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artichokefunction · 1 year

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you are manually switched awake. you sit up and are face to face with someone who looks angrier then you've ever seen a human face look before. correction: angrier then anything you can remember right now. you can't remember much right now. that's probably normal? maybe it's not. maybe it is, but not to this extent. hmm. the angry person orders you to get up and get equipped. their haircut is short in places and long in others, in a way that leaves their neck exposed. your database says they're your current primary director. yeah alright. you disconnect the cables from your back and get out of this little storage rest plate thing.

it looks a bit like the uhhh. the things waiters would carry in old movies, to cover food. maybe they still have them in fancy old restaurants. you haven't been in one of them in. wait how long has it been. you have no idea. many a time. while you were thinking about all that you put on your gear. your guns aren't as familiar as they should be, you think. not as familiar as the gear itself, that all goes where it goes, comforting and heavy. same and good. but you're done now, ready to go do whatever this mission is, so the director motions you through a door and out into a mildly damp basement. they make their way to an elevator, and as the door slides open they send you a very small info packet.

MISSION OBJECTIVE: KILL KILL KILL

that's very vague. you send a request for clarification.

MISSION OBJECTIVE: Kill everyone in this building. Leave the Director alive.

you can do that. there's only one target in this basement, in another little side room. you open the door and shoot them twice in the chest. you take the stairs up, there's two more targets who were coming down before and are now trying to escape. they aren't fast enough though.

the director's plan for this was terrible. by the time you'll make it to the top floor, reinforcements will have arrived through the main entrance on the ground floor, where main entrances are. armed reinforcements, presumably. you'll be able to deal with it, but this director is not a good strategist. or maybe they're less dumb when they're less emotionsfull. whatever, you're currently working your way through floor four, where there are a number of targets who are actually armed. they probably had time to hear all the noise and get prepared. you've taken most of them out, and only been hit yourself a few times in the non-critical areas. there's one room left before you can go up the stairs and start clearing out the next floor. this looks like an open sort of cubicle area, you can see where the targets are, huddled towards the back. one of them is an idiot and stands up all obvious and starts saying stuff, you don't know what, you're not in the headspace to process complex audio inputs, you have a

MISSION OBJECTIVE: KILL KILL KILL

but this weird dumb person seems. hmm. they have red braids and a long soft face and a voice that sounds. like. um. their voice is shaking but they're still saying stuff. you. um. they're important. definitely. they're really important. you don't remember why but. you. her hands are soft. and. and. you turn around, and gesture for him to follow you. you flick the safety of your gun on and off and on and off as you lead them down the stairs. this is weird. this is weird. but you've given yourself a new

MISSION OBJECTIVE: GET OUT AND KILL ANYTHING THAT STANDS IN YOUR WAY

and redFriend seems to trust you? you were just pointing a gun at him but shes still willing to follow you out. they don't know that's where you're going. but maybe she knows that you aren't going to/can't tell him and that's why they're more important then that director. down the stairs, to the ground floor, and she starts heading for the back exit. you protect his back, but it seems like backup hasn't arrived just yet. she stops at the glass door, and you can see the heat signatures for loads of people, grouping into an attack formation. ah. that's where the backup is. you move to go in front, draw fire so they can get out. but she stops you, and whispers something. you make an effort to comprehend this time, and catch the tail end of it.

[-like a fish in a fucking barrel! come on, i think i know a safer way out.]

hmm. yeah, there are way too many armed targets out there, and you wouldn't have the element of surprise. plus, after they're done shooting you they might move on to the handler. they're probably supposed to be here to protect them but you aren't gonna count on that. you follow them down to the basement, and then into that elevator the director took. huh, maybe it isn't actually an elevator. no wait, it has all the right buttons for each floor. the handler presses the ZERO and GROUND buttons together, and after a short burst of movement the doors open to a cramped garage-ish area. the director is also still here, aiming a handgun at you shakily. hmm. you step forward to act as a meat shield and you get shot once near your collarbone but you shoot them once in the neck and there isn't anyone else in here so the standoff is over. you turn to the handler.

[dude, that was just showing off.]

hey now. well. yes. you shrug, and then gesture towards your own neck, which messes with the bullets in your arm but it gets the point across, they laugh in a way that sounds, like, really tired. you indicate that the two of you should leave and she makes an agreeing sound and pokes around at the walls until they find a small exit. the door is silent as it opens, and the two of you step out into the chill of the evening. you follow the handler, you trust him and she seems to know where to go. you don't have a way to look any less generally dangerous other then just putting your weapons away and trying to make yourself look a bit smaller. you'll probably be fine. maybe. you don't walk for long before coming to a small truck. the handler unlocks it and opens the passenger door, and they refer to it as *your* seat, all casually. hm. interesting. you sit down. there's a little storage compartment here, with a bunch of random little objects inside. you pull out a rock, smooth and palm sized, with a length of old worn chain bolted to it. very interesting. it has a nice texture to it, and the chain makes a faint tunk-tunking sound at it hits against itself. you like it. the handler gets into the drivers seat, and it's only after getting a few blocks away that she heaves a big sigh, like he's been holding his breath for the past hour. maybe she has, honestly.

[that was such a fucking shitshow! i had to- i went in there to fucking *negotiate* given that they fucking *captured* you and then that DICKHEAD decides that they're better then everyone else in their company and just fucking orders them all dead?! i guess!? and they didn't have a better weapon for it then the PERSON that they STOLE FROM ME and-]

you're holding a hand up, and when she stops you move the hand to your chest, in and out motion. breathing. would be good here. you think. they laugh in a way that sounds a bit like crying, and then he takes a moment to catch her breath.

[yeah, yeah. when we get to the warehouse district, i'll pull over and do a full assessment, get those bullet wounds sorted and all that. in the meantime, uh, there's a communicator in your storage compartment there, anything you can tell me would be helpful.]

you look again, and there is a tablet in there. you take it out, and it turns on to a communicator screen thing, as promised. you quickly type out the main details of what you can remember, which is just today, and they get all sad and quiet after that. hmm. probably you're missing something big. correction: definitely you're missing something big, you forgot the handler. you don't even know what else you forgot. damn it.

the little scanner finishes its journey across the table you're lying on and the handler wastes no time in analysing the results. she scowls at the little tablet, like the data was rude to him.

[they- ggrh! the memory issues probably come from that there implant in the base of your skull, they didn't want to risk totally breaking your brain forever so they didn't actually erase or damage anything, i think. i should be able to restore it. it doesn't look like they healed any of your injuries properly? thought that eye was a fluke, but i guess not. i have the new one ready for you by the way, with a periscopic function cuz i had some time on my hands. the ports in your back are just a clunky way to interface with your internal systems, i was worried they were integrated into the spinal column but evidently they didn't have that good of a surgeon on hand. thirty-two bullets in you, a fair few of these look old and partially healed over, i'm gonna have to dig them all out, sorry about that. uhh-] she starts fidgeting with the tablet in his hands, in a way that looks distressed; [i'm gonna have to switch you off temporarily for that brain surgery, everything else could technically be done while awake but the brain is too delicate, which is why i always avoid brain augmentation. um, if you're uncomfortable with that please let me know, i don't wanna, like-]

you shake your head, this is not a scary situation. you know what's going on and you know they can do it. you reach out a hand, and after a second, he takes it. her face kinda melts. in a positive expression way.

[i missed you, dude. really glad to have you back, safe and... alive]

and you're glad to be here. you blink once at her, slowly, affectionate. his hands are soft.

#[fiction]#[category: the agent & the handler]#minor character death #death tw #cw memory loss #body horror

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jonathankatwhatever · 6 months

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9 Nov 2023.

I feel you must be very high energy, because I’m getting deep insights but at terrific speed, a sort of unsettled want to rush around kind of feeling, not bad, more anticipatory, and that’s making typing difficult.

I am coming to a revelation about the issues under analysis. One is that the construction of ordinality, and of local ordinality, means that smooth solution exist when they exist but that the smoothness we generally think of as smooth is in the process. This means it may not render where you’re not looking or it may mean it interposes an image or other construction to fill the space.

The reference to image is to my analysis of dreams in which I noticed two phenomena. One was that familiar, essentially stock footage would appear as background to stories in dreams. I noticed this when the yard from my childhood home would appear at completely inappropriate times in a dream. This means the image was treated as a group, as an abelian group, which connects to the Hodge conjecture, which is also coming apart along with the other two, and that calls it as an object with its properties visible on the surface where it was called, meaning it fits to the extent - and yes it is an Extent - there is need and room for it.

Never thought that would come up now. Totally surprised. That is an example of what I mean about today.

The other phenomenon is that stories would occur with no reference to the images at all. My favorite example would be battle scenes which I realized were fake because no one ever fell down. Then I realized they seemed to be occurring in hotel lobbies and other halls and that I was seeing images which were like the opposite of the story. That it could be opposite makes sense: similarity would mean too much weight relative to the weight of story itself, so the connection would seek reality, would try to develop details. This is a matching of the concept of the story with any image, which keeps it light and disconnected at both ends, at both story and imagery.

These are both examples of Triangular, which gets to an idea about turbulence, which is that turbulence is where the O-line shifts, where the Observer shifts orientation. Example would be a tube of smoke from a cigarette emerges and becomes turbulent when the Observer becames more independent, and thus seeks whatever orientation works or fits, which can happen quickly and violently. This only occurs because the external process, with its actual details like viscosity and velocity and pressure, actually does this, meaning it’s 0Space, with the 1Space showing as the initial tube of relative stability, and that coming to an End.

I’m getting closer to mapping this to the existing math.

I keep reminding myself: it’s the same answer, just phrased appropriately, meaning it must be something I have already heard applied to this case.

Look at the line above about similarity. That relates directly to density and matter expressing as permutations and how those bind Things together, how they define Things, including the tangible matter within a Thing. I’m growing more confident dealing with that.

Example: similar to renormalization and even to epsilon-delta definitions, except addressed in ordinal space. That I think is a key idea.

I have to go out in a chilly rain. Yuck. I hope this helps.

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audiovisionacupuncture · 8 months

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Week 5

Reflection

The in class consultation was very useful. I think my definition of surrealism has been a little too conceptual rather than emotional. Works like Bo Burnham’s Inside are certainly surreal, but not in the sense that it follows a dream logic. It is surreal in the way modernity is surreal. Corecore edits are surreal, because of the information overload, but not because the information itself is that surreal. To truly achieve surrealism I think I need to push forward even more contrastive elements rather than just juxtaposition.

I think in order to create a surrealist lighting show, I need to first create a surreal narrative. The fact is that creating dissonance and strangeness in the Capitol is difficult, because its obvious that what your seeing is lights in roof. There isn’t that sense of disconnect.

Also mentioned was the sound art of Michel Chion. I regret missing the Capitol visit on Thursday, and I think I am behind on my Capitol lights work.

Research

In terms of surreal narratives, I’ve been researching the book Slaughterhouse 5, which deals in nonlinear storytelling and unreliable narration and metafiction, which is a term I discovered in the book “The writer's crusade: Kurt Vonnegut and the many lives of Slaughterhouse-five:, a book about Slaughterhouse 5. I realise The Beginner’s Guide and Undertale, two games I love, are also examples of metafiction.

This a good excerpt from the book, which is reminiscent of the automatic writing and drawing of many early surreal artists:

After all those drafts, attempts, and frustrations over so many years, it’s incredible that Vonnegut could call Slaughterhouse-Five “largely a found object,” as he did in a 1973 interview. He described his writing process as “intuitive. There’s never any strategy meeting about what you’re going to do; you just come to work every day,” he said. “I come to work every morning and I see what words come out of the typewriter. I feel like a copyboy whose job is to tear off stories from the teletype machine and deliver them to an editor.”

Part of what I think elevates Slaughterhouse 5 is how high the stakes are. Stakes is something that I have thought about extensively, in order to ensure the audience is drawn in and not just letting the surreal stuff wash over them. Slaughterhouse 5 deals with Vonnegut’s real life experience with fighting in the second world war, and as such the violence contrasted with the ridiculous and surreal writing feels more important.

In my research into Adam Curtis’s work, I have watch some of HyperNormalization.

youtube

In the intro, there is a scene of what seems like a dead body, with blood all over the floor. This immidently pulled me into whatever Adam Curtis was saying. Of course, this can be seen as cheap like a B horror movie, but I think in the case of Kurt Vonnegut at least it is backed up by real emotion.

youtube

I’ve also watched part of The Trap (isn’t it good how documentaries are free on Youtube?) I really loved when he was talking about game theory and was playing archival clips of gangster movies. Something about that contrast I found particularly surreal. In his documentaries, all of what he says is pulled together by his narration, so it feels more like a traditional documentary and less like surreal art. I wonder what would happen if you took the narration out and increased the speed of the edits. I think that would certainly be surreal.

Progress

Whale Video: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1miwuhoRNTL0P-j5bX_HpoT5lzz-Tlz6E/view?usp=sharing

I have a finished version of the surreal short film I’ve been working on that is going to be screened at the Rowden Library.

Capitol Lights:

I was able to get my idea of using a video to turn dialogue into light intensity to work. I am yet to test it out in Pharos Designer.

#Youtube

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gainaxvel3o · 3 years

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Clark x Bruce for the imaginary love lives please! If you do this, thanks and I’m excited to read it :)

He heard the alarm and went as fast as he could.

Superman moved at the speed of sound. Bruce made it a general rule to the League that they stay out of Gotham. If he used the JLA Communicator for this that meant things were bad. Clark tried not to think of the various worst case scenarios as he reached the Acme Warehouse.

Upon his ears picked up a cough, Clark flew faster.

Smashing the wall with his bare hands, Superman surveyed the situation. Bruce, still in the Batman costume, was coughing while lying on the bed, an infusion pump dumping a yellow liquid into him. The Joker was on another bed next to his, smiling his ever sickly evil grin while he was tended to by Harley. She panicked. “Big blue’s in town! Shit!” Harley cheered. “Mistah J we need to run! I was expectin’ the birds or the kajillion Batgirls but not this!” “Oh quiet Harley,” Joker responded. “We already threw the gag out there, we might as well go all the way with it! Come on, welcome to the party!”

Superman didn’t waste any time. “What did you do to him?!? “Now settle down Boy Scout you shouldn’t be so angry until I explain everything.” Joker smiled. “Which I will! See, I was taking a stroll around town, borrowing the usual materials I use to bring all the laughs to the dour city when I happened to come across something interesting.”

The Joker pointed at the pump.

“A unique chemical compound that slowly drain the life out of the people. I’m not one to kill my favorite people, but I thought it would be funny if I shared it with your old pal Batman and see if anyone wants to try saving him.” “You diseased maniac!” Superman shouted. “Where’s the cure?” “The cure? Well…” Joker laughed, the same infuriating laugh that made Superman’s skin crawl. “There’s only one way to cure him. Catch!” He tossed a syringe to Superman, who looked at him confused.

“See, in addition to be a clever comedian I’m a brilliant scientist! I pumped the stuff inside of me to check how it works. Turns out my unique chemistry turned the chemical into antibodies. Only drawback is that if you take my blood, I die.”

