemned her willfully.

Shared dream?

No, it was but a mere bandaid to swathe over her insecurity.

It was only her dream because it was her twin’s. There was only one thing that they shared—the same fear of abandonment. Kunikuzushi had grown strong, he chose not to consort with humans any longer for they were the progenitors of their angst and pain. It would no longer hurt if he was the one to shut down and do the abandonment.

Where did that leave her?

The signs were all present ever since the Doctor and the Jester gave him a place in the Fatui organization, in a land of loveless frost. He was set on obtaining the Gnosis, set on becoming a power of pure and utter authentic divinity like he was meant to be.

And that path did not include her, because she was a simple imitation with a power that was only half the legitimacy of the Gnosis’ power.

He sought more, and that ‘more’ was something she could no longer provide—or so she thought.

“Well, [Name]?” she became aware of where she was at the moment and blinked.

For once, she was not doubtful nor fearful of the Doctor, she was hopeful. And it was a dangerous thing to feel around the guileful scholar, but at that very second, she did not care. In the face of a promise that would serialize and cement her future with her twin sibling, how could she start to care about anything else?

Power… she needed it to be enough.

If she was powerful enough, then he would not need to cast her away.

“I–”

There was shuffling from the other end of the room that prevented her from speaking further.

“What’s all the racket for?” Kunikuzushi was waking up with that permanent scowl on his face, his eyes briefly glimpsing the mess that was the laboratory. He looked confused, but not enough to warrant his actual concern. “What, an experiment gone wrong?”

“No. The doctor just got clumsy.” [Name] responded stiffly as she turned to walk over to the Sixth Harbinger.

The Doctor nodded, raising his hands. “My hands do get rather shaky sometimes.”

A stupid lie that was.

Obviously, it did not work on Kunikuzushi, but he remained indifferent. The pawn knew that as long as it had nothing to do with him, then it did not matter.

She held his arms to steady him as he swung his legs off the table, but he shrugged her off. It was rude at worst and nonchalant at best, but with the pitiful memories fresh in her mind and the fear throbbing in her, it affected her immensely. Her fingers twitched.

He did not notice as he gruffly said, “I can walk fine on my own.”

He could and he did. He was stronger. During the first line of experiments he was put through, he required her assistance to get by, but he didn’t now. Did he remember, or was she the only one who relived those times?

Who am I kidding? She thought with a lump in her throat as he passed by her without so much as a second glance. He dares not think about episodes that entail any of his weaknesses.

He had grown so much during the course of the centuries, and he had developed a zealous attitude that was admirable as it was intimidating. Intimidating and fearful on her side, because she knew she was shackled on borrowed time.

Wordlessly, she followed after the Sixth Harbinger, her head kept straight despite the weight she felt that tempted her to look down. As she passed by, Dottore’s words were quiet, serving to be heard by no one else but the one who had the need to hear it.

“Think about my offer, will you?”

She did think about it. In fact, nothing else had been in her mind except for the offer he proposed; a promise of power. Whilst accepting it may not vouch for her stay as her twin’s heart, it presented a chance.

And to her, a chance was all she needed.

“Kunikuzushi,” she called one day after he had overlooked the progress of building his godly form, Shouki no Kami. She had been in his mind when she spoke, and could not deny the sting of alarm when he regarded her with frustration, demanding what it was she required.

“Scaramouche.” he corrected.

She conceded. “Scaramouche.”

He had been rather perturbed the last few days because of the Traveler, but that aside, he was delighted. She could feel him agog with the idea of finally claiming the Gnosis, of finally being dubbed a rightful deity.

“Must you really seek the Gnosis?” she questioned without tact. No beating around the bush, just a direct question, which surprised him, she knew.

The puppet stopped in his tracks, the shadows cast by the sunset across the colonnade enshrouding him in its twilit curtain. Over the centuries he had been with his sibling, not once had she asked about their shared dream. He thought nothing of it, but he was oddly irked that she did—perhaps it was because of the Traveler that she did.

[Name] always was the most acquiescent between them. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Traveler’s spiel about morality had managed to dent her thinking process.

“What do you think?” he remarked, resuming his steps. “The Gnosis is my objective for the last hundred years. Do you think I’d replace it for anything else when I am one step closer to reaching my goal?”

There was silence in his head. For the last few days, [Name] had been quiet, there was nothing new to that, but her current muteness was unsettling.

The bitterness within him gyrated his thoughts and spun them negatively, but before he could speak, she already beat him to it.

“If I’m powerful enough,” he did not like where that phrase was going. “... if I’m powerful enough, will you not take the Gnosis?”

A look of incredulity arose from his expression as he proceeded to traipse towards the workshop, the towering gears and turning wheels welcoming his arrival.

“Do you realize how ridiculous that question is, [Name]? I’ve been created for the Gnosis, it was my destiny to seize.” his words were acerbic and factual, but why would that matter when it was the truth? Besides, [Name] was used to it. There was no need to worry.