“Don’t…” Bruce, trying desperately to remain conscious, begged. “Don’t do what he says… it’s a trick…” “You can’t be too sure of that Batsy!” Joker grinned harder. “So what will it be Supes? You want to save him, you’re gonna need kill me! Not save him and he dies while I live. Your code or your friend! Ohohohohoho what a lovely decision!”

Harley glanced back and forth between Superman and her Mistah J. Being his disciple (and girlfriend even if he won’t admit it) she was familiar with this kind of trap. Batsy’s only in a severe degree of pain but not actually dying. She wasn’t sure if Superman could detect it given the X-Ray vision and the hearing and the other powers in his arsenal. Harley was actually curious. What would Superman do? “Tick tock Superman,” Joker said. “Made a choice yet?” A laugh. It didn’t come the Joker, like one would expect. No… it came from Superman. He held the syringe steady. “Okay. You win.” He said. “I’ll draw your blood.” Harley had to check her ears for that. One she made sure there wasn’t any left over ear wax from this morning, she allowed her jaw to fall. “What…” Joker was also pretty gobsmacked. “I mean- what?” “Yeah. Raise your arm.” Superman smiled. It wasn’t out of joy, more a sneer. “I don’t like the situation, but if it means saving Batman I’ll do it.” For a second, Batman struggled against the bed, trying to say something, break out, but his body was too weak. Whatever he said, Superman didn’t register it. He didn’t need to. He knew what he was doing. “Whoah let’s not get crazy here!” Joker took a step back. “No objections or anything? No third option no nothing?!? You’re just giving up?!” “Why not?” Superman said. "Someone’s going to die either way. Better the mass murdering lunatic from Gotham than it’s favorite son.”

And his husband, though Superman left it unsaid. He didn’t want this monster to know anything. “Wow, the great Superman just gives up!” Joker laughed. “I wish I had a camera so I could record it! I won, you lose and snooze and-“ “Yeah yeah yeah, you’re playing five dimensional chess against me and this is somehow going all according to your master plan even though when the dust settles you’ll be dead, I won’t go crazy murdering everyone for no reason and you won’t get your ultimate final battle with Batman.” Harley had never seen the Joker’s eyes twitch so violently. His hands were shaking in bitter spiteful rage.

“Come on Joker,” Superman said. “You wouldn’t want to leave this Earth without pulling a great gag. This? Just pathetic really.” “Oh you want funny! I’ll give you fucking funny!”

The Joker punched Superman in the chest. He clutched his hand in pain, now realizing he had broken it.

“Okay thanks for that.” Superman grabbed Joker’s hand, readying the syringe. “Be ready!” “No… no wait I was kidding!” Joker’s eyes widened and his voice broke. “The chemicals won’t actually kill Batman! It’s temporary! Please don’t kill me!”

“Mistah J!” Harley cried out. “I thought we were supposed to go all the way with a gag!” “Nuh uh, not me! I quit! Not going to lose to the big blue boy who can’t wear his undies in the right direction.” Superman smirked. “All edge, no bite… you really are a bad comedian Joker.” _____________________________________________________________________________________

After locking up Joker and Harley in Arkham, Superman took Bruce to the Bat Cave.

Alfred tended to his master, wiping the blood drawn from disconnecting the pump. Bruce looked over to Clark.

“Thanks Clark.” Bruce said. “It was an impressive bluff you made there.”

“Learned it from the best,” Clark smiled, kissing Bruce’s cheek. “Didn’t think you’d call me to be honest.” “The children were out on a mission. You were the only one that could get here fast enough.” “Love you too Bruce.” “Brrrrr. Using that word. Don’t repeat it.” “What? I love you?”

“There you again.” Clark laughed. Alfred rolled his eyes. “Well you’re clearly content in your lover’s quarrel,” Alfred walked up the stairs, “See you both in the morning.” They were left alone. Bruce searched his husband’s face and body, while Clark stood there and smiled.

“About that what happened Clark…” “Hm?"

“If the Joker hadn’t been lying…” Bruce said. “Would you really have let him die?” Clark sighed. “Bruce…” “Really Clark?!?” “If it was between you and him, I would have.” Clark decided to stand his ground. “You know I despise killing anyone as much as you do.” “Then why contemplate it at all?!” Bruce was shouting now. “No one deserves to die!” “No one does. But Bruce, it was between him or you. If it turned out killing him would save you… I’d feel horrible for the rest of my life, I would be ashamed, I would take anything you say afterwards… but I’d do it. What kind of hero would I be if I let a single innocent life die just so I could feel better about having unstained hands?” Clark looked away. “I only hope when the time comes you’d do the same.” Neither said a word. Bruce was no doubt furious, whether himself or Clark it didn’t matter. Superman sighed.

“I’m going to head to bed. Care to join me?” Bruce got out of the table. “In an hour. There’s things I need to check on the Bat-Computer.” Clark nodded. He didn’t want to admit it, not now, but he knew a rift had formed between them just now. He just hoped it would resolve itself sooner rather than later.

Author’s Notes:

I had a surprisingly good time writing this. It’s a bit of a fix fic for Action Comics #719 where Joker similarly infects Lois with a poison and Superman IS ABOUT TO LET HER DIE instead of killing him. It was such a bad display of Superman’s no kill rule that I decided to call a do over. No I don't want Superman to be going around snapping necks constantly but there’s ways to portray the no kill code that don’t involve making your heroes look like self righteous assholes and that comic ain’t it!

As for Batman… well, I don’t have a lot of positive feelings about him these days but writing his interactions with Clark felt natural and the idea of them having a conflict over the no kill code was an interesting idea. I liked doing it. That’s all I’ll say.

#The Imaginary Love Lives of Superman #Superman #Batman #The Joker #Harley Quinn #No kill rule #Fic #My writing #Asks #Answered #SuperBat #Superman x Batman

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flutteringdreams-matw · 3 years

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Out of Time (5)

First/Last

Read on AO3

Word Count: 4347

Previously: Danny and Dan clashed above Amity.

Now: "When you faced Dan in the alternate future, he fused a time medallion within you and then took your place within your time. That created the first paradox. What he didn't realize is the ramifications of that action." Clockwork's expression softened slightly, observing Danny carefully. "Time Medallions are exempt from my powers of controlling time, but not time itself."

As always - please let me know what you think!

---

"I want a damage report on the attack from earlier, any footage from that attack and for goodness sake… will someone deal with the media!"

"Yes Mayor Masters!" a chorus of aides and officials replied, scurrying out of the room.

Vlad sighed, rubbing his temples as he leaned back in his office. Dealing with Daniel's heroic exploits were one thing… but this was taking it to a whole different level! The blasted dome had been up for days and now a ghost that even he felt the presence of from inside his office shows up with the same power as the boy?

Vlad frowned as he looked up at the dome overhead, remembering the events from previous summer. Daniel had certainly grown since then, but to keep a shield this powerful up for this long? Could he truly be this powerful?

A ring brought him out of his musing, feeling the vibrations of his phone from his left breast pocket. With a slight scowl, he absently grabbed the phone and glanced at the number. His eyes widened in recognition before answering. "I was wondering when you would call," he said into his cell phone, annoyed and exasperated.

"It's Maddie," the voice answered curtly. Vlad's eyes furrowed as he scrambled more upright into his seat.

"M-Maddie!" he exclaimed nervously, flattening out his hair to make it look more presentable. He briefly berated his silliness as he settled his nerves. "What a pleasant surprise!" He stiffened slightly, confused. "Wait… why are you calling from Daniel's phone?"

"Why were you expecting him to call you?" she rebutted dangerously. Before Vlad could even think of a reply, he heard her sigh on the other line. "What do you know about heat cores?"

Vlad frowned, slightly surprised at the question. "It's one of the types of cores for ghosts. There are a few different ones – ice, fire, electricity. Surely Daniel must have mentioned them?"

"Not about heat cores specifically," she replied. Vlad still noticed the tartness in her voice; she really didn't want to talk to him.

Vlad got up from the chair, pacing as he thought of how to continue the conversation. This was Maddie! She barely spoke to him anymore; he needed to keep her talking. "Heat cores are fire based," he explained. "Depending on the ghost, it could have direct correlations to their powers like warm ectoblasts, from their appearances etc."

"What would happen if a heat core came in contact with an ice core?"

Vlad stopped pacing, looking at the phone curiously. "That would only happen if two ghosts merged somehow or if someone striped a ghost down to their core levels and combined them forcefully."

"But what would happen?" she pressed.

Vlad stayed silent for a moment, pondering her question as he searched for an answer. "I would assume… that it would behave quite like ice when exposed to heat. It'd melt – either absorbing the ice core or drying up anything the core left behind." Maddie went quiet, making an uneasy feeling creep up within the man. "Maddie," he said quietly. "Daniel has an ice core."

"He's fine," she replied quickly, but he caught the small worry in her voice. "He's resting in the infirmary." Vlad's frown deepened, waiting for the woman to explain some more. "That fight took a lot out of him."

Vlad scoffed. "Of course it did!" he replied, annoyed. "He's held a powerful shield that reflects attacks over the entire town for days. Even if he was Phantom all the time this would take a lot out of him. He's still half human! It's reckless and I can't believe you are entertaining this idiocy."

Maddie was quiet for a long time, the weight of Vlad's words hanging in the air. "This is more complicated that you even know," she said finally, the tartness coming back in full force.

"Then tell me!" Vlad exclaimed angrily. "Believe me to be the bad guy all you want Maddie, but I know Daniel! We're the same!"

"You are not the same!" Maddie exclaimed, cutting across the man's tirade. "Do you think I like seeing him do this? He's fifteen years old Vlad, and I can't do anything to protect him!" The line was quiet for a few moments before she sighed tiredly. "Look, I trust Danny's judgement. Whatever that ghost is will be a force to be reckoned with, and while I hate to say this, we may need all hands on deck. Keep the media off our backs and I'll be in contact."

"Maddie wait-" Vlad started, but it was too late. Maddie was gone, the beeping of the disconnected line entertaining his ear. Vlad brought his phone down slowly, staring at Daniel's number with a concerned frown. "What on earth is going on," he murmured, confused.

:-=-:

Maddie frowned as she hung up the phone, staring at the device in her hand like it was a foreign object. With a sigh, she opened her son's phone again, scrolling through the call log until she saw the most recent one. She stared at the four letter name, slightly surprised that her son didn't label it "Plasmius" or "Fruitloop," before finally pressing the delete button.

She didn't want to admit it, but the man was right; Danny wasn't acting logically. Danny was acting on instinct and fear, with no regard for his own safety. And here she was, powerless and unable to stop him. Her hand curled around the phone determinedly, before setting it back on Danny's nightstand and walked out of his room. As she went down the stairs, her mind wandered back to her conversation with Vlad.

If Vlad thinks that mixing Ghost cores is a bad idea, then it might have truly been an accident. She mused. But if this alternate future has a heat core… how did it change? Which core absorbed which? Our Danny has an ice core… but what if the alternate Danny didn't start with one?

"Maddie?"

The sound of her husband's voice brought her out of her thoughts. Maddie looked to meet Jack's worried gaze, confused at her current state. He and the two ghosts were at the kitchen table, apparently in conversation while she walked into the room in a daze.

Maddie shook her head and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, just thinking through something." Her smile quickly disappeared, guilt creeping up in her chest. "How's Danny?"

"Still out," Jack told her with a frown. He turned towards the large wolf ghost sitting across from him. "Ethelwulf was just filling me in."

"It's more exhaustion than anything else," Ethelwulf continued sombrely. "Most of the bruises and burns he acquired from that fight have all but healed; the only reason why he's still unconscious is because he fixed that shield."

Clockwork said nothing, regarding the humans and ghosts expressionlessly before moving away from the table. Maddie was a little unnerved by the purple clad ghost, but Danny had once said he was a friend, and Ethelwulf seemed to trust him. Maddie sighed sadly, taking a seat at the table.

"He hasn't been sleeping well," she told the healing ghost. "Not since he put up the shield."

Ethelwulf frowned, glancing back toward the time master before regarding the mother. "Let's let him rest then," he said, changing the subject slightly. "Best fill everyone in together."

"Maybe you can help us out then," Jack said, scratching his chin in thought. "Most of our inventions have a failsafe for Danny's ecto-signature, but if Dan's ecto-signature is similar…"

Clockwork moved slightly from the corner of the kitchen. His red eyes found Maddie's, staring straight at her as Jack and Ethelwulf discussed possible ecto-signatures. Maddie held his gaze, awestruck at the power this ghost seemed to hold in that stare. The world disappeared around her, the faint sound of clocks in the distance drowning out the world.

As suddenly as it happened, the gaze disappeared and Clockwork floated slowly toward the entrance to the lab. Maddie watched as he made his way away from Jack and Ethelwulf, down the stairs; Maddie followed quickly.

"Clockwork?" she called, making the ghost stop in the middle of the lab. "Danny told us you took Dan in the Fenton Thermos the first time he faced him. Is there some way-"

"You cannot stop him," Clockwork cut across bluntly.

Flustered, Maddie stopped, looking at the back of the ghost with wide eyes. "What?"

"Any parent wants to shelter their children from harm," Clockwork told her sagely. "You mean well Maddie Fenton, but you cannot stop Daniel from growing up; from facing his fears. There are only so many things you can still protect him from."

Maddie frowned. "I don't understand."

Clockwork sighed, glancing back at the woman over his shoulder. "I know what you're planning – but we're running out of time. If you cannot figure how to separate their ecto-signatures, even with Plasmius' help, then you must be prepared to accept what Danny decides to do. Along with the consequences that come with it."

Maddie's mind reeled with the weight of Clockwork's words. She swallowed nervously, her response coming out in a whisper. "He's my son; how can I just watch as he throws himself into danger?"

Clockwork turned back, continuing towards the infirmary. "You don't," he replied sadly. The ghost turned invisible then, leaving the stricken mother in the middle of the lab.

:-=-:

... "Vlad?" His voice felt hoarse to his own ears.

"Daniel, there's no time!" the man yelled frantically as he freed the boy from the operating table. He heard the screams from further away. "It went wrong. You need to run, get out of here. I'll hold them – it – off to buy you time." The smell of ectoplasm and blood made him sick. "Quickly before –"

Vlad was tackled from behind from a white and black blur. Not wasting a second, he ran toward the exit of the lab. Suddenly, he felt something hit him from behind. With a shout, he crashed into the wall hard.

"Did you think you could run away from me?"

He looked up at the voice. It was his voice – except it was distorted somehow, more evil. His ghost half was different, hair on fire and skin blue. Phantom looked like those ghosts he fought over the last year – before everything. His body was shaking.

"Did you think you could throw me away Danny? After everything?" Phantom said, in the same strange voice. "Let me show you which half is disposable."

He met the blood red eyes of Phantom before he saw green.

Danny gasped as he awoke, startled from his most recent dream. Eyes shooting open, he immediately groaned at the too bright lights bombarded his senses. He brought a hand to his face, blocking out the light briefly, hissing slightly at his soreness as he did so. Danny stayed like that for a few minutes, taking in the smell of antiseptic and ectoplasm as he tried to shake the dream from his thoughts.

"What's wrong with me?" Danny asked, distraught. "Why now?"

"Both excellent questions."

Danny shot upright, wincing heavily, at the voice. "Clockwork?!" he exclaimed, confused. He looked around widely before he saw him, sitting in the chair beside the bed. The Time Master's face was hidden beneath his long silvery beard. His hands were folded neatly under his chin, eyes sparkling in small amusement as he watched Danny's slacked jawed response.

"Hello Danny," he said. Clockwork shifted the chair closer, letting it rise above the ground slightly as he did so. "Good to see you awake."

Danny blinked at the words before his brow furrowed in anger. "Where have you been?" he asked angrily, gesturing wildly. "Dan escaped days ago and you show up here now to do what? We could have-" Danny broke off, grimacing as a set of sparks went through his frame. He doubled over with a groan and closed his eyes as he breathed through the pain. The sparks subsided after a few minutes, but Danny sat hunched, breathing deeply.

"Easy now," Clockwork soothed, his tranquil voice made Danny's body relax slightly. "There's a lot to explain and best to do it all at once with your team present." Danny nodded, pushing himself back into a sitting position. Clockwork sighed, rising from the chair and drifted over to Danny's bedside. Once he was in front of the teen, he placed one of his hands on Danny's shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Danny scoffed. "Like I was run over by a truck while I relived my worst nightmare over and over again."

Clockwork rolled his eyes at the response. "Fifteen year olds and sarcasm; I meant your energy levels. Apart from battling a powerful enemy, you also put more energy back into the shield. You've been out for a few hours."

Finally opening his eyes, Danny looked around the room. Mildly surprised, he realized that he was in the lab – more specifically the infirmary. Stark white walls lined with shelves full of first aid supplies surrounded them in the large room. There were tons of medical equipment all adorned with the Fenton logo. "What happened?" he asked in response. "I remember the shield being cracked, but everything else is a little hazy."

Clockwork sighed again, crossing his arms. "You insisted on fixing the shield and managed to do so by putting more of yourself into it. Unfortunately, you were also low on energy and passed out. Which brings us full circle to: How are you feeling? I know it's a question you tend to deflect, but humour me this once."

Danny cringed slightly, frowning in thought as he assessed himself. "I… don't feel as drained," he said after a moment, confused. Danny looked up at the Time Ghost. "If I put more energy into the shield, shouldn't I be feeling worse?"

"That's a question for Ethelwulf I'm afraid," Clockwork replied with a sly smile. "However, that probably means you can chance the stairs. Your friends will be here shortly and it's best to get everything out in the open." Clockwork picked up his staff, which Danny only noticed was at the foot of his bed, and gestured toward the door. "Shall we?"

Danny watched as Clockwork floated to the door, turning the knob. He sat up slowly, carefully standing before staring back to the Time Master. "Clockwork?" Clockwork hummed as he turned back to Danny expectantly. "You haven't shifted forms."

Clockwork raised his eyebrows slightly, smiling. "Perhaps you aren't as clueless as you seem." Danny ignored the jab and stared at his friend. Sighing, Clockwork gestured again towards the door. "Everything is as it should be – for now at least. I'll explain more upstairs."

:-=-:

"Danny! You're okay!"

Danny managed to turn from his spot on the couch before he was tackled by his friends and sister. He waved them off with a smile. "I'm fine." All three teens stood back and gave Danny an exasperated look. "Really!"

Sam let out a small breath. "Good," she said with a small smile. Before Danny could react, she hit him hard on the arm repeatedly. "What. Were. You. Thinking!"

"Ow!" Danny exclaimed, scowling as he rubbed his arm. He looked at Jazz and Tucker for any assistance, but neither seemed to want to get in the middle of whatever tirade Sam had planned. "Seriously?"

"Danny you passed out," she gritted out, violet eyes blazing. "In the middle of class, then decided to go off and face an evil version of yourself when he attacked." She crossed her arms and sent the boy a withering glare.

"I think Sam's trying to say you scared us," Jazz said, frowning disapprovingly. "Thankfully Tucker managed to get to me in time to sign you out of school before we went into lockdown. It took ages to get through to Mom and Dad."

Danny sighed guiltily. "Yeah, if it wasn't for Ethelwulf and Clockwork, I don't think I would have gotten out of there."

As if on cue, Ethelwulf walked in the Fenton's living room, quickly followed by his parents and Clockwork.

"Hi kids!" Jack boomed as he sat down across from the teens. "Perfect timing."

"I thought you couldn't find Ethelwulf?" Tucker asked, confused. "Or Clockwork for that matter."

"Apparently, it's a long story," Danny said, eying both ghosts warily. "Now that we're all here, can you just tell us what's going on?"

Ethelwulf chuckled, sitting on the couch and faced Clockwork with amused eyes. "I told you he'd be all business."

Clockwork said nothing, waiting until the humans settled before he floated toward them. He inspected his staff, frowning slightly, then at the wall clock across from him. His old frame hunched further, floating down toward the ground and put his staff out in front of him, using it as a cane. "What would you like to know?"

Danny frowned, realizing now how frail Clockwork looked. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

Clockwork smiled sadly. "Have you ever heard of a paradox?" he retorted. Danny shook his head, while Sam, Tucker and Jazz all nodded. "A paradox, in regards to time, is when a situation contradicts the natural order of time. It can be an event, a person or thing that doesn't belong. I see time like a parade, from above; whenever I sense a paradox – I intervene to move time away."

"Why?" Maddie asked.

"I control time," Clockwork said simply, turning towards her. "Except time is not a simple concept for any being, especially humans. It moves in all directions. When a paradox occurs, it stops the parade; time gets backed into fewer and fewer pathways until it's forced to go in one direction." Clockwork turned toward Danny, looking at the boy's face to see if he understood yet. "Paradoxes, unfortunately, are my weakness. As the timelines dwindle, so does my grip on time and my powers. My form stops shifting, I lose the ability to see all the possible pathways; It is increasingly harder for me to start, stop and manipulate the timeline."

Danny's eyes widened, finally connecting the dots. "You're not shifting because of me," he said, guilt and regret in his voice. "You're losing your powers because of my future self and the alternate timeline."

Clockwork chuckled. "I wish it was so simple." When Danny shot him a confused look, he continued. "When I saved you and your family, I created another paradox by removing Dan Phantom from the time stream."

"Wait – another paradox?" Jazz asked incredulously. "What was the first paradox?"

Sam gasped. "We created the first one," she exclaimed, looking at Tucker with wide eyes. "Remember? We jumped straight into a future where we didn't belong."

"No," Clockwork answered. "Dan Phantom created the first one by interacting with you, Danny. Unfortunately, this many paradoxes have limited my view on time as it unfolds. One paradox I can deal with – two have sadly created more dead ends. Which reminds me; The dreams you've been having."

"Frostbite told us," Ethelwulf explained, when all humans looked at him confused. "Though, Clockwork suspected as much after you faced Nocturn."

"Nocturn?" Danny asked, confused. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"I asked Nocturn to investigate a hunch," Clockwork told the wide eyed teen. "When you faced Dan in the alternate future, he fused a time medallion within you and then took your place within your time. That created the first paradox. What he didn't realize is the ramifications of that action." His expression softened slightly, observing Danny carefully. "Time Medallions are exempt from my powers of controlling time, but not time itself. By fusing one with your core and leaving you ten years in the future, it started to solidify your place within a new time stream. Those dreams you've been having? Glimpses of the future you erased as well as possible outcomes of what's to come. Nocturn confirmed it when you two clashed earlier this year.

"However, while that timeline has been erased from the main time stream, a piece of it still exists within Dan. I removed him from time, meaning that my powers no longer affect him -just like they no long affect you since a part of your core assimilated to a different timeline. One that no longer exists."

"What…" Danny said breathlessly. He put his head in hands; it was too much to take in.

"Since that battle, how many times have you moved through time without one of my medallions?" Clockwork asked sympathetically. "How many times did I have to forcibly manipulate time around you?"

Danny stayed silent; mind reeling as he went through the questions Clockwork was asking. He didn't dare look at his friends or family.

"The time medallion, even though it's now out, is a relic of time Danny," Clockwork continued. "It doesn't follow a linear path. Its power shows itself unpredictably. It's why I was able to stop time around you on Fear Island, transport you to and from the past into multiple timelines without needing to use the medallion, and yet still was able to stop time during your fight with Dan last year. It's also why you did not see any of these glimpses until the paradox was upon us. You can see parts of it in random orders, sense wounds before they happen. You and your future self are the centre of this paradox Danny – time cannot move forward until you face each other."

"Hold on," Maddie said slowly. "You said you couldn't see past this paradox – how do you know Danny has to face the evil Phantom?"

Clockwork regarded her for a moment, red eyes scanning her before turning back to Danny, head still in his hands. "The last thing I'm able to see clearly is Danny and Dan facing off – but I'm not the only one who can see possible outcomes right now. In fact, I don't believe that my account for the future is as far we can see."

All eyes turned to the teen with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Finally looking up at the Master of Time, Danny sighed. "I've seen it too," he confessed reluctantly. "Multiple different times where we fight – Actually, I think we just lived through one." Danny shuddered slightly in remembrance. "I saw his creation. I've seen him escape multiple times…" Danny swallowed, silent again.

"Which prompted you to put up that shield," Ethelwulf said pointedly. Danny nodded. "Danny, you're powerful enough to keep that shield up without using your core energy. If what Clockwork said about the Time Medallion is true, your core might be feeling the effects of these dreams or these phantom injuries."

Danny hummed, agreeing with his mentor. "Wait – Clockwork said I put more energy into the shield. How come I feel okay?"

Ethelwulf frowned disapprovingly. "The fight between you and your future self drained quite a lot of your base powers, which helped balance your extensive use of your core powers from the past few days. Now that you've regained some energy, your base powers unconsciously switched with your core powers in that shield as a way to help you recover your energy. It's probably wise to continue to use your base powers with the shield unless there's a larger threat upon us." The wolf ghost turned to Clockwork before back to Danny. "You said you've seen multiple visions of Dan escaping?"

"Had another one this morning," Tucker supplied worriedly. "In the middle of class."

Danny felt his parents' eyes move to him in concern and possibly exasperation. "Yeah," he said softly.

Ethelwulf moved to the boy, trained yellow eyes scanning carefully for any injuries he could have missed. "When did he actually escape Clockwork?"

"This morning," the time master replied with a frown.

"And how many times have you seen him escape?"

Danny sighed. "About six or seven. I lost count."

Ethelwulf frowned in thought, looking between Clockwork and Danny expectantly. "Were there any indications that last vision was the one from this future?"

The boy in question frowned, his eyebrows furrowing as he thought back. "I was awake with this one?" he supplied.

"There weren't any sparks this morning," Sam said, frowning slightly. "He just … fell over."

Danny hummed in agreement. "That's true; most of the other visions I had affected my core powers. That one just… happened."

Ethelwulf stared at the halfa in front of him, before looking toward Clockwork. Clockwork gave a slight nod, indicating his acceptance and Ethelwulf continued. "Danny, you need to take it easy for a bit; you're going to need your powers at full strength before you can face Dan again."

Danny nodded, not trusting his own voice. The world felt like it was taunting him, showing him these glimpses of time. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, he stood, feeling all eyes move toward him. "I'm going upstairs," he said quietly.

"Danny –" Jazz called out to him, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

"Just a little tired," he said with a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Let me know if there's any trouble." He walked out of the living room, still feeling the concerned gazes of his friends and family as he made his way up the stairs. Finally reaching his room, Danny entered it hastily, leaning against the back of the door as he closed it with a soft click. He let out a shuttering breath, as the conversation that just happened washed over him again. Clockwork losing his powers? Seeing the future? Timelines? Dan?

Dan.

Danny frowned at the memory of his evil future came to mind once more. Going into that fight this morning was stupid, sure, but it made him realize something- Dan wasn't holding back. When Danny faced him after he returned from the future, Dan was reserved, calculating to make his plan move forward. Now? It was like the evil spectre was playing with him. Danny sighed, staring out into his room.

"What are you after?"

:-=-:

Power flooded his veins as he ripped through another Ectopus, absorbing their energy with fervour. As the poor ghost disappeared, lost to the mass of the ghost zone, Dan's aura shone brighter, relishing in the excitement.

He floated toward the edge of the floating rock nearest to him, hearing in the distance the vague screams of terror from a distance. He smiled cruelly – it truly was great to be out of that thermos. Brow furrowing, he turned quickly, ecto-blast at the ready before he dropped the attack. A mirror image of himself floated above him – a little worse for wear- echoing the power hungry demeanour. He smiled, feeling the duplicate rejoin him and giving him the memories it carried with it.

"Well now," he said quietly, chuckling darkly. "Seems like the old me has some new tricks – and allies." He paced up and down, thinking about his next move. "If he's able to keep that shield while fighting, then his power levels must have improved somewhat…" he stopped, staring out to the Zone in thought. "Perhaps I should divide his attention." He smiled again as a plan formulated in his mind. "I can't wait to watch as his world falls apart."

:-=-:

Valerie slipped the blaster's core back into her main bazooka with a grin. Flipping the switch, her smile widened as it hummed in response. Switching it back off, she threw it over to her already large pile of weapons on the table as she grabbed another smaller ecto-gun from the pile beside her. She needed everything in tip-top shape to face off against whatever attacked Amity today.

With a frown, she turned back to the TV as it ran a repeat of the ghost attack from earlier. Phantom 'saved' the town from a ghost attack by putting a giant shield around the city. That he put up. "Probably more of his dirty tricks," she muttered, cleaning some ectoplasmic build up from the gun she was working on. An image of the Ghost Boy falling and hitting the shield graced the screen as Lance Thunder speculated some sort of hair-brained theory.

She winced as it was shown again; that was probably fifteen feet, twenty tops. For the Ghost kid to drop out of the air like that – his opponent certainly packed a punch. Usually he was flying off with some stupid smile or quip on his lips after battles. This? This was different.

Valerie inspected the gun, making sure there was nothing out of the ordinary before she hunched forward and studied the footage. Everything about this fight was opposite from what she's seen from the spook. Even from afar, she can tell there was no banter – every move he made was calculated. He never fought with a team unless he needed to and whoever those two ghosts were, well, it was testament to their strength to see them just disappear like that. Valerie had only seen Phantom fight like that on two occasions: The Ghost King and last month… when they faced the mayor.

The dark skinned sighed as that thought crossed her mind. When she said knowledge was power, she didn't mean the knowledge that the mayor was a ghost. And possibly a criminal mastermind who almost murdered a young girl. Definitely a manipulative son of a –

Ding Dong

Startled, Valerie looked up from her spot on the sofa to the piles of weapons across the small apartment. She cringed, scrambling upright and grabbed the blanket on the armrest, throwing it over the couch. "Just a second!" she called, looking around frantically for something to cover the table as the doorbell rang again.

Seeing the pile of lab clothes at the foot of her father's room, Valerie tossed it onto the table, jumped over one of the table chairs and stood in front of her door. She took a deep breath to centre herself before opening the door slowly.

Valerie gasped; in front of her stood a girl, no more than 12 in a baggy sweatshirt, red shorts looked up at her through giant blue eyes. Her long jet black hair was covered by the red beanie, poking out a bit in the front.

"Dani?" Valerie asked, dumbfounded at the young half ghost girl in front of her. "When – how?"

Dani smiled shyly. "Hey Valerie," she said with a wave. "Mind if I stay with you for a while?"