“Besides,” he gruffly stated as the elevator took him up to the next level where his godly form awaited, powered by the Electro Gnosis. “We both know you’re a mere imitation of the Gnosis, your power is only ‘half of what is authentic’, a pseudo-power, if you will. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”

“I haven’t..” her voice was tiny, but it was firm.

“Good.”

He huffed as he was brought to the top floor, wherein he was greeted with the mighty mechanical form that he will soon occupy. The Sages that have turned from their pitiful Dendro Archon were already present, alongside the Doctor, who passed a small wave of formality.

Of course she wouldn’t forget that piece of crucial information, it was the very definition of her being; a tool used for empowerment.

He began to walk towards his future, but with each step he took, he found it heavy to press on. His eyebrows furrowed and his chest twisted. There was only one explanation for such sensations and he knew what it was and where it was coming from.

“Where will I go when you acquire the Gnosis?” her next question made it harder to walk forward. “What will happen to me, Kunikuzushi?”

“Don’t call me that.” he gritted his teeth.

The Sages and the Doctor were too preoccupied with whatever conversation they were having to notice his balking. Whatever—he preferred it that way.

His voice low, he proceeded to snap. “And how am I supposed to know? We may be twins, but we’re two different beings. I’m not in charge of delegating what you wish to concern yourself with after I become a god. Do whatever you want.”

His body felt cold.

“We’re not different,” she protested. “I’m your heart. I’m a part of you.”

“Then do you support me gaining a new Gnosis?” he asked. “If we are one and the same, then my ideals are yours and so are my dreams. Tell me, do you want me to be a god to fulfill that dream?”

Silence. The world was slow as he waited, unbreathing.

When the answer came, he was not surprised—not any longer.

“I still want to stand with you.”

It was not a direct answer to his question, but given that he had known her for so long, he knew the implication she endeavored to convey through those equivocal words. To this, he laughed sardonically, feeling his chest twist in some kind of bitter acquiescence.

“In other words,” he chuckled. “No, you don’t want me to be a god. You want me to remain shackled to your inadequate power when you know that I seek more?”

“I can be stronger!” her voice rose in his head and he faltered in genuine surprise. Not once had he ever heard her raise her voice. But that awe gave way for resentment.

Scaramouche balled his hands into fists, feeling his anger rise and bubble. There was no use in hiding it because this conversation was pointless! From the moment he burned that child’s house down and left everything in the ashes of time, he had made up his mind—he was resolute in becoming a true deity.

They both knew what that implied.

“Even if you can, you’re just a phony Gnosis.” the words cut and stung, he knew. He was not reviling her in any way because it was the cold, hard truth. “Why else would she create you in the likeness of a measly pawn piece in the chessboard?”

“Even pawns are capable of attaining majesty!” ah, yes, Guji Yae said that herself, that even pawn pieces could be Queens and any other stronger pieces upon reaching theend of the board, but this was no chess game.

It did not remove in essence, the fact that his twin’s power was not authentic. There was no ‘end of the board’ for her to reach—this was her limit and they both knew that.

Baring his teeth, the Balladeer trudged on despite the heaviness in his chest weighing him down. He refused to be swayed by a sentimental sibling. Zealous in his steps, he disregarded the growing feel of dread for he knew it was not his emotion, but his twin’s.

It was a sickening feeling and he despised it, so he forwarded with zero hesitation.

“Quit it. All I hear is my own twin sister refusing to let me achieve the dream I’ve always chased after.”

He had hoped they would be on the same page—after all, hadn’t it always been the world against them? Them against the world? It left a hollow feeling inside and he swore he felt his eyes burn, but he did not succumb to such a pathetic weakness. He wasn’t a human, nor did he want to be.

“Our dreams were meant to be shared.” he heard her voice falter. “We were meant to work together.”

He never thought her to be this sentimental. But he supposed that after that conversation they had a few days ago, she was more inclined to feeling emotions just as he was [forcibly].

The Doctor welcomed him as he stopped in front of them, his hat tipped down to obscure his expression from their prying eyes. He answered his twin sibling sullenly, in a mere whisper.

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

“Kabuki—”

The Balladeer thrust his hand in his chest, retrieving the pawn piece—his sister—from the spacious dimension within him. Immediately, her voice ceased to exist in his mind and all was silent. Withdrawing, he looked at the small item in his hand, glowing a faint [c], as if urging, insisting—begging him to return her where she belonged.

But he could no longer look at it with distant fondness. Now, there was only betrayal.

I thought so, too. He repeated his own defeated response in his head as the Doctor stepped forward.

“It’s time, Balladeer.” Dottore smiled.

The puppet looked up at him, then back at the pawn piece, which he gripped tightly in one hand, as if willing himself to shatter it into pieces—but he did not. He realized that, even with her gone, his chest was hollow. But that did not matter, for he would soon be filled with a power that could void the emptiness inside.

“I know.” he scowled, pocketing the faux Gnosis as the Sages adjusted the mechanical body, opening the cockpit which held a number of tubes and other small equipment.

He stepped into it as the familiar aura of the Electro Gnosis captured his attention, glimpsing it just in time before it was inserted in the center piece of the body that bore the insignia of Electro. He looked back as the Doctor spoke, though the latter’s line of sight seemed to be directed elsewhere on his person.

“We will begin the process. Are you prepared?” Dottore smiled placidly.

What a stupid question. It seemed like he was being bombarded with tons of it today, but no matter, for this coming dawn was to be a divine advent.

Scaramouche allowed his hand to fall beside him, subtly feeling the figure of the small piece of faux power in his pocket as he answered.

“Of course I am.”

He was awakened not as the perfidious Sixth Harbinger that had absconded his position, but as a newly born god. It was a dreamless sleep, filled with the thrum of divine power.

“Do you remember?” Cloaked from within the penumbra of a false sky, two beings stood—not quite human, yet capable of humanity, regardless.

One so refused to act on it, not any longer, at least. And the other remained in the grey.

The wind was howling with the nightly breeze of Sumeru, cold, and chilly, but it affected neither. A voice spoke, sounding blank. “I do not understand the need to tirelessly search for a heart… when you’re already capable of feeling, anyway.”

“Such outdated information, I don’t seek a heart any more.” Cut a voice so sharp the wind stopped. “I’m looking to crush these filthy emotions. You should, too.”

Silence. It wasn’t the uncomfortable kind, but it was tense with acquiescence, a muted clash of perspectives, ones demanding to be forced upon the other. The response came, sounding bland, if not defeated.

“No.”

That was the last proper conversation they had—it was annoying to recall such things, especially during a time when he was battling against the pesky Traveler who knew nothing but to scupper his plans.

He didn’t know why he would recall it now out of all times, as he heaved breath after breath, the power from the tubes slotted into the sockets of his back not enough to cement his victory.

“I don’t think I will.”

So annoying, so, so infuriating everything was. Everything be damned to hell.

He could almost see her stupid blank face in the back of his mind; he knew she would be disappointed, but when was she not? For someone who put emotions on such a pedestal, she knew only how to be dismayed by him. Well, good riddance.

“I quite like feeling.”

Good riddance, indeed, as the ginormous mechanical figure that housed a supposed god fell to its knees. What a weakling he was, putting himself above others who he deemed unfit for the world; humans who succumbed to desperation like a beggar to a coin.

Yet there he was, the same miserable picture of the puppet he swore to no longer be, hand outstretched towards a Gnosis meant to be his, but arbitrary fate deemed should never be.

The pain of hitting the ground was dull compared to the various other experiments he went through in all the years being a subject to the Doctor’s experiments—and though he thought his own consciousness would pity and leave him be, it did not.

Through the ringing of his ears, he heard Buer usher the damned Traveler elsewhere. And the fact that they did not once acknowledge his pitiful descent only went to show how he truly was a puppet strung along in the grand scheme of a play dolled up by the fate of this accursed world.

“Scaramouche.”

He could not move, no, he did not have the strength and will to move at the moment. His crushing defeat was like a torrent that swallowed him underwater, flooding his being and forcing him to think of nothing but it as he drowned further.

The Doctor’s figure as he hovered over him, like what a scientist would to a specimen, displayed the kind of hierarchy there currently was in the battlefield meant to be the location of his rise as a god.

A failed one.

“It may be difficult to see, what with your pitiful state right now, but you’re far from being average, are you not? So, you are still capable of response. Now tell me.” The man hovered something above his line of sight. “Is this familiar to you?”

He dared not to feel, he swore not to feel—yet he could not help the churn in his empty chest.

A pawn piece. Its homely [c] glow beckoned him to reach out to it, and he did so with a weak, trembling hand as he struggled against the lapse of his consciousness.

It was a reaction out of instinct—to grasp for something that was his, that belonged to him, that was a part of him.

But then it was whisked away and he swore it felt as though he crashed to the ground for the second time. He disliked the nagging trepidation in the back of his head as he shifted to adjust with all that he could, suddenly deeming the tubes that made him powerful a while ago now heavy, burdened with the reminder of his shameful defeat in a war that he began.

What on earth did that Harbinger planned to do? How was he able to take her?

He took her with him in his newly assembled form.

“Dottore…” his voice was weak and he hated it. “How..”

What was he going to do– what did he plan to-

The Doctor laughed as he stepped away with a flourish, gloved hand allowing the piece to float above his palm as he recounted a time of long ago.

“My word! But I thought you sought the bonafide power from an Archon and not from some prototype!” he grinned, “Didn’t you say… that you have no need for her? You fallen ‘god’?”

He wasn’t going to-

“Dottore-!”

“I’ve given you what you want, is it not only fair for me to take my share?” resumed the victor in this play.

And that measly reply was all that poor Scaramouche needed to understand what the Doctor intended to do.

The realization seized him like a serpent, and all of a sudden he loathed his nihilistic, pragmatic view that everything to the world was a simple transaction.

Yes, he wanted Dottore to make his dream a reality. But what did that spell in exchange?