Link to Ecto-Storm Series

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dgcatanisiri · 3 years

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The frustration of queerness being represented in media is... I get WHY queer content creators do go for the stories that portray the hardships of being queer. They need their catharsis, they want to be able to work through their issues, they want to be able to explore this thing about themselves. And they are offering a lifeline to the queer audience who need to know that they’re not alone.

But for me... I just get the reminder that I’m seen as DIFFERENT. That because of my sexuality and romantic attraction, I am going to struggle in society. That this thing that I have no control over makes my life more difficult because of how society around me responds.

Like... I am not advocating assimilation. I want queer people to live as openly queer as they choose, whether it’s where they make sure everyone knows or if they don’t let anyone out of their close circles know. I just...

Is it that I’m the weird one, in that I think of my sexuality as ONE FACET of my identity, one part of myself, rather than the thing that defines me? I mean... I can’t see that, I don’t find that feels like a right answer to the question. I feel like this is at least a real position among other queer people.

And yet... So often, I do see IN PARTICULAR the media, the stories centered on queer men, be featuring as a major element, or even THE central conceit, the difficulty of coming to terms with being queer. With accepting their queerness and their feelings for someone of the same sex.

Like it’s been one of the thing I’ve noticed in my search for gay books. There are a lot of appearances in the various Twitter feeds I’m following about queer books that are interesting plots... But I end up feeling disappointed when I realize that about three quarters of them or more are centered on F/F pairings, because I want to see these stories with the protagonist telling my story. Because a lot of the M/M stories I find end up falling under the category of “romcom,” rather than sci-fi, fantasy, action adventure, thriller, whatever. No, the first place they go is either romcom or, if I’m looking through Amazon, erotica.

This is why I’ve always complained about Dorian in Dragon Age - even in this fantasy setting, even when a gay character is written by a gay man, the only thing we get out of him is the same exact story of the gay person whose family will not accept him explicitly for being gay. Not even couching it in metaphor, disconnecting it from the homophobia being explicit, no, he deals with homophobia.

And yet... That keeps coming across as the prevailing attitude. That if queer men, IN PARTICULAR, can only exist in the mainstream if they are objects of pity, if they suffer pain and angst and suffering, exclusively BECAUSE of their sexuality.

I know and understand the exploration and depiction of the pain. But... At this point, only showing the pain is only INFLICTING MORE pain, at least on me. I don’t want to take to flights of fantasy, only to drag the harmful existence along with me. I don’t see the point in ONLY inflicting the pain.

Like... Where is the JOY? Where is the idea that being queer is MORE than pain? Even acknowledging that, by the nature of the romcom style writing, a happy ending is where these stories go to... It’s still a plot that says that the heart of being queer is going through pain. And... I’m aware of the pain. I want to imagine a better world. A world where being queer doesn’t inherently come with pain.

I mean, I DO have a set of books that certainly aren’t focused first on the queer pain, it hasn’t been a complete dearth of material. But... There’s also been a lot of digging involved in FINDING those stories. And it just... It’s another kind of pain in and of itself - that the pain is so ingrained in us, we can’t bring ourselves to imagine a world without it.

#another angry queer rant #dg rants

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blorbosexterminator · 3 years

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Thanks @spiny-norman for tagging me! I definitely think it's time for me to try and put an overview of my thoughts coherently in one place, instead of the cluster I've left my blog in lmfao.

For lack of better words, here's a review of s5

I'll start with the positives too! The things I truly enjoyed:

The action was really thrilling and well-done.

It was funny. That is a very important aspect to me lmfao. I was truly worried the season was going to be too edgy for its own good and sacrifice its trademark humor. Tamayo was easily a highlight of this season. I loved that man from the moment he showed up in season 3, and he only got better this season. Alicia was also one of my favorite things. She's just so hilarious, I'm rooting for her to betray everyone and fuck them up.

In la banda itself, Tokyo and Denver completely stole the show, with magnificent acting from both Jaime and Ursula and genuinely good writing for them this season (something I can't say for the other characters), and the way they stayed true to themselves and yet evolved in such an organic way will always stay with me.

Tokyo deserves a whole point on her own even though I haven't shut up about her for nearly a week now lmfao. I'm still amazed at the perfect way her arc was handled, I could have never imagined or wanted anything different for her. It was a hugely bold move to place this in the finale of the first volume because I have no idea how they'll top it with anything now. Ursula obviously stole the scene, but everyone's acting in that scene punched me in the gut repeatedly. Very few characters' deaths in all media really affected me generally speaking, but I just know Tokyo's is here to stay with me.

Now, for everything else. This is already long but it's about to get longer lmfao.

First, I genuinely disliked how the show handled its political aspect this season. It was never perfect at it tbh, with a lot of misplaced allegories, but it was fine. The reason it was fine is because, other than a few weird moments, the show stayed realistic. It was was character-driven, and most of the time, the characters didn't mold themselves to be activists. This seasons' progressive tone was very out of place. I know a lot of people took pleasure in Bogota's speech while he beat Gandia, but it took me out of the mood. It was out of character and very ill-fitting to Gandia. I disliked Martin's speech nearly as much. Again, it was very out of character and ill-fitting. The really fun and realistic thing about the previous seasons was that just because a character was a minority or in some unfortunate group for one reason or the other, it didn't change anything. It didn't make them better people. Martin was still an egotistical, narcissistic, power-hungry, misogynistic, macho piece of shit. The fact that he was gay changed nothing, it didn't make him kinder to fellow oppressed people, not once did he act or gave any indication that he thought of himself as a victim in that sense. They were very unnecessary scenes.

Speaking of the characters, outside of Tokyo and Denver, I didn't feel 'anyone'. All actors did more than an amazing job, Rodrigo and Alvaro were top notches. But it just, the story had suddenly changed from a character-driven story to a plot-driven one and the show didn't handle that change well. Raquel, Martin, Andres, and Sergio were just there. I'll come back to Andres later because he's a special case lmfao. But those three, with how huge their roles are supposedly now, literally were just there. Raquel was just going around shooting things and sometimes giving some order or the other. Martin is pretty much the same. And the only useful thing Sergio did was pull the kid out of Alicia.

Now, I get that Alex Pina said this volume will all be boom boom, and in the next volume we'll get more of the character-focused scenes, but I'm not disappointed because the scenes were few. No, I'm disappointed because they were out of character. Martin was very, very not Martin. He was just some guy lmfao. It's not that I just wanted him to be more of an asshole, which I did because he is an asshole (bless the Monica and Arturo scene tho) but also he was just very soulless. Very unrecognizable. The moment he showed up, took Raquel's order to stop the melting without even one objection or even asking her to explain lmfao, (even fucking Tokyo was like ????? and not Martin!!!), I knew that he's not himself this season. And I was right, this Martin didn't give a single shit about the gold, had no passion, no fire, no soul. It's not like he doesn't resemble 'Palermo' (whatever the fuck that means), he doesn't even resemble himself in the s3 and 4 flashbacks. This isn't healing or redemption. This is a complete personality change overnight. And it just made him a boring character ngl, he's just not entertaining or complex or intriguing anymore. He's literally just some guy with some cringy out-of-character moments that made me go ???? Not even asking about plan Roma and having no problem with not melting the gold, telling Bogota 'revenge is egotistical and bad uwu', his whole speech of being the shit of society or whatever were all highlights of how the show just threw his previous characterizations in the trash lmfo. I genuinely hope it was just because this volume needed to move without any obstacles from the characters and he'll go back more to who he is in volume 2, but I doubt it tbh.

The flashbacks. First, they were funny, and that is their only saving grace. Andres going 'LOBSTERS' in the middle of telling his kid that he ruined his life was top-notch. Other than that, they were terrible, terrible shitty writing. The show didn't connect them in any way to Andres' flashbacks in s3 and 4 and at the same time didn't connect them to bank heist (outside of the parallels of the water, diving, and gold in both heists). They were very disconnected from everything else, and even though I'm certain they'll have more meaning next volume, it doesn't erase the fact that they had none this volume and didn't establish any stones for connections. @spiny-norman Tatana isn't even my type lmfao so I got nothing from this.

Lastly, the relationship dynamics were so.....not there. We got about nothing other than the Tokyo stuff. No hermanos, no Martin and Sergio, no Sergio and Raquel, no flashbacks from the panning in the monastery, no Tokyo and Martin being a pain in each other's asses, no Martin/Andres and the plan, no Martin and Raquel beyond co-leading. If we had time for that stupid, stupid love triangle, then we could have had some meaningful interactions between the actual important relationships in the show. Monver defending each other and their relationship to other people was very <3 though.

The plan has no meaning. Sure, I enjoyed the action. But this bank plan itself was devoid of the soul it had since it first appeared. The bank plan was something like an individual character in previous seasons lmfao. It was the one true love story of Andres and Martin. I think the show could have balanced some of that with the action and thrill.

Again, I know it's all about the action. But the show had a true shining chance to have some iconic scenes between Raquel and the police now that Sergio was unable to participate, and we had absolutely nothing. No negotiation, no clever back and forth between her and the people she worked with for decades, just nothing. I loved seeing her in action, but the boom boom omg badass queen woman warrior with a gun thing gets boring. This fits Tokyo. Raquel's truest moments of really being a boss were supposed to be between her and the police. Just again, all characters were just doing the same thing. They were no longer brilliant, varied individuals each shinning through their own strengths that were already established. I only hope we'll get more of that in volume two.

I think this captures most of my thoughts about the volume. Sorry for long it is lmfao.

#lcdp #la casa de papel #Spoilers

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thethousandyearwitch · 3 years

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The Show Must Go On! Chap. 8 [The End]

- A Youtuber AU you didn’t want and didn’t need -

Hisoka Morrow, italian Makeup Youtuber, enjoys his life in the comfort and occasional drama of his profession. But nothing brings more drama into his life than the eldest son of the Zoldyck fashion magazine empire.

Meanwhile, aspiring australian Twitch Streamer Gon Freecs forms a special bond to a Speedrunner commonly going by "Kil".

Chapter 8 "Born To Run” out now! The Last Chapter!

AO3 Link

Illumi Zoldyck has rarely made mistakes in his life, and any mistake was met with immediate punishment. It was supposed to lead to a perfect adult life, free of foolish mistakes and mishaps, for the prosperity and safety of the family.

But now there was an arm curled around his side, hot breath hitting his neck in a steady rhythm as the morning sun was rising, and there was no other way to say it:

He fucked up.

He let himself be lured into the lion’s den, and now the ‘lion’ was curled up asleep next to him, hair a mess, and a self-satisfied smile on his bruised lips.

Hooking up with Hisoka was objectively a mistake, but it wasn’t going to be the end of the world. He was an adult after all, capable of making his own decisions regarding relationships of any nature. Furthermore, whether this was going to be a temporary or a more permanent ordeal, the long distance would keep Hisoka far away enough from any family affairs, and with enough bribery it could kept out of the public eye.

Illumi grabbed his phone from the nightstand, disconnected the charger, and ignored the half-asleep murmurs from the other side of the bed. Whatever thiswas, could work out, no repercussions, no mistak-

’18 Missed Calls from Mother’.

Oh No.

’27 Missed Calls from Mother. 19 Missed Calls from Father’.

“Oh, my folks are soooo pissed right now.” Killua snorted and pocketed his phone again. Gon and him had decided to take a trip to a larger city that framed the Area that the young boy lived in, mainly to buy essentials that Killua didn’t remember to pack for himself, which resulted in him finally having phone reception again. Mito insisted on driving them there, mumbling something about keeping them under control, but generously stayed behind in a café to give the boys some space. It’s been almost 3 days since Killua had arrived, and so far, nothing had been set on fire and there were no trips to the ER, which she considered a personal win. The afternoon sun was beating harshly on them, at least to the standards of the young boy who had spent most of his life either in mildly weathered England or sheltered in the shade cool shade of the Japanese mountain-mansion.

“Aren’t you afraid that they are going to punish you?” Gon frowned.

“What are they goin’ to do? Double take my computer away? House arrest? I could probably set the world record at breaking out. They are just mad that I’m not dancing to their tune, like my stupid brother. My dad’s not even home most of the time, so I don’t know why he’d care.” He stopped in front of a clothing store that advertised bright flower-print shirts. “These look awful, we need them.”

His friend laughed but nodded his head enthusiastically.

There was something incredibly exciting about having a friend. Someone who agreed to go along with your whims and spontaneous ideas, not because they are paid to or want to gain something from it, but because they actively want to.

Inside the store, the boys decided to pick out shirts for each other, determined to dress the other one as ridiculous as possible, hiding whatever they picked out from the racks while giggling like madmen. After a couple of minutes, they shoved each other into separate dressing room cabins, and exchanged the meticulously picked out shirts via throwing them over the cabin separations.

Killua disregarded his black sleeveless hoodie vest and quickly clothed himself in the new shirt without having properly looked at it, to preserve the surprise. On a count of three, the boys simultaneously stepped out of the changing rooms, and stood next to each other, in front of a large mirror.

Gon wore a dark green shirt with the repeating pattern of a shirtless Santa Clause in a lawn chair, with sunglasses and a cocktail in hand. Killua had a galaxy print button-up with various pictures of cats with taco and burrito bodies.

The young teens stood there in silence for a second, before they broke out in loud laughter.

“You look like you’re a middle-aged dad on vacation with his wife Karen!” Killua snorted.

“Well, you look like your name is ‘Bradley’ and you sell knock-off sunglasses on the beach!” Gon replied, and as the boys continued to laugh, he slapped Killua lightly on the upper arm.

Barely a touch, really, and yet: “YEOWCH!”, Killua flinched back.

“Woah, you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, that just kind of stung weirdly. Maybe you’re loaded with electricity or something.” And Gon was ready to write it off, before he got a good look at Killua in the dimmed lights of the shop, away from the bright sun.

“Hey, get your arm out of that sleeve.”

“Huh? Why- “Before he could object, his arm was already being yanked out of the, frankly too big, sleeves of the tacky shirt. “What the hell, Gon?!”

“Killua, did you put on sunscreen this morning?”

“Uh, no? Sunscreen is for dorks.”

By now, Gon could barely supress his laughter, cheeks puffed out to hold it back. “I can tell.”

Killua looked back into the mirror and stared. There was a clear divide between the skin on his shoulder that had been covered by his vest until now, pale porcelain skin inherited from his mother, and the rest of his arm that had been exposed to the sun, now glowing bright red. Cautiously he pressed a finger against his skin, but retracted it immediately with a hiss as a burning sensation shot through his arm.

Gon laughed again, though this time with a bit more sympathy, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we have something at home against that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to rip off my skin, that’s not cool.”

“Nope! That comes later, all by itself.”

And Killua laughed, as they made their way towards the cashier, because of course they were going to buy those hideous shirts.

“…Wait, you weren’t serious, were you? Gon?!”

“This is the medicine?” Killua looked at the large plant with scepticism.

“Yup!” Mito took a kitchen knife and sliced off one of the larger leaves. She sliced the leaf vertically and squeezed out transparent goo from it into a bowl, which she handed to the boy with a smile. “There you go. Aloe is good for your skin and will help with the burning.”

A cautious look toward Gon, who didn’t seem suspicious at all, and Killua took the bowl. “Thanks.”