[Name].

Hearing the puppet’s spasming breaths made Dottore huff. He initially had no plan to further taunt someone who was already so pitiful, but he could not resist the morbid pleasure it brought him; a puppet who was a puppet through and through.

Being a god was none other than a foolish position unfit for the latter in the first place.

The hand that shot to wrap around his ankle prevented him from taking another step, and instead of feeling irked, he was only amused.

“What desperation…” he commented.

Deciding to take things up a notch for his own entertainment, he bent on a knee over the piteous Scaramouche, the once great Balladeer, who was now in the shambles of his own mechanical body.

He had to commend him, for despite the obvious asthenia, the fire in those violet eyes were never snuffed out.

“You once wished to be a mortal with a heart, so enlighten me. Between the two of us, who is the closest thing to a weak human being now?” he allowed the piece to float closer to the loser, and he could see the natural effect it brought.

The Balladeer’s easing body, the slight serenity in his expression at the thought of being so close to the being he had with him from the very start…

… And the absolute desperation on his face when the Doctor pulled it away.

“Dottore!” ah, that scream of madness as he clawed the ground, breaths heaved between demands. “Do not… even think of laying a hand on her! She’s not yours! She’s—!”

“Yours, then?”

Dottore asked upon the shambled excuse of a god, the floating item in his possession that glowed a faint [c] and resembled a pawn piece in the chessboard being hidden into his coat.

Over his heart, where it throbbed the same color of [c], almost tauntingly.

“No…” he smiled, kicking off the clasp around his boot, and walking away. Leaving the puppet to the isolation he was so used to. “I don’t think you’ve any right to say that anymore.”

Truly, he wished to stay for a moment longer to watch the show of the desperate Balladeer, whose actions at the moment bespoke nothing of the menacing Harbinger he once was. But the desperation and agony of someone who was once just Kabukimono.

But alas! There were things to be done, and places he needed to go.

Agony—the ugly, distasteful twist of his chest was the sole reason for why he wanted to rid his emotions. To be a superior being incapable of it, for feelings were weak.

He no longer desired a heart, so he threw it away.

Yet at that moment, the godforsaken feeling of having let go brought about a pain and denial that no words could ever describe. He was helpless. Again. To the hands of fate and his own failure. Who was he to be mad, when he had been the one to forsake his heart?

It was beyond hypocritical if he were to ask for it back.

Oh, and where was he now? A measly bug on the cold stone floor.

On shaking arms, he attempted to push himself up. With nonexistent strength, he urged himself to move, but it was the very equipment engineered and produced by the Akademiya that reined him back like a literal puppet on strings—and he was soon crashing back to the floor. But he was nothing if not recalcitrant.

“No- no, don’t-” the consciousness he earlier begged to be taken away was doing its job, and he realized for certain that he would be rid of it.

To his utter desperation.

“Get back here, this isn’t what we agreed on… !”

Deep in the crevices of his mind there resounded the voice so raw with emotions he wished to burn. An ache—a defect in him that he could not, for the artificial life of him, destroy.

His chest hollowed as the Doctor went farther and farther away, carrying with him, the prototype heart he had replaced for the Gnosis.

Anything but her— no more- don’t take any more from me!

[How bastardous he was, to forsake her but in the end demand that she not be taken away from him? What irony.]

That time, he wanted nothing more but to curse everything and himself as he shook. With fear or anguish, he no longer knew.

The [c] glow he had been acclimated to over the centuries was vanishing, just like he wanted to, but now selfishly wanted to take back. Was it because he failed that he wanted her again? He didn’t know anymore—he was afraid to know.

Black spots bedecked his vision, the bile of emotions rising into his throat, threatening to spew in hysteria. Words died in his chest and his voice faded, but still, even with his fading consciousness, he dragged his body across the pavement, fixated on the Doctor’s back, who was now walking away.

Far.. far.. away.

Scaramouche, Kunikuzushi—Kabukimono raged and cried with a hand that could not reach for anything.

Not his goal of transcending into a deity.

Not his mother and creator, the Archon of Inazuma.

With the last of his consciousness and strength, he cried out. “[NAME]!!”

Not the heart he called his twin sister.

His hand fell and his consciousness left, leaving him in the swathe of familiar blackness. One that spoke without the company of the one who knew him most.

It wasn’t fair—this wasn’t fair.

But alas, perhaps fatalism had written that, even if he was far from being a powerfless human being, he could still do nothing to determine his own fate.

That of which included his desertion of his heart, his defeat, and the grand consequence to a dream he had ambitiously chased for himself.

a/n: boop. see you post-irminsul, boy.

also, mc's as "kenkoroshi" is made up of the kanji 剣 [ken/sword] and 殺し [koroshi/kill], so whilst kunikuzushi is literally country destroyer, i opted to have mc be named something that implies her nature as a weapon. 偽物 [nisemono], on the other hand, means 'fake'. or in fatalism context, she's a fake/imitation of a Gnosis.