“And starting tomorrow you’ll put on sunscreen before you go anywhere near the sun, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes with a smile, and the boys went back upstairs to Gons room before Mito would call them back later for dinner. Killua immediately jumped on his sleeping cot, eyed and poked at the contents on the bowl. “So, I just slap this on?”

“Yep!” Gon threw his shopping bag into his closet and flopped on his own bed.

A couple of moments passed, Killua continued to poke at the plant-goo. He wasn’t going to admit out loud that it looked gross, the consistency weirded him out, and that he thought he was being pranked. Though in the end, he didn’t have to say anything, as Gon sat next to him and took the bowl from him. “Looking at it isn’t going to help. Here- “He took the others boy wrist and yanked his arm forward. With his other hand, Gon started to smear Aloe Vera on Killuas arm, who briefly hissed before he relaxed at the welcoming cold of the mixture. The heat and stinging of the sunburn slowly subsided.

While his friend was already getting to work on his other arm, without being asked to, all Killua could think about is that this was…nice. He experienced something new even if it hurt a bit. He didn’t get scolded for it, but instead was just told how to prevent it for his own health. And now his friend was helping him with this as well- because he cares. This shouldn’t be something new to kids his age, he knew this, but the past few days still felt like something secret he unlocked, invisible to everyone else. A welcoming, caring environment, a vast open space to freely explore, not alone but with someone who looks out for you and who you want to look out for, too.

Suddenly, two cold hands were at either side of Killuas face, thumbs stroking over his cheek bones. He flinched with a yelp of surprise, though the others grip on his face kept him in place. “Hold still, you burned your face as well.”

Killua gently but assertively took Gons hands in his and slowly removed them. “I’m good, really.” He hesitated and looked at both their hands. “…I’m really happy that you’re doing all of this for me.”

“Don’t worry, I used to get tons of sunburns when I was little!” Gon snorted, and Killua gave him a playful nudge against his arm.

“I don’t just mean this, I mean like…everything. I’m happy you’re my friend. I didn’t think that could be this nice.” He looked nervously at his hands, uncomfortable with the sudden vulnerability, though before he could react, Gon pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m happy we’re friends too, Killua. And no matter what happens, I will always be your friend. That’s a promise!”

Killua let himself be hugged for just a few seconds longer, indulged in the kind of physical intimacy that he now felt had been seriously lacking in his life.

“Gon! Killua! Dinner’s ready!”

The boys immediately separated and jumped of the sleeping cot with overlapping “Good talk”s and snickering, before they chased each other down the stairs and into the dining hall. Downstairs they were greeted by a sweet, savoury smell as Mito heaved a large pot onto the wooden table, decked with 3 dinner plates and another larger bowl with mashed potatoes. Gon was the first to arrive at the pot and took a curious peek inside. “Short ribs! Nice!”

“I thought that if I give you boys something you can stuff yourselves with, maybe you’ll be too full to spend the entire night up again playing video games.” She gestured for them to sit down with a proud smile. The teens didn’t hesitate and helped themselves immediately to full plates, the aroma of the food spread even more throughout the room.

As Killua tried to slice into the ribs, the meat parted from the bone after barely just a touch. As he took a bite, the tender meat tasted sweet, spicy, and everything in between. “These are the best ribs I’ve ever had. No Doubt.”

Mito laughed. “They better be! The trick to getting the meat this tender is to really just let them sit in the slow cooker for a full 9 hours, better even 10, and only interrupt to season to taste now and then.”

“Mhm. You know, I don’t think my mom even knows how to cook.”

“…Do you know how to cook, Killua?”

“Pff, no. Why?”

Gon swallowed another large bite of food before speaking. “Not even breakfast eggs?”

“Nope!” Killua continued to eat, as Gon and Mito exchanged a somewhat concerned look.

“Killua, would you like to help me cook breakfast tomorrow? We could try making pancakes.” Mito tried not to sound condescending as she suggested this, and Gon supported her with enthusiastic nodding.

“I-…Sure. But don’t blame me if anything catches on fire, okay?” The group laughed, and the rest of the dinner passed by peacefully, until the landline phone rang.

Mito got up and cleared her throat before answering. “Hello? …” She glanced at Killua. “…Mhm, sorry, who is this?” She covered the receiver with a worried look. “Killua, do you have a brother named Illumi?”

In a matter of seconds Killua had gotten up and snatched the phone from Mitos hand. “What.”

“Killu, it’s Illumi, how are you enjoying your spontaneous vacation?”

“How did you get this number?”

“I’ve got my ways.”

“Are your ways called Milluki?”

“Doesn’t matter. I hope you had fun these couple of days, but its time to come home. Mother is worried sick. If you come back now, you may even get your computer back.”

“HA! Fat chance. I’m too busy getting sun burned, buying ugly clothes and- and I’m going to learn how to cook with my friend tomorrow. So, suck it and leave me alone.”

There was a deep sigh at the other line, and what sounded like a second person snickering. “Killu, you have 24 hours to pack your things, book a plane, and think about how to properly apologize to mother and father for the trouble you have caused. If you fail to do so, I am going to have to come over there and take you back myself.”

“Don’t forget to pack sunglasses and sunscreen, Illumi. Bye.”

“Kil-“

Killua slammed the phone back into the loading station and sat back down at the table as if nothing happened. Silence weighed heavy in the room, but Mito was the first to find her words again and walked over to Killua to put a supporting hand on his shoulders.

“Are you alright, Killua?”

“Yeah! He’s kind of a control freak, I’m used to it.”

“But what’s going to happen when he actually gets here?” Gon asked nervously, though Killua merely shrugged as a response.

“Don’t know. Probably house arrest, maybe they are going to take my phone away but I’m sure I can just take my little brothers if I ask nicely.”

“This is so unfair… You practically just got here! There’s so much more I wanted to do together with you! And if they take your phone, we can’t even talk once you leave…”

And Killua was about to try to give some reassuring statements, but then it struck him-

“Hey, Gon, remember when you thought that me coming over spontaneously was kind of wild, crazy, but fun?”

“Y-yes?”

“Wanna do something wild, crazy, but fun with me?”

The woman behind him picked up faster on what he meant than Gon did. “Wait a min-“

“Huh?”

“Want to go to Japan with me?”

“Yes! Of course!!” Gon started to slap the table in excitement.

“We can visit my sister, and there’s servants there who definitely won’t snitch on us, and we can go hiking in the mountains! It’s great!”

“There’s so much food I want to try! And we need to go to one of those cool Zoos!”

“Definitely!! And there’s this great-

“Boys…”

“Hell yeah! Maybe there will be- “

“BOYS!”

The teens stopped in the middle of their lively conversation and starred at Mito; eyes blown.

“Do you seriously think you can just take a plane together, while running away from your family, without any supervision?”

Killua hesitated before speaking up. “Well, I did make it over here…”

“And now you’re in trouble with your family!”

The young boy sighed and hung his head in defeat, to which his friend took his hand in an attempt at comfort. Gon had the most well-trained puppy eyes, which locked onto Mito as their target.

“Well, if you had adult supervision though…”

Immediately both of the teens jumped up and hugged her. “Of course you can come!” “It’s going to be so much fun!”.

And as Killua explained how he can book last minute tickets to the nearest airport where his sister resided, Mito thought to herself that she may have bitten off more than she could chew. But maybe that didn’t matter. Because rarely had she seen Gon that happy, and maybe taking a risk once in a while for the sake of someone else wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“He hung up on me.” Illumi dropped his phone and starred at the wall.

“Well, did you really expect he was going to be obedient and say, ‘why yes dear brother I am on my way home right away’?” Hisoka was still in bed and rolled around leisurely, seemingly not a care in the world, though his grin was telling that he enjoyed the situation unfolding in front of him immensely. Illumi had been pacing the room ever since his mother called, hair a mess and Hisokas bathrobe half-heartedly thrown on, it was a welcomed view.

“He was supposed to. But this is fine. I can manage this.”

“Mmh, sell me on your plan~”

“I’m going to pack my things, then I will fly back home, make sure mother is well cared for, and then fly to Australia to drag my little brother home by his ears if I have to.”

“Then let me ask you this, caro mio:” The artist slowly separate himself from the comfort of his bed, and stood behind Illumi, slender fingers carefully combing through the black, sleek hair. “Have you ever been to Australia?”

“No, but I don’t see how that should be a problem.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you had a guide? Someone who isn’t going to chase you down some backroad that’ll turn into a dead end 30 kilometres in?”

Illumi turned around to face his weird companion. “When have you been to Australia?”

“I’ve been around~” He lied smoothly, one hand running along Illumis chin. “Doesn’t a little road-trip together just sound lovely? I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour~”

“Somehow I have trouble believing that. And even if I would agree to have you accompany me to Australia, I have to drop by home first, and I don’t want you stepping foot anywhere near our property.” Illumi slapped his hand away. “I might come visit after Killua is back home, though.” He turned to go and pack his things, but Hisoka had an arm around his waist and kept him still.

“Tesoro, listen to yourself. Your mother has a billion butlers, your father, and your siblings by her side. Why don’t you fly to Australia immediately to get the job done quickly? Otherwise, you’re just inefficiently wasting time, aren’t you?”

“You do have a point, unfortunately…” He tilted his head to the side, and immediately felt warm lips on his neck. “Still doesn’t mean I’m going to take you with me.”

“What if I say please?”

“How old are you?”

“What if I contact Machi for you and negotiate a collab that will contractually play out majorly in your favour?” Illumi let the thought run through his mind and considered the pros and cons. “And I won’t show anyone the candid photo that is my screensaver now~” Before he could ask what he meant, Hisoka was dangling his phone in front of him, with a shirtless picture of Illumi as his screensaver, just as promised.

“Hey- Give me that!”

Hisoka jumped out of slapping-range and snickered. “Take me to Australia, and that will turn back into a picture of myself.”

“This is blackmail, and I can sue you for this.”

“See you in court, amore.”

“Fine! If you insist, you can come with me. But I will bury your body in the desert if you give me enough reason to.”

Immediately Hisoka threw himself at Illumi. “Yay~! Our first couples’ vacation!”

“We aren’t…forget it.” Illumi sighed, though Hisoka could have sworn he saw a slight smile as he pressed a kiss to the designer’s cheek.

What’s the worst that could happen?

#hunter x hunter #hisoillu #killugon #hisoka marrow #illumi zoldyck #killua zoldyck #gon freccs #hxh fanfic #fanfiction #hisoillu fanfic #hxh fanfiction #AU #i can finally lay myself to rest

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optimisticme · 3 years

Text

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see I swallow immediately

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

I am not cruel, only truthful ‚

The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long

I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.

Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,

Searching my reaches for what she really is.

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.

I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.

She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.

I am important to her. She comes and goes.

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.

In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath wrote "Mirror" in 1961, shortly after having given birth to her first child. Written from the point of view of a personified mirror, the poem explores Plath's own fears regarding aging and death. The mirror insists that it objectively reflects the truth—a truth that greets the woman who looks in the mirror each day as a "terrible" reminder of her own mortality. She searches the mirror for an image that reflects the way she sees herself and feels inside, yet finds only an increasingly older woman staring back. "Mirror" was first published in The New Yorker in 1963 and later appeared in Crossing the Water, which was published posthumously.

The poem is told from the perspective of a mirror, who starts by describing itself physically as silver-colored and precise. The mirror insists it has no predetermined notions or assumptions about anything, and instead simply takes in whatever stands in front of it right away, exactly the way it is, unclouded by any feelings. The mirror isn't mean or harsh, but simply honest. It's like a small god's eye, only with four corners. For the most part, the mirror focuses on the pink, speckled wall that stands across from it. The mirror has been staring at this wall for so long that it thinks the wall is in fact an essential part of itself. At the same time, that wall goes in and out of focus as people and darkness pass in front of it—and into the mirror's line of sight—again and again.

The mirror becomes the reflective surface of a lake over which a woman leans, looking intently into the water's depths for some hint of who she is inside. Not finding it, she directs her attention to the candle she holds or the moon—sources of light that she thinks must be lying to her by not showing her who she really is. The mirror watches the woman's back as she walks away, and reflects it accurately. The woman thanks the mirror by crying and wringing her hands in distress. The mirror knows that it matters a lot to this woman, who comes back to look into it time and again. Every day starts with the woman's face taking the place of the darkness that the mirror reflected all night. The young girl she once was will never look back at her again, having been metaphorically drowned in the mirror. Instead, as the days go by she sees only the old woman she has become approaching her like an awful fish.

Time, Aging, and Mortality

The poem describes a woman seeing herself growing older and older in a mirror each day—or, more accurately, it describes a personified mirror looking on as the women’s youth fades. The woman clearly resents getting older and losing her beauty and youth—two important social currencies for women living in a male-dominated society, especially in Plath’s day. The poem thus illustrates the anguish of aging, as the woman confronts her mortality in the mirror each morning.

The first stanza illustrates the objectivity of the mirror, which is only capable of reflecting what it sees. The mirror describes itself as “the eye of a little god.” Like a god, the mirror sees things exactly as they are. The mirror has no intentions of its own; it has no desire to make the woman feel bad about herself. It doesn’t exist to flatter or insult, but only to reflect appearances truthfully.

The woman, on the other hand, experiences the mirror’s objectivity as a pointed reminder of her own mortality. As time passes, she ages and becomes further removed from her youth while getting ever closer to death. The mirror is “important” to the woman, perhaps because women in particular are so often expected to conform to rigid standards of beauty and youth. Unfortunately, then, the very parts of the woman that patriarchal society deems most valuable are also the parts of her that have a time stamp; they are quickly fading.

Even more upsetting is the question of who she is when these parts of herself fade away. On the inside, the woman is the same person she’s always been, yet as she gazes into her reflection each morning, she sees “an old woman / Ris[ing] toward her, day after day, like a terrible fish.” This description suggests that the woman's reflection is disconcerting, as if the aging process has made her unrecognizable; her changing face feels shocking and unreal. And yet, the mirror insists that it is indeed real. This disconnect between how she feels inside and the harsh reality of the mirror highlights the horror and difficulty of confronting aging and—because aging inevitably leads to death—the idea of mortality.

While the poem is told from a personified mirror’s point of view, it’s really about the woman who sees herself in that mirror. This woman is preoccupied with her reflection, hoping to find in it “what she really is.” Even though the mirror itself is objective—in other words, it reflects exactly what stands before it—the woman looking at her reflection still cannot see herself in its image. This, the poem implies, is because people are so much more than what they look like on the surface; the mirror only reflects how things appear, not what they are.

The mirror at first presents itself as being totally neutral when it comes to bouncing images back to its subjects. It is “silver and exact," and doesn’t offer up distorted reflections that are “misted by love or dislike”—that is, reflections that are influenced by feelings. Instead, it presents clear and precise images and has “no preconceptions," meaning that it doesn't have an agenda. It’s not bending its image to tell a certain story, but simply reflects whatever stands before it.

The mirror, then, is trustworthy; one can count on it to tell the truth. The poem suggests that the mirror is “not cruel, only truthful.” This speaks to the fact that although people might not like what they see reflected in the mirror, this isn’t because the mirror is actively trying to hurt them. After all, it is only capable of reflecting what stands in front of it.