This has been stewing in my mind for,, a year and a half? Finally out of the basement.

#m-fatalism #scaramouche angst #scaramouche x reader #genshin angst #wanderer angst #wanderer x reader #female reader #platonic angst strikes again

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what-do-1000-swords-look-like · 7 months

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Rewatching 8x05 for writing reasons, which is just a brilliant episode, despite any reasons some might have to hate it, valid or invalid. Miguel Sapochnik is directing and you see his talent and epicness in every shot (that man deserves a freaking Emmy already, I said what I said) but also there are so many things being shown here that if you muted the episode after Daenerys makes her decision, during the battle scene, you would be able to tell exactly what each character is thinking and what's really going on in the story besides the surface action.

Which brings me to that one scene that a lot of people said the woman being attacked as a stand-in for Sansa in the episode for Jon. They are correct and here's how.

Jon is walking through the melee, only coming to life to defend himself when Lannister soldiers are trying to attack him. The Northerners aren't listening to him, they're attacking innocent civilians, Grey Worm is on a killing spree, Davos is trying to help people get away from the bloodshed, Dany is burning the city, Tyrion is off somewhere horrified, Cersei is watching in terror from the Red Keep... But during this scene, the sound is muted to a point where the sounds of battle happening all around Jon sound very far away. We're now seeing what Jon sees, we're in his shock fugue with him. We see on his left civilians, namely women, being brutalized by soldiers -> he keeps walking. We on his right a woman being knocked down to the ground while a child is watching in horror, blood spatter and bodies all around her (and obviously traumatized & also in danger herself since no one is left to protect her) -> he keeps walking. He then sees a Lanniser soldier telling people to run, something his soldiers should be doing (and something he himself should be doing like Davos) but he's not. While the sounds are still muted, Jon notices another Lannister soldier about to rush him and he goes into autopilot & fights the soldier off. He then looks around in horror.

This is not what he signed up for and he almost looks lost, like he doesn't know what to do. Then the sound comes back fully and he hears a scream. In all of the melee, chaos, and death around him, he hears this one woman above the rest and turns to see her being dragged into an alley to presumably be assaulted by one of his own men.

Sure enough, she's about to be and she is trying to crawl away when the man catches her again. Jon ends up saving her, threatening to run his sword through the man. When the latter tries to fight him off to go back to assault this woman, Jon kills him and tells the woman to hide.

So how is this woman standing in for Sansa besides the obvious?

Two ways.

1) Ramsay was the former Warden of the North, the former bastard of Roose Bolton who was a Northerner who "served" Robb Stark, the first King in the North, before betraying him to the Lannisters. The soldier Jon faces off with is a Northerner and is supposed to be under Jon's command as Warden of the North and the former second King in the North.

2) Sansa is who stirs Jon into action when he feels lost.

Every.

Time.

And the parallels between the gif above with Dany and the dagger to the Northern soldier that had Jon's sword run through him, and Jon's staring almost sadly at the man, realizing he had to kill one of his own are far from being coincidental.

Not only was this a precursor to what would occur in 8x06 (and why Jon would make the decision he did) but it also is symbolic of the dynamic between Jon and Sansa as a whole. She's the one who stirs him into action, no matter how terrified or traumatized or angry he might be in that moment (like the shock fugue). No matter how lost he might feel. She gives him direction and dare I say a purpose when he has none (after his death; after the WW are defeated & Dany has gone into tyrant mode).

No wonder we weren't allowed to see Sansa's (or Arya's) reaction to the news of his being a Targaryen.

No wonder Jon told Melisandre not to bring him back if he lost the Battle of the Bastards (after Sansa told him if he lost, she wouldn't be going back to Ramsay alive).

No wonder Jon was not happy with Sansa on the dock in 8x06.

She's always stirred him into action when he doesn't want to be or know how to do it himself (after his death).

He passed a woman he could have saved.

He passed a child he could have helped.

He saw someone on the other side helping and doing the right thing.

The only time he steps in to help someone else is the woman about to be assaulted.

(x) "You are the shield that guards the realms of men. You've always tried to do the right thing. No matter the cost. You've tried to protect people. Who's the greatest threat to the people now?" (no reaction)

"Do you think I'm the last man she'll execute? Who is more dangerous than the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?" (no reaction)

"And your sisters? Do you see them bending the knee?" (a little bit of a reaction)

"Why do you think Sansa told me the truth about you? Because she doesn't want Dany to be queen." (more of a reaction)

"No, but you do. And you have to choose now." (he hesitatingly goes to confront Dany and then 🗡️)

It's not just about her being his "sister" or because she's Lady Stark or family or because they were the last two Starks once upon a time. She literally stirs him into action and gives him purpose. Her pushing to go back to Winterfell led to him caring about the WW invasion again. Her being the one he chooses to protect ended a tyrant and changed history, leading for her to become the first Queen in the North and regain Northern Independence, where she can be forever safe.

It was always Sansa for him, starting in 6x04.