But the poem goes on to show the ways that the mirror’s objectivity is only skin-deep, reflecting just the surface of things. The poem metaphorically compares the woman looking in the mirror to a woman bending over a lake to see her own reflection. When she searches for this image, she can’t find “what she really is"—that is, she doesn't gain a true sense of self-understanding. The fact that she isn’t just looking at her reflection in the lake, but “searching [its] reaches” speaks to her longing to find out something important about herself—something the poem implies cannot be found in the mirror, no matter how carefully she looks.

Although the woman searches the "reaches" of the lake-like mirror, the fact remains that all she can see is a surface-level reflection of herself. This implies that, though the woman wants to discover something deeper about herself, appearances can only reveal so much. The mirror might present a seemingly objective representation of how the speaker looks (even reflecting her image "faithfully" when she turns her back), but it will never be able to reveal the whole truth about who she is as a person. There is, after all, much more to people than what meets the eye.

The poem's speaker is a personified mirror. This becomes clear in the first line, when the speaker says, "I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions." This description immediately lets readers know that the speaker is a literal mirror while also establishing the voice of this mirror, which is direct and straightforward.

This straightforward tone makes sense, as the mirror goes on to say that it "swallow[s] immediately" whatever stands in front of it, consuming it "just as it is." In other words, the mirror isn't capable of embellishment or misdirection—to exaggerate or conceal certain details would go against its very nature. This is because the mirror has no feelings of its own. It is able to provide an "exact" reflection that is untainted by "love or dislike." Unlike a person, the mirror doesn't project feelings onto what it sees. It has no purpose other than to show what is there.

The Mirror

The mirror in the poem symbolizes a few things at once. Most broadly, it represents the unavoidable reality of aging and mortality. The mirror's repeated insistence that it has no agenda or "preconceptions" emphasizes the fact that it is objective, forcing people to face the insistent, painful truth of growing older and dying.

That the woman doesn't recognize, or doesn't want to recognize, her own reflection in the mirror thus represents her own inability or refusal to accept that truth—to face her own mortality. Though the woman can see herself reflected "exactly" in the mirror, it's clear that something is missing: she can't find "what she really is," no matter how long she looks or how often she returns to the mirror. Her aging appearance doesn't reflect her inner sense of self. Part of the pain of aging, the poem thus implies, is that people may feel that their bodies no longer match up with their true selves.

On a slightly different level, the mirror subtly evokes the unrealistic and unfair expectations forced upon women by a patriarchal society. In Plath's day, women were expected to appear immaculate while also somehow running a household, caring for their husbands, and serving as full-time caretakers for their children. Since the mirror allows the woman to carefully scrutinize herself, it perhaps comes to represent the pressure she feels to look a certain way.

Unfortunately, it seems this pressure has led to a kind of obsession, as the woman returns "each morning" to pour over her own image. And yet, studying herself like this does nothing but frustrate her. The mirror thus represents the dangers of fixating on one's own image and the harmful nature of society's mysogynistic view.

The poem is told from the point of view of a mirror, so the whole poem is an example of personification. The mirror is made to think and speak like a person, giving voice to an objective account of the woman standing before her own reflection. Through this use of personification, the poem allows the mirror to comment on the woman's discomfort with her own image. This highlights the way women in male-dominated societies often end up objectifying themselves by ruthlessly scrutinizing their own appearances.

The use of personification also draws attention to the limitations of the mirror. While the mirror is indeed "truthful," it is not the whole truth—it can only see, and reflect, whatever's visible. The mirror compares itself to the "eye of a little god," perhaps because of the importance the woman places on it—she returns to it day after day, almost worshiping its ability to reflect her image. Yet, unlike a god, the mirror isn't actually omniscient. In other words, all-seeing isn't the same as all-knowing. The mirror can reflect the woman's outer beauty or her signs of aging, but it cannot reflect or know what makes her valuable; it cannot see her thoughts, beliefs, or feelings.

By personifying the mirror, then, the poem tricks readers (at least at first) into giving an inanimate object more power and agency than it actually deserves. The fact that the mirror speaks directly to readers creates the impression that it is capable of meaningful observation. This illustrates the misplaced faith the women places in the mirror to show her something meaningful about herself. In the end, though, it is nothing but a reflective piece of glass

#literature #vintage #feminism #poetry

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yukiwrites · 3 years

Text

Sharing Everything

Thank you for the support and patience as always, @breeachuu! This one was so fun to write, I hope you like it! ;v;)

Summary: Wolfram worried about Dimitri, especially since his close aide was presumed dead. Besides, he wanted to say by his friend's side and help him through this turbulent time, be it through battles, grievances or finding old friends again.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

__________________________

After defending the monastery from the imperial forces, the group, under Gilbert’s advice, started to call itself, ‘the Kingdom Army’, since now they had the legitimate King within their numbers.

However, these very numbers were too few to be able to be called an ‘army’ per se. With their current forces, they would be barely able to protect the monastery, let alone conduct a head on assault on the empire. For the moment, they needed numbers to strengthen their ranks.

Rather, they needed everything that went into maintaining an army: funds, resources, people, soldiers… Their forces were composed of the loyal knights that followed Gilbert’s attempt of searching for the prince; the Knights of Seiros under Byleth and the former classmates (with whatever help from their Houses they could bring).

With what they currently had, there was a dire need of help to make up the bulk of their army -- and the only place they could look to at that moment was at the dukedom of Fraldarius, Felix’s home.

“Once we settled here, I sent word to Lord Rodrigue about His Highness, but perhaps I should send another one, for precaution.” Gilbert commented once they all sat down for a meeting. “The dukedom might be busy fighting in the frontlines, but they’re the largest remaining loyal territory, so our options aren’t much at the moment…”

“I’ll send word to my old man about it, but I’m sure whatever news about the boar there will be enough to have him running.” Felix grumbled as usual, openly glaring at Dimitri, who stood cross-armed by the wall instead of sitting down amongst everyone.

Wolfie glanced between the two of them, wondering who they were talking about. From the looks of it, this Lord Rodrigue person seemed to be someone who held Dimitri at a very high regard. That was good! Dimitri needed all the support he could get, honestly.

Having that in mind, the half-manakete waited anxiously for the reply, though for different reasons than his peers. Of course, he wanted them to have the numbers to fight back as much as anyone, but the most important part was to have another ally by Dimitri’s side. Wolfie could see how having people around him started to affect Dimitri little by little.

He spoke more now, outside meetings -- though they were short, usually one-word replies -- and made himself scarce around places people were busy cleaning. Wolfram also saw Dimitri take walks during the night (while he stretched his wings), lingering on places that seemed to have held importance to him in the past: the Goddess Tower, the garden right outside the ballroom as well as the… entrance to the Holy Mausoleum.

Wolfram could imagine what sort of memories each and every one of these places brought Dimitri, but to only watch and be unable to help- it was agonizing.

He respected Dimitri’s decision to be left alone, so he simply did everything he could AROUND Dimitri to be of help to him, be it delivering his meals or just hanging around him during slow afternoons… But to watch him wander during the night, unable to sleep as he was haunted by the past… that was too much.

Wolfie silently landed beside Dimitri as the prince headed back to the cathedral, his sensitive ears picking up some mumblings coming out of Dimitri’s lips.

“It’s not like that, Glenn…” Dimitri trudged towards the center of the cathedral, illuminated by the moonlight that seeped through the holes on the ceiling. “Please, do not doubt my resolve.” He looked up, as though he was talking to someone of a higher plane than his. “Father, Stepmother… And you too, Dedue. I shall bring you her head. Once I do, finally, you will finally be at peace…”

Wolfram’s heart ached at the mention of Dedue’s name, as though Dimitri was actually talking to the dead. Clutching his chest, Wolfie felt a lump in his throat prevent him from saying anything. Instead, Dimitri turned to him, unfazed, as though he knew Wolfram was there all along.

The exhaustion behind those once-clear blue eye of his made Wolfie’s nose itch with upcoming tears. “Dimitri, um-”

“What do you want?” Dimitri’s voice ran cold, like a running river, deep within the mountain. His gaze was glazed over with exhaustion, but his body was firm, leaving no openings for any sudden attack.

Trembling as he struggled to hold back his tears, Wolfie bit his lower lip, looking down to Dimitri’s feet. “I just… came to check on you. I was stretching my wings and saw you walk around the monastery, so I got worried and-”

“I have never felt better, Wolfram.” Dimitri’s low, deep-reaching voice squeezed Wolfie’s heart like it had a hand of itself. “As we prepare to launch an attack on Enbarr, we move ever closer… I move closer to having her head.”

Crushed under the weight of Dimitri’s grief and pain, Wolfie simply nodded, unable to hold back the tears anymore. “Mhm, we’ll do our best do win this, Dimitri… for you, for everyone.”

Dimitri slowly closed his eyes, raising his head to the moon. “Yes… for everyone who’s died so far. The dead will have their revenge.”

Wolfram felt some sort of disconnection between what he and Dimitri meant, despite their words being basically the same. Dimitri was being haunted by the darkness of his past and by the death of his loved ones, so his words held meaning in that sense.

However, was it truly alright for him to guide his every step through the will of the dead? Wouldn’t that be… sad? His human lifespan was already short as it was, so to focus it on anything other than oneself would only make him suffer, no?

Still, although his actions would lead to his own self accomplishment, it would also mean the end of the war -- and wasn’t peace a worthy objective to fight for? Wasn’t it the whole reason many of the people around Wolfram had dedicated their lives to? If it was okay for THEM to fight for peace, why was it different for DIMITRI to do so, spurred by his own ideals?

He was suffering, yes, but if he said that he would feel better once everything was over, then who was Wolfram to say otherwise?

The half-manakete couldn’t say anything, despite his mind working tirelessly to unravel that knot his brain had become. Dimitri simply trudged back to a dark corner where the moonlight didn’t reach to sit down and close his eyes as Wolfram stood in place for a few more hours before the light of dawn startled him into running back to the dormitories.

Word from Lord Rodrigue was well received by the army, as he had agreed to send reinforcements and supplies to their cause. The only condition, or rather, the necessity, was that they had to meet halfway between the dukedom and the monastery, at the Valley of Torment, since Fraldarius was the center of the frontlines.

The name of the place itself was enough reason to make one worry about going there, but Dimitri seemed pleased with that outcome, as he had smirked and said that the imperial dogs wouldn’t go through the extreme weather to stop them.

Regardless of where, their next step was finally set in stone: to the Valley of Torment to receive Rodrigue’s men, so they could finally begin their war against the Empire in earnest.

A week or so after Wolfram had told Caspar and Dorothea about his secret, the shorter man asked to be brought during one of these ‘wing stretches’ of Wolfie’s.

Wolfram wasn’t a physical type fighter, so finding a comfortable position for him to carry Caspar around was difficult. Caspar could be short, but he was well fit and full of muscles, so he was heavier than what Wolfie could handle.

He had suggested Caspar to fly on Aquilo, but although that would also be great, Caspar wanted to know how it was to actually fly with wings on one’s back, so they found a better solution for the both of them: Wolfie would hold both of Caspar’s hands and fly around with Caspar’s feet dangling in the air. Of course, the one who would hold himself would be Caspar, since Wolfram’s arms wouldn’t have that much strength. Besides, Wolfie would focus all of his forces on his wings so that they could keep flapping, but the most he could do was a short 30-minutes flight around the close buildings.

That apparently had been enough for Caspar, so they decided to do it on alternate days, to give Wolfram time to recover his strength. Once Caspar bragged about it to Dorothea, Wolfie offered to carry her as well, but she seemed hesitant on flying without the proper apparatus, so she politely declined.

Instead, she liked to hear more stories of Wolfie’s family back home -- every time he talked about them, his whole face lit up with joy. In Dorothea’s eyes, the poor boy needed some joy in his life at that moment; he looked somber and somber every passing day, as he did his best to be of help to Dimitri and Byleth.

To Wolfram, those talks helped him cement an idea he had had during the five years he spent guarding Byleth during her Slumber: he wanted to tell her everything -- and that meant all of it, not the shorter version he had given Caspar and Dorothea.

He had to tell Byleth his true role and who had sent him on this mission; it felt only fair to do so towards one who now shared a power similar to his own.

Deciding on his next course of action, Wolfie would tell Byleth everything once they returned from the Valley of Torment. He didn’t want to drop such big news on her out of nowhere, especially when she was so busy she looked more haggard every day.

It was a good decision on Wolfram’s part, since the general atmosphere of their army changed completely once Rodrigue and his men arrived. There were more people to feed, but the morale was higher than ever, especially after the win against the Grey Lion of the traitorous House Rowe.

Rodrigue had also brought with him the treasure of the royal family, Areadbhar, the Hero’s Relic compatible with Dimitri’s Crest.

Now their army had the estranged King, the royal weapon, the loyalty of his faithful subjects and some numbers to start advancing on their quest towards the imperial capital.

There were objections, sure, but the course was always set: they had to end the war as quickly as possible if they wanted to save anyone, be them dead or alive. Besides, Wolfram wanted whatever was best for Dimitri and Byleth, so he would follow their decisions and stay by their side no matter what.

During the ensuing meeting, they had decided to take the Great Bridge of Myrddin; it was a relatively close place between the borders of Garreg Mach, the Alliance and the Empire, so they would need to request aid from Claude to be able to successfully cross it.

The plan itself had many details to be talked about, so apart from Gilbert, Rodrigue and Byleth, everyone else was excused -- though Dimitri’s presence would be greatly appreciated, he excused himself after the bigger decision had been made. Before leaving, however, Wolfie expressed his need to talk with Byleth in private, so the professor told him to wait for her in her quarters.

Walking the same path he had done in the past toward his shared room with Dedue made Wolfram wince as his eyes trailed towards the now empty room. Shaking his head, he entered Byleth’s unlocked room and sat by the desk, crossing his hands to put his thoughts in order.

He honestly thought that Byleth would take a while to arrive, but she was back much quicker than he imagined. Though, in truth, he had just been lost in thought for a long time in human’s standards.

“Are you alright? What did you want to talk about?” Byleth took off her coat and hung it, sitting across Wolfie without even freshening herself after the long meeting.

“Ah, I’m fine; thanks for asking, though.” He smiled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s just that, no matter how much I think, I don’t know how to say this… And I already said it once with Dimitri…” He mumbled the last part, remembering how he was also mumbling when he revealed everything to Dimitri five years ago.

Byleth thought for a moment before adding, “is it about that transformation you showed on the day of the invasion?”

“Ah, so you remember it. I was wondering how much you saw before you fell into the Slumber…”

“Slumber?” Byleth tilted her head to the side.

“Yeah, I think whatever happened at that time when your hair changed colors gave you the same powers as, well, as my species.” He bobbed his head to the sides. “Back in my world, those who have the blood of dragons have at least a few Slumbers during their lives. My Mother said it was to stabilize the power inside them, since they only get stronger as the centuries pass...”

Byleth took one hand to her chin in thought. “Hm…”

The idea that there were other worlds wasn’t foreign to her, as she herself had been thrown into a world made of pure darkness. It was surprising, however, to find out that there were more people who resembled Sothis and Rhea than she had imagined. To be called a whole new species? That was new.