#jonsa #jonsa meta #jon x sansa #jonsaposts #metaposts #gotposts #game of thrones #got #jon and sansa

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lettingtimepass · 6 months

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Loki s2e5 Thoughts & Feelings (Spoilers)

THE INTRO LOSING THE LETTERS!! I'm a sucker for when an intro is slightly changed. And in the end credits when the lines and type get all wonky! I love it.

Ok I have a question. When Loki finds everyone, they are all on branched timelines, not the Sacred Timeline. So doesn't that mean the lives on these branches could be slightly different or totally different than their original lives on the Sacred Timeline? Sylvie says they're back in their "real lives", but is that even true? 🤔 Also, I know people are theorizing that Don's wife was dusted during the snap, but technically in this branched timeline, the snap might not have happened.

B-15 being a doctor was so good 🥺 "I looked happy." Yes, you did... I just noticed her name on the captions was "Dr. Willis!"

Don!Mobius said he'd seen Loki in the shop before, did Loki timeslip there and not remember it? Or... has that not happened yet?

OB's workshop looking super similar to the one at the TVA - So cool!

"So I am gonna write a bestseller!" Stop he's so pure!!

Did anyone clock that OB's book cover looks similar to Loki and Slyvie on Lamentis? 👀

"It's impossible. But don't let that stop you."

This is probably obvious but Loki couldn't control the timeslipping until he truly accepted his "why." Not to protect the timelines from HWR, but to protect his friends.

Don!Mobius literally dropping everything to talk to Loki and offer him a drink. Fellas.....

"You saw something in me that I hadn't seen in myself." NO THIS IS STRAIGHT OUTTA FIC THO 😭

I can't believe Loki assembled his own Avengers 😭😭😭

Gawd, the show starting with Loki's speech about how humans don't need choices, and now he's fighting to give his friends choices..... that's the good shit.

"I want my friends back." DO YOU REALIZE THE CHARACTER GROWTH?!?! Loki never had a friend other than Thor. He was so closed off, he didn't think he ever needed anyone else. He told the lie that he was fine, better off, by himself. For him to admit that he has friends, and he wants them, and doesn't want to be alone...? 🤌🤌🤌

"But without them... Where do I belong?" WHERE IS TOM'S EMMY?!?! The tear, the voice shake... this man 😭😭😭

Remember, this Loki is a "cosmetic mistake." He isn't supposed to exist. Mobius saved him from being reset. Without the TVA, without Mobius... he has no reason to exist... no glorious purpose. But he was still willing to let them all go to do the right thing 🥲🥲🥲

Mobius trying to sell a Jet Ski to B-15 is too funny.

THE MONKEY FROM THE INTRO!! I've been wondering what that was all about... we also see OB's sticky note wall!

"The pens... we have all the pens!"

When they all start spagettifying being parallel to the dusting scenes in Infinity War.... RUDE, MARVEL. MR STARK I DON'T FEEL SO GOOD.

"I can rewrite the story." YES YOU CAN KING!! And my immediate reaction was "Loki, God of Stories"! At first I thought Loki and Sylvie were going to run the TVA together, but now I feel like it might be Loki alone (with Mobius' help of course), managing all the timelines... writing the story.

THAT ENDING!!!! I'M SO READY BUT NOT READY FOR NEXT WEEK!!! I can't believe we're at the end.... I'M SO SCARED! 😭

#Loki #Loki Show #Loki Series #Loki Season 2 #Loki Spoilers #Loki s2e5 #Loki Science/Fiction #Lokius

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fromtheseventhhell · 1 year

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He damned them all: Littlefinger, Janos Slynt and his gold cloaks, the queen, the Kingslayer, Pycelle and Varys and Ser Barristan, even Lord Renly, Robert's own blood, who had run when he was needed most. Yet in the end he blamed himself. "Fool," he cried to the darkness, "thrice-damned blind fool." (Eddard XV, AGOT)

"Weese," she would whisper, first of all. "Dunsen, Chiswyck, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Gregor, Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei."...On the road Arya had felt like a sheep, but Harrenhal turned her into a mouse. She was grey as a mouse in her scratchy wool shift, and like a mouse she kept to the crannies and crevices and dark holes of the castle, scurrying out of the way of the mighty (Arya II, ACOK)

Valiant Ned's precious little girl

#arya stark #eddard stark #ned stark #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #how people claim that Arya and Ned aren't alike I'll never know #even their mannerisms are similar #he isn't the calm cool politician that fandom pretends he is #anyways I love this parallel between them #it highlights that Arya's list isn't about vengeance #it's a coping mechanism to deal with the stressful/dangerous situation both Ned and Arya find themselves in #and at the root of it for both of them is guilt and the feeling of helplessness #Arya holds onto that list because she very often has no way to fight back and defend herself or others #oh wow a child in an active warzone who was taken as a POW wants the people who hurt her and her pack to pay what a monster 🙄#anyway Arya is called Valiant Ned's precious little girl for a reason

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lemonhemlock · 1 year

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Rhaenyra v Cersei: Battle of the Bastards

Lo' and behold, looks like I'm not done with bastardposting after all. For this piece, I would like to compare and contrast the two main situations that the general public has been exposed as far as the issue of illegitimate children is concerned within the ASOIAF-verse: Rhaenyra v Cersei.

The parallels are obvious. Rhaenyra has three bastard children, Cersei has three bastard children. Let's see how they handle it.

Rules

According to Westerosi law, bastards can't inherit. It doesn't matter if they're the husband's or the wife's, the King's or the Queen's. Children born out of wedlock to any spouse are explicitly excluded from the line of succession.

Only the King can legitimise bastards via a royal decree. Enough of these "Roose legitimized Ramsay" lies. It's patently untrue. Tommen legitimized Ramsay.

In order to be legitimised, the children in question first have to be declared bastards. You cannot legitimize trueborn children. You cannot secretly legitimise bastards. "Viserys claimed Rhaenyra's children were trueborn, ergo he implicitly legitimised them." No, he didn't. He never admitted they were bastards.

Why does this matter? Because it is unclear where legitimised bastards fall in the line of succession. If they maintain their place by birth order or if they are relegated to the back of the line, behind any and all other trueborn claimants.

There are no genetic tests available in Westeros. People have to prove adultery or rely on common sense.

1. Cersei has a distinct advantage over Rhaenyra, since her children look like her. She can very easily argue that they favour her, as their mother, and this is exactly what everyone believes for years, including Robert. Since Jaime is the male version of Cersei, Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella can look like no else. Catelyn's kids look like Catelyn and no one bats an eye. Only Arya and (to Catelyn's irritation) Jon look like Ned. However, Ned doesn't ever doubt his children are not his.

Rhaenyra's kids look nothing like Rhaenyra and nothing like Laenor. They, instead, share distinct physical traits with her sworn shield, a man seen very often in her presence. People are not idiots. There is no plausible deniability here. You can bet your bottom dollar that if Cersei's kids were, say, Dornish-looking, people would be calling her out for her bullshit.

There is a way you can reasonably get away with passing over your bastards as someone else's, but that is 100% not Rhaenyra's way. This is why Cersei is chilling in the Red Keep, living her best bad bitch life, while Rhaenyra is running away to Dragonstone when the rumours are nipping at her heels. They are not the same. There are no paternity rumours to quell Cersei's girlboss vibes. She is sly enough that even Robert is convinced he inseminated her (gross).

2. I'm not going to get into the intricacies of Ned Stark's Scooby-Doo, Hercule Poirot mystery plot of unraveling Cersei's misdeeds. Ned has his own beef with the Lannisters and is convinced they are up to no good. He investigates them like the meddling kid he is and comes away with a suspicion. He knows nothing (heh) for certain until Cersei verbally confirms it for him. yOuR bRoThEr Or YoUr lOvEr. boo!

Had Ned not been on the Lannister trail from the very beginning, a fair assumption can be made that he never even would have suspected anything untoward. He never questions the children's paternity when they visit in Winterfell.

Again, this is distinctly different from Rhaenyra's situation. No one believes Cersei's children are bastards,* whereas no one believes Rhaenyra's children are trueborn. Pretending otherwise is very, very strange.

*at the beginning of AGOT, at least

3. Robert claimed Joffrey all his life and specifically named him his son and heir in his will, under dictation, to Ned. In turn, Ned deliberately changed Robert's words and wrote them down as "my rightful heir".

This is a parallel to show!Alicent, who misunderstands Viserys' dying words and him naming his son Aegon as heir. If Alicent didn't have the right to muddle the King's meaning, then neither did Ned. However, no one in their right minds is arguing that Ned is a traitor to the Crown. I wonder why is that?

I have already pointed out the circular logic in arguing that Robert only said that because he didn't know the children weren't his.

4. So what does this mean? Can anyone just accuse anyone they don't like of being a bastard and, thus, endanger that person's entire social status?

No, of course not. But, unfortunately for Cersei, Ned and Stannis aren't just some randos in a tavern. Ned is the Hand of the King. Stannis is Lord of Dragonstone and on the Small Council. These two men have a stalwart reputation and are renowned for their obsession with justice, duty and, in Ned's case, honour.

If Ned Stark stands in front of the Iron Throne and proclaims Joffrey a bastard, risks his daughters' lives and literally ends up losing his head as a result of this,

if Stannis Baratheon sends letters throughout the realm claiming Cersei's children are illegitimate,

the people of Westeros are going to pay attention.

These two very important men using their public platform to denounce Joffrey and starting wars over this? Say what you will about them, but they are not oathbreakers and they are not liars. No, they don't come with DNA tests, but for a lot of Westerosi, this is enough. They believe it.

Is this foolproof? No, of course not! But it convinces enough people that they are willing to band together to support rival claimants to the throne, thus igniting the War of the Five Kings. Speaking of political headaches, this is a huge one!

That being said, while Cersei is playing in the Champions League, Rhaenyra is fighting for her life in the relegation zone. She doesn't even need a Ned or a Stannis to cast doubt on her because no one believes her kids are not bastards.