Wolfie pressed on. “I came to this world to be close to the Heart of Immortals, as our, um, goddess commanded it.” He looked around as though he had said something forbidden, wincing for a moment as if he had been pinched on the ear. “So when I saw you, I knew I had to stick close to you as I felt the Presence of the Heart within you.”

Byleth moved her hand to her silent chest. “You could feel it? But not even Rhea seemed sure of it at first…”

“The dragons in this world seem different from mine? From what I saw, Lady Rhea didn’t use a dragonstone, nor did anyone seem to notice how there were two others among them…” Wolfie mumbled before adding, “back where I’m from, we learn from infancy how to feel the currents of power within living beings, mostly to be able to feel the presence of the dragon blood inside other people. We’re not very much in number, see, so it’s good to always be able to tell when there’s one of us nearby.”

Byleth remained silent, simply nodding. There was much for her to digest, what with being called a new species and dealing with the help of another world entirely; but it was at least good news to be able to discover more about herself -- and perhaps about her lost friend, Sothis.

“We will need to talk more about this, Wolfram. Thank you for giving me all this information.” The professor finally said, opening her clear eyes with conviction. “I’ll call on you to ask more questions in the future.”

“Sure!” Wolfie nodded happily. “It’s great to take this weight off of my chest, but it’s even better to be able to help in any way I can.”

“Mhm, thank you again.” Byleth smiled calmly. “Please keep on staying by Dimitri’s side until then, I can see how hard you’re trying.”

Wolfie looked down, embarrassed and sad at the same time. “Yup, leave it to me.”

They said their goodbyes before Wolfie left to his shared room with Caspar. He walked slowly, letting the cold night air keep him company until he reached the second floor. In his mind, he thought of ways to be of help to those people who had accepted him so readily within their ranks. He felt more at home than ever before, surrounded by those in whom he placed his trust.

As they marched towards the Great Bridge, Wolfram could understand why it was called ‘great’ in the first place. As he was scouting from the sky, he saw its massive size in comparison to other large bridges used to move large numbers of people.

Once Wolfie came down to report the size of the imperial forces waiting for them, there was a brief discussion of their plans.

“It matters not if they were waiting for us. I will kill them all, be it one or one hundred.” Dimitri sighed as though stating the obvious.

“We’re planning so we’re able to share the burden, don’t be like that.” Byleth tried to console, though that simply earned her a glare from Dimitri.

“What would you do, if you saw the people who stole everything from you? If you saw them right before your eyes, living carefree lives and feeling no guilt.” he raised his chin to look down on the short professor. “Would you feel nothing? Do nothing?”

After a moment of silence, he continued. “ Five years ago... Did you not deem the woman who killed Jeralt to be unforgivable? I am most certain that you did. You couldn't let her get away with her crime, so you took up your sword in pursuit.”

Byleth took a short breath, then nodded in defeat. “It’s true.”

“Precisely my point, so there is no need to concern yourself over ‘burdens’. I already carry the will of the dead.”

Felix clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You're wasting your time. There's nothing to be gained from exchanging words with a boar that has lost its mind. Every last one of us has lost someone we care for. But we choose to suppress our anger and go right on living. Revenge can't bring the dead back to life.” he shook his head and shrugged with a grimace. “What the boar is doing is simply stacking more corpses.”

After Felix said that, Wolfram couldn’t hear much of how the discussion came to an end. Since the words felt like they were directed at the knot in Wolfram’s brain, the half-manakete couldn’t help but sit on them for a bit.

Although Wolfie never really got along with Felix (and he also disliked the way he treated Dimitri), his words rang true. Perhaps the way Wolfie could help Dimitri would be within that principle…

Regardless of his feelings, the battle for the Bridge was nigh.

From atop Aquilo, Wolfie served as messenger and as an useful hit-and-run unit to strike at the soldiers protecting the ballista. That was the most dangerous weapon for him and his winged friend inside that enormous bridge -- not even the demonic beast or the long ranged mages would be as dangerous as that single weapon, so he had to take it down fast.

During one of such moves, Wolfram heard a familiar voice amidst the noise of steel meeting steel.

It was Dedue.

“Your Highness! Apologies for the late arrival.” The large man huffed, barely winded from running miles while wearing heavy armor.

“Dedue?!” Wolfram shouted from the skies, turning Aquilo’s reins towards the rear from whence Dedue came.

“You’re aliv-” Dimitri’s eye shook as he took one step towards the scarred face he had known so well. “How?”

“I will tell you everything later, but for now-” Dedue held his battle stance, looking at Dimitri when something caught his eye from the direction Wolfram came. He widened his eyes and hardened his jaw by reflex, “watch out!” He shouted.

Seeing the change in Dedue’s expression, Dimitri quickly glanced at where he had been looking, frowning deeply once he saw the ballista pointed right at Wolfram’s back. Just at the same time Dedue shouted, Dimitri flung Areadbhar towards the tower, destroying it completely.

The lance flew past Wolfram’s shoulder, landing on the tower he was coming from with a loud explosion, as though someone had used fire magic or something; but it was simply the strength of a single man.

Dimitri stomped towards the place Wolfram landed in shock, his blue eye gleaming with rage. “Don’t be careless.” He said in a grave voice as he stepped past Wolfie to retrieve his lance.

Shaking, Wolfram watched Dimitri’s back as he seemingly forgot he was in the middle of battle. “T-thank you-”

“Are you alright, Wolfram?” Alarmed, Dedue approached. “Please take better care of yourself; we can’t afford to lose you.”

“Y-yes,” Wolfram gulped, unable to stop the trembling. He even forgot how surprised and relieved he had been moments ago after seeing Dedue. “Thank you for worrying, Dedue.”

The large man simply smiled, nodded and left to be by Dimitri’s side. “You should take a rest, I shall inform the Professor of your condition.”

Wolfie’s body was cold and even his pupils were shaking. He had fought many battles at that point, but this was the first time he felt so close to death.

He couldn’t even stop to think of how Dimitri had saved him.

“Are you alright, boy?” His voice trembled. “L-let’s take shelter over there for a bit…” he dismounted Aquilo to pat him on the head, pulling the reins towards their camp right down the bridge.

Aquilo seemed to take it all in stride, so Wolfram was the one being consoled rather than the other way around. It took him a few hours to calm himself down, so when he came back to the battle, it was basically already won.

Dorothea saw him from afar and approached once Wolfie landed, worry written all over her face. “Wolfie! Are you alright? When I didn’t see you during the battle, I assumed-”

“Nyaha, thanks for worrying, Dorothea, I’m fine now!” he lied, forcing a smile. “I just got surprised by an arrow aimed at my back and was resting for a bit.”

“Oh, you silly boy, you don’t need to pretend to be okay with me!” She pulled him into a hug, though since she was shorter than him, it looked as though HE was the one hugging her. “I’m terrified every single day when we go to battle, so there’s no need to hide being afraid.”

The trembling returned, but now Wolfie had a warm hand and a friendly shoulder to rely on, which he did. He rested his head on Dorothea’s shoulder and sobbed quietly, enjoying her pats on his back.

Once night had fallen and the bridge was conquered, Wolfram finally felt well enough to welcome his lost friend with a genuine smile on his face.

“Dedue!” He ran up to the taller man, holding his big hands with his own. “I’m so glad you’re okay… So glad!”

Smiling, Dedue squeezed Wolfie’s hands. “Thank you for worrying, Wolfram. From now on, let’s do our best to support His Highness.”

“Mhm, mhm!” Wolfie nodded happily, drying a few stray tears that drenched his face.

“Wolf, man!” Caspar slapped Wolfram’s back, completely unaware of the atmosphere. “I didn’t see you during battle after a while; where were you?”

“Ah, I-I didn’t feel well, so I retreated.” Wolfie smiled awkwardly, rubbing the place Caspar slapped.

“You okay now?” Caspar looked around Wolfram before smiling and nodding to himself. “Alright, let’s go, then! I wanna show you around this bridge! I came over all the time when I was a kid, so I’ve been telling peeps where’s what.”

“Heehee, alright, let’s go!” Wolfie nodded, then turned to his other friend. “Let’s go, Dedue!”

“Yeah, man, c’mon!” Caspar pulled Wolfram who held Dedue’s hand, so the three young men went around the bridge and its towers under Caspar’s guidance.

They had decided to raise camp on the bridge itself, rather than leaving a detached part of their army to guard it and retreat back to the monastery. Besides, their next battlefield was right in front of them -- the Gronder Field, where they had had a mock battle between Houses five years ago.

Well, Wolfram had arrived right after that battle, so he shared no such memories with his classmates, but he could still feel their tension. Dorothea was especially shaken, since she was someone who abhorred all that fighting from the start -- and now, to be forced to fight their former classmates? She felt sick.

Wolfie stayed by his friend’s side during the time it took them to prepare for battle. It would probably be a three way battle, since the messenger they sent to the Alliance was still to send word back.

Byleth and Gilbert were hoping that Claude would be able to help them again like when he diverted the imperial forces’ attention away from them during the battle for the Bridge, but it seemed as though they would need to force their way through any and everything in that upcoming battle.

To Dimitri, that didn’t seem to mean much, but Dedue, Wolfie and Byleth knew better. He was much too focused on being freed from the tight grip the dead held over him to be able to focus on anything other than Edelgard.

It was said that she would appear in the battle herself, so Dimitri had been more obstinate in his convictions than ever before. He didn’t listen to Byleth when she said not to rush into battle, nor did he listen when he managed to catch up to Edelgard amidst the roaring flames of the explosions she had caused.

Watching them from the sky, Wolfram held his breath during their battle. Dimitri roared like a real lion, using everything he had in his attacks, shattering Edelgard’s armor and wounding her in a way that seemed beyond repair.

“Your head is mine now, MINE!” Dimitri threw Areadbhar to stop Edelgard from retreating, intent on tearing her limbs apart with his bare hands when Hubert teleported beside the emperor and took her away from danger. “Get back here! GET BACK HERE!” Dimitri roared, steamrolling through the heaps of soldiers that bodyblocked him from pursuing the retreating forces.

“Your Highness! You’re alive!” Rodrigue galloped to where Dimitri was, fighting his way through the soldiers that started to overwhelm the prince. “We have to retreat to the Bridge of Myrddin! The imperial reinforcements are coming!” He rushed to pull Dimitri’s hand, but the prince pointed to where Edelgard had disappeared to.

“She’s still alive! Pursue her!!” He shoved the men around him like they were life-sized dolls, his bloodshot eye focused on Fort Merceus, that stood in such a great distance it was but a dot in the horizon.

Amid the confusion of soldiers, corpses and smoke, Wolfram couldn’t see well what was going on at Dimitri’s position. He was about to lower Aquilo when he saw an unusual movement from one of their soldiers -- she was a maiden that had been recruited recently, who had been ordered to deliver messages here and there.

Instead of doing what she was tasked with, the girl headed towards Dimitri’s position with obstinate focus, as though she was about to be released from all of her suffering. Before Wolfie could even blink, he saw as the girl took out a knife and jumped at Dimitri’s defenseless back, stabbing him between his neck and shoulder.

“Argh…!” Dimitri groaned, falling on his knees from the pain.

“Diiid I take you by surprise?” The girl laughed madly, pulling the knife out only to stab him again.

Wolfram stopped breathing. He started seeing everything move very slowly. “Dimitri! Aquilo, fly, boy! Fly!” He urged his wyvern to fly with everything he had, but Wolfie could see that he wouldn’t make it in time before she struck again. Dimitri wouldn’t hold on if she aimed for his neck again… “NO!” Wolfram jumped out of Aquilo in desperation, transforming as he zoomed towards the girl with his weapon in hand.

He was seeing red.

Not Dimitri, not him! He thought as his brain shook with the impact of ramming into the girl right after she landed the third blow. He could hear the sound of blade piercing flesh, unknowing if that was his own weapon on the girl’s blade on Dimitri’s neck.

“Dimitri!” He gasped as he got up from the girl’s lifeless body, turning around quickly. The sight that greeted him was Dimitri holding Rodrigue’s fallen body instead. Breathing quickly as his senses were exponentially enhanced due to the transformation, Wolfie saw everything in slow motion.

“Rodrigue!!” Dimitri shouted, his voice shaking. Color had returned to his face as though to remind him he still numbered within the living.

“Are you safe…? Tell me it wasn’t in vain…” The thin man raised his hand to Dimitri’s blood-soaked cloak. The wound wasn’t deep, but since it was on the neck, it bled a lot.

“No, no, NO! Don't die... Please, don't die, Rodrigue!” Dimitri’s chin trembled. “Father, Stepmother, Glenn... They all died and left me behind…”

Wolfram clutched his chest in sympathy, his own eyes shedding tears to a man he knew for such a short while but who held such a great importance to his dear friend.

Rodrigue coughed blood, his voice thinning out as life ebbed away. “None of them... none of us... died for you. I'm dying for what I believe in... just as they did.” He caressed Dimitri’s cheek one last time, smiling with the last of his strength. “Your life is your own. It belongs to no other, living or dead. Live for what you believe in…” His voice faded, and his hand fell limp beside his body.

“Rodrigue…!” Dimitri sobbed as he clutched the still warm body. Wolfie held back the urge of hugging him there and then, wanting to respect his friend’s space to grieve.

Besides, he felt a burning stare on him, so after finally taking his gaze away from the scene, he saw how many of his classmates and fellow soldiers looked at him with appalled expressions. Widening his eyes, Wolfram noticed that he was still transformed.

As though in a daze, Wolfie called back his wings and scales, so shook he didn’t even know where to begin thinking.

There was too much going on.

Noticing the air of confusion, Byleth quickly asserted the situation and barked orders here and there for the people to get back to their senses. “Ingrid, go bring Mercedes right away, and Sylvain, call Felix over here. You and you there, go search into that girl and find me everything you can about her.”

The way she calmly but effectively put the people to work made them focus on the most pressing matters, though there was still shock in their minds.

There was so much going on.

On top of all that, it started raining on their way back to the Bridge. Since Gronder Field was a wide plain, the terrain soon became hard to march on, but none of the soldiers complained about it. They marched back in silence, under the thundering sound of the rain muddying their boots.

Wolfie couldn’t take his eyes off of Dimitri, so he simply followed the march back to the Bridge, unable to think about what to say to everyone else. Instead, he couldn’t take Dimitri’s tear stained face out of his head.

He looked so… miserable. He had been a man who had lost everything not only once, not twice, but now three times. It was enough grief to break a lesser man, and Dimitri had collapsed under its weight for a long time.

Wolfie was scared of what Dimitri could do now that he had lost the last of the family he had ever had. And so, he saw how Dimitri had watched their classmates bury Rodrigue at the Bridge’s graveyard and left for the stables.

His heart aching, Wolfram followed from a ways behind, the rain muffling his steps. He saw how Dimitri passed by the horses, pegasi and wyverns dragging his wounded body, uncaring of his own wellbeing. Then, he passed the stables and headed to the exit that led to the woods.

“No…!” He was going to leave! “Dimitri!” Wolfie ran up to the staggering man, blocking his way.

“What do you want?” Dimitri asked with a heavy voice. It carried SO much weight it made Wolfram wince.