Moreover, Vaemond obviously parallels Ned in this story. He tells the truth in open court and loses his head for it. In the show, Daemon and Viserys play the same role as Joffrey. In the texts, Rhaenyra and Daemon are stand-ins for Joffrey. This is not meant to be a triumphant moment of girlbossery. This is an abuse of power and an act of terror.

All in all, I'm sorry to say, but Cersei wins this hands down. She is savvy enough in her choice of sperm donor and can maintain plausible deniability without looking like a goddamn clown and the entire circus to boot. She holds the capital and has access to all the emblems of state after Robert dies. In contrast, Rhaenyra is floundering across the Blackwater Bay, yelling at the dragon gargoyles that her children are trueborn.

Why is this issue important in the story?

a). No one has a problem with Jace being King.

If people had a problem with Joffrey being King, enough to go to war over it, it would be narratively inconsistent for them to just accept an obvious bastard as King. It would contradict the internal logic of the fictional world we're talking about. That's quite some level of suspension of disbelief just because some fans like Jace. This isn't about him being amiable or a good kid.

b). They're still Rhaenyra's sons / it's a Targaryen internal matter and concerns no one else / the concept of Jace being King doesn't personally affect anyone else, so why does anyone care?

Because it's the freaking law! The name of the crime Rhaenyra commits is high treason! Punishable by exile or death!

No, the crime is not adultery, it's not having bastard children, it's specifically putting said bastard children in line to the throne. In that, Rhaenyra is as guilty as Cersei is.

It absolutely does affect others, since Rhaenyra actively steals the inheritance of House Velaryon for Luke. How is that not a crime? I would even go so far as to say that Laenor and Corlys are complicit in it and should be punished as well.

Contrary to bafflingly-popular erroneous beliefs, the monarch can't just do whatever they want. Even in absolutist monarchies, the sovereign serves the vital social role of upholding the law and the rights of their subjects. Rhaenyra breaks said law by committing theft, murder, high treason and destabilizing the entire system of inheritance.

c) Rhaenyra breaks the social contract

Jock Locke argues for the "right of revolution" in the Second Treatise of Government. He writes that when the government acts against the interests of its citizens, then said citizens gain the right to overthrow it and replace it with an authority that will protect their interests.

I am not trying to impose 'progressive' understandings of the political process anachronistically, in a medieval fantasy; my thesis-statement is that we have already seen this concept at play within the world of ASOIAF: the Faith Militant uprising against Aenys I and Maegor due to their practices of incest and polygamy and Robert's Rebellion, caused by Rhaegar kidnapping a noble lady and Aerys II carrying out executions without due process. The people of Westeros are not unfamiliar with opposing monarchs who don't abide by the law.

The question of Rhaenyra having bastards is framed in a lot of commentary through the lens of her right as a woman to have extra-marital sex and not be demonised for it and to find fulfilling love within the constraints imposed on her by her station. While debating the personal individual freedom of women in a patriarchal feudal society is not to be side-lined, her fundamental fault is that she is demanding rights and exemptions for herself, while the rest of the country have to abide by an entirely different set of rules.

The laws of inheritance, as unjust as they may appear to our modern eyes, are in place to prevent crises of succession, violent conflicts or even large-scale wars from starting every time someone's estates are passed on. Illegitimate children suddenly gaining access to inheritances threatens the political and economical calculations that predicate many Westerosi marriages.

Imagine paying a handsome dowry for your daughter, just so her husband's bastard birthed by some high-born mistress to make use of his maternal family's resources and cheat your legitimate grandchildren out of theirs.

Imagine being married to some lord and now his random bastards threaten the inheritance of your lawful children. Because, hey, the Queen acts like this is fine! This is Catelyn Stark's worst nightmare.

You think you can just sue your husband? What a silly notion. You think you can sue the bastard claimants after your husband is dead? Tough luck, your liege lord may rule in their favour by taking a leaf out of Queen Rhaenyra's book. You think you can appeal to Queen Rhaenyra? How are you going to travel all the way to King's Landing? Good luck with that, maybe you're built different and don't die during this dangerous and expensive journey.

Is this fair for the illegitimate children? Hell no, but Rhaenyra and Viserys are not planning on reforming family law in any meaningful way, because they know what a hassle it would be and how much opposition it would meet!

It reeks of rights for me, but not for thee and I, for the life of me, don't understand the stronghold she has on the liberated feminist brigade.

and finally

d). The Green Coup is not dependent on the legitimacy of Rhaenyra's children.

No. But her committing high treason earns her an automatic disqualification from her right to rule, rendering her claim null and void.

#anti rhaenyra targaryen #cersei lannister #house of the dragon #asoiaf #anti team black #team green #stannis baratheon #hotd meta #bastardposting #ned stark #cersei is the one true queen of westeros don't let anybody tell u different #forgive me queen for dragging u thru the streets like this #u remain the no1 messiest baddest bitch in my heart

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