“Where are you going? The dormitories are that way…”

Dimitri lowered his head. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Wolfie bit his lip. “It does! You’re-” he hesitated before lowering his head so Dimitri could look him in the eyes even with his lowered gaze. “You’re going to Enbarr, aren’t you? By now, she must’ve left Fort Merceus…”

“And what is it to you?” Dimitri sighed deeply, and Wolfie noticed how his lips were blue from the cold rain.

“I’m worried about you! I want this war to end as much as anyone, but your wellbeing matters more to me now than ending things quickly.”

“How selfish. Should I let the dead wait any longer when their respite is right within my grasp?” Dimitri clenched his fist.

Wolfie shook his head. “You know, I’m still confused about all this. It took me a long time to think about what to say to you in this sort of situation.” Wolfie felt his own body shaking from the cold, but compared to the freezing fear inside his chest with the thought of losing Dimitri, that was nothing.

“Do not even start with the nonsense about how I should move on with my life for their sake. That is merely the logic of the living. It's meaningless. Those who died with lingering regret... They will not loose their hold on me so easily.” Dimitri’s body slouched over, so tall and imposing, yet so exhausted and spent.

“Mhm, I didn’t even think about that, honestly. It’s just… humans’ lives are so short. Are you alright with dedicating your life to something someone failed to do while they were alive and then wasting your own life with that? Isn’t it better to do what you think it’s best and honor them as best you can? I don’t know any of them to say ‘hey, they wouldn’t want you to do that’, but I know that I wouldn’t want you to do that. Neither would Byleth, or Rodrigue, or Dedue… We, too, want you to be alive and do things you want to do.”

“Short lives, huh…” Dimitri scoffed, though Wolfie’s words held weight on his chest. “Tell me, Wolfram… What should I do, then? They all died because of me. They died in my place; I was the one who was supposed to be there, haunting them. And yet, the one left alive was me, to carry on their burdens; their wishes.”

Wolfie sneaked his hands into Dimitri’s, bringing them to his own chest. The beating of his heart contrasted with the heavy rain, but that was somehow soothing to Dimitri.

“You suffered enough, Dimitri. I think… I think you could forgive yourself a little. Maybe try to do something you want to do instead of what they tell you. After all, it’s your life.” Wolfie smiled, unable to tell if the water dripping from his face was from the rain or from his tears.

Dimitri slowly placed his head on Wolfie’s shoulder, warm tears falling from his nose. “As the survivor of that day, am I… Am I allowed to live for myself?”

Instead of replying, Wolfie wrapped his arms around Dimitri’s head, squeezing him into a the hug he had been wanting to give ever since they met again.

Despite both of them being drenched in that rain, the warmth of their bodies… the warmth that was characteristic of the living… it was still there.

“Your arms are so warm… have they always been?” Dimitri sobbed into Wolfie’s shoulder, hugging him back with the urge of a lost child who had finally found their purpose. Closing his eyes, Wolfie did everything he could to be there for Dimitri, even if that meant sharing what little warmth he could in that rain.

#fire emblem three houses #fe3h #fatesona #dimitri fire emblem #fodlansona #my writings #yuki's commissions

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jonathankatwhatever · 1 year

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I’ve been doing some of the moves I do to extend functionality. What a terrible sentence. I got stuck on a beginning, and that was a poor choice, but it was the best I could do.

Some sad excuse for thinking. And what I mean by that is I couldn’t find a way to get into this PlaySpace, into this iteration of this conversation in which ideas come to me that I have never seen before, that I never considered. And we’ve isolated the process by which that occurs, through Dimensional Reduction, because a PlaySpace is a Dimensional Enclosure, which finally completes that idea and also generates a layer in the metaphor of being inside the egg, which completes the metaphor of the grid and fertilization of the imagination that renders into you. That sentence was a wild ride in my head because I clearly saw each stage and I had to type a summary idea for each stage as it went by, without looking away too much, meaning without focusing so much on the process of the words that the mysterious levels disconnected, meaning the connection remained open, meaning I enacted the words as the natural outgrowth of each of those visual stages.

I was thinking last night - it’s 29 Jan 2023 - about what a level is. That is, given the conception of 1, which reminded me finally of the old conception of relative unit 1 or ru1, which I remember loving because it asks the identity question ‘are you 1’. What makes a level is a count of 1, but that’s a 1 in ideal 1Space, meaning it’s a 1-0Segment which represents the versions of what becomes real. Think about that: it’s obvious when you see it. Each point on the real line, which is uncountable, represents a version of whatever dimensions come together to make that point, so each real point represents the dimensions which surround it, which reduce to it, which is this work, and wow. Did not see that coming at all. So, I just learned that this work connects to the reals by defining them as Ends which represent the Dimensional Reduction to that End, and an End is the boundary of DR as it applies to any Thing. A Thing has two parts, the tangible Thing we label a tObject and an intangible Thing we label the iObject. I like the label iObject in part because it sounds like a conscience objecting to animal instincts.

This structure means we can assign a value to a value, as in 5 might count 5 fingers or 5 elephants. Think about that; I doubt it’s as obvious as the last. What’s happening is the counting itself decouples from meanings, meaning those radiate outward to connect to meanings like how you gonna feed the elephants and thus are you a circus or a sanctuary or another elephant hosting a party, which isn’t far-fatched if you include Things which don’t include tObjects, which are thus intangible Things which link to something tangible. That might be as basic a connection as ‘this is a story’, made up by others or by yourself, which means what is then obvious, that intangible Things exist uncountably in relation to any tangible Thing, which of course explains why DNA and other chains can occur though they are long and made of letters or pieces, that out of all that potential this occurs. It’s also like the thought that keeps repeating that the Monster Group is huge but it’s 1 if you count Monster Groups. That is, the structure is the solution to those calculations, and it exists from higher dimensions, meaning both that it is a DE and that it occurs because of DR. It’s a DE because we see how many calculations can occur within the space we can see, meaning that we can see DNA and can identify the chunks and can calculate the odds and can calculate effects, and these are all 0Space calculations, meaning they use the tObjects, that which is tangible, and that which is tangible occurs in 0Space because the process of DR generates grid squares which translate 1Space into 0Space.

If you want a summary reason why Bell’s Inequality, that is the idea. It’s the literal translation of the shift over 1Space into 0Space.

Need a break. Need to go for a walk before I become a male and watch football.

——

I started this by wanting to talk about how the devil is a creation of the mind, and that this is embodied in the notion, which works out to be mathematically true, that you are confronted with yourself. That’s a direct consequence of yesterday’s work.

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libermachinae · 3 years

Text

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part II: Breathe - Chapter 5: Thoughts Expand in Blooms

Also available on AO3! Summary: The consequences of Ratchet and Rodimus' chase become known. Chapter Word Count: 2644

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“Try again.”

“Yes, sir. Rodimus, come in Rodimus. This is Blaster, coming to you live from the Lost Light command deck. Do you read me? Status and further instruction requested. Over.”

Years of handling the Wreckers’ fluctuating schedules meant it was no effort for Ultra Magnus to resist rubbing his optics as he watched the progress of their three recovery speeders. Siren, Crossblades, and Waverider had launched with minimal deviations from standard procedure (Crossblades would receive a write-up for nonessential helical rotation) and tracked Arcee’s shuttle up to acceptable pursuit range. That was where the chase had stalled, as Rodimus had provided no further instructions and protocol required command from a captain before they could proceed. Either captain.

Protocol fell apart when one refused to leave his hab and the other had stopped answering his comms. Magnus started mentally writing up a proposal for temporary transfer of pursuit command responsibilities while they waited.

The control panel refreshed as the latest information poured in. The speeders were entering upper atmosphere, rotating in pyramid formation in the shuttle’s trail. Acceleration had decreased to the minimum required to maintain orbit and altitude held steady as they sailed through Scarvix’s exosphere.

“Ultra Magnus, I have a visual on Rodimus’ ship,” Bluestreak reported.

“Pull it up.”

The datafeeds compressed to the right of the screen, replaced with the compound live feed from the speeders, displaying the shuttle’s stern, the glow of its thrusters closer to a lightbulb than anything spaceworthy. The engines were keeping it aloft, but there was an unnatural stillness about it, like debris floating through space.

“Again.”

Blaster adjusted settings on the ship’s communications hub and leaned into the mic.

“Rodimus, come in Rodimus. This—”

There was a crackle and buzz as the ship’s receiver finally picked up a signal.

“This is Rodi—ack, Ratchet, this is Ratchet. We read you.”

Blaster’s shoulders relaxed as he transferred primary input to the third in command’s station, but Magnus did not match his relief. Underneath the fritz of the shuttle’s poorly maintained equipment, Ratchet’s voice was shaking.

“Ratchet, this is Ultra Magnus. Report.”

“Report. Report… um, Arcee’s gone. We lost her. Satellite. Crash. Is Cyclonus there?”

“No. What is your—”

“Get him,” Ratchet interrupted.

“Where is Rodimus?” Magnus asked. Ratchet was supposed to be one of the good ones, recognizing his place within the chain of commands. Making demands was out of character for him.

“Here! I’m here,” Rodimus’ voice crackled down the line. “Present. Available. Get Cyclonus.”

Magnus sent the ping and tagged it urgent. Cyclonus had never been known for tardiness, but that put it on the record.

“What is your status?” he asked as he acknowledged Cyclonus’ response.

“Good! Weird? Ratchet is banged up, which is bad. He suffered impact shock in his lower spinal strut, chance there’s a disk… how do I…”

Magnus’ orbital ridge twitched, a coding bug when expression protocols tried to assign a profile to stress of unknown origin. He wiped the cache, regaining his neutral set, and sent a command to have the speeders approach the shuttle. Visual on the command deck would be helpful, but flight integrity was his main concern. If neither Rodimus nor Ratchet was in the right mind to pilot, they would need to engage in emergency grounding maneuvers.

“Ratchet, are you still there? Rodimus sounds incoherent; what is his status?”

“He’s fine.” His voice was briefly drowned out by shuffling and crashing on the other end. “—cessor’s functioning normally. It’s loud, but it’s working.”

“He’s overheating?” Magnus asked.

“Not his fans, his thoughts.”

“Is his comm link malfunctioning?”

“He’s bright like the goddamn sun. I can barely get two words in. Will you shut that off? ”

“Ratchet?” Speeders were closing in.

“Not you.”

“Stop yelling at me!” Rodimus snapped, volume raising and lowering like he was pacing around the microphone. “I heard you the first time.”

“I don’t see how. I can barely hear myself.”

“Aw, poor Rodimus, doesn’t get to hear his own voice.”

“ You’re Rodimus, that’s my line.”

“Rodimus, Ratchet, Waverider is en route to board,” Ultra Magnus interjected. “If you are able, please lower the hatch for arrival, otherwise he will engage emergency stove—”

“No, don’t!”

It wasn’t just that they shouted at the same time, but that Rodimus and Ratchet’s voices matched in pitch, tone, and cadence which caused Magnus, for the third time in his life, to forget what he had been saying.

“Is Cyclonus there?” Rodimus asked.

“There’s something on board,” Ratchet said. “Don’t know what it is, but you can’t let anyone else get near it.”

“It did a weird thing. I’m Rodimus, but also I’m Ratchet? And both?”

“Those sound like the same things, Rodimus,” Magnus said, half distracted as he instructed Waverider to return to position.

“They’re not,” Ratchet said.

“Sir?” Cyclonus’ voice came as a blessing. Magnus gestured him forward.

“Cyclonus just arrived,” he announced. “Cyclonus, Rodimus and Ratchet uncovered something on Arcee’s shuttle. It’s…” He blanked.

“I can feel Ratchet’s processor,” Rodimus said, rushing like it would make any of this comprehensible. “He’s thinking and it’s all really fast and hard, but it’s not rough like you would expect? Like, the feeling of grit in your gears, I thought it would be like that, but it’s more like there’s just a lot of gears and it takes a lot of power to turn them all, and it’s too hard to decide whether to focus on just one or the entire thing. And he keeps thinking about me and my thoughts and how they’re not like that, and I’m thinking about him, and then I get stuck because all the thoughts start to sound the same and I don’t know which ones came from me or which are Ratchet or even which me is me. It’s all a big thought reservoir, a—a thought battle, an entire brain war and I don’t know which side I’m on!”

Cyclonus’ gaze was steady at the screen. Once it was clear that Rodimus was done, he leaned over the microphone.

“Can you send an image of the object?” he asked.

“Sure,” Ratchet said.

Blaster raised his hand.

“Image received.”

Ultra Magnus nodded and the feed of the shuttle was replaced with a still capture, a calamity of wires and light that took his visual center a full millisecond to parse.

“It’s the Enigma of Combination,” Cyclonus said.

“What’s that?” He could differentiate the orbital plating of the object itself and the red dwarf dew drop at its center, but the light it cast on its surroundings made his spark flicker with a disturbing fuzz.

“A plague,” Cyclonus said. “Considered a long-lost relic even in my own time. I would doubt this was the legitimate article, if Rodimus hadn’t so perfectly summarized its less infamous effects.”

“It can do more?” Magnus asked. What it had already done— whatever it had done, he still was not clear on the details—seemed itself too much for a bot to handle. Or two.

Cyclonus hesitated.

“Well, you see…”

“No. No, no, so much no, you’re kidding. Ratchet, tell me they’re kidding!”

“I don’t bloody well know!” he snapped back. He had sunk back into the pilot’s chair while Rodimus paced the bridge. His spark was spinning like a centrifuge, its engine overfed by the deluge of panicked thoughts tumbling through his mind. It was all Cyclonus and shuttle and Arcee and combination and Drift, new threads knocking each other out of the way so nothing could reach a conclusion, just endless half-thoughts pinged repeatedly. Worst was when Rodimus tripped over the junk now scattered across the bridge as it brought everything to a shuddering halt, like a whole expressway’s worth of engines seized up simultaneously.

He pressed his hands to his face and tried to focus on keeping his vents open, ignoring the storm of queries of Is Ratchet overheating? and Drift is going to kill me.

“I can’t be in a combiner with Ratchet!”

He hates me he hates me he hates me rattled around their processors like screws in a box.

“The Enigma has determined otherwise,” Cyclonus said.

So now the damn thing was having its own thoughts?

“It’s thinking ?” Rodimus asked, earning an additional glare from Ratchet.

“No one knows,” Cyclonus said. “It’s ancient technology, built on the same principles that govern sparks.” Principles that even modern science knew so little about. Ratchet was going to say it but froze when he felt Rodimus grab for it, tossing at it a hundred questions he had no answers to: Is that thing a person and Where do sparks come from and Would this stop if we broke it followed by another run of apologies.

“The Enigma has you in a holding pattern,” Cyclonus went on. “There aren’t enough of you to form the combiner, so it’s keeping your sparks connected until it can interface with at least one more Cybertronian.”

Ratchet saw the image that formed in Rodimus’ mind and his glower deepened.

“I don’t have the knowledge or the skills to disconnect something like that,” he said. “Sparks are complicated, Rodimus, and there’s still so much we don’t know about them. I didn’t even think it was possible to maintain a connection of this magnitude without direct contact.” Rodimus’ next idea was even worse. “Have you met your crew? The moment you put it in a box and tell no one to look, Brainstorm, Skids, and Whirl are all going to make breaking into it their personal quest.”

“Isolating the Enigma will not contain its effects,” Cyclonus added. “Because the holding pattern is an open channel, you have become conduits for the Enigma’s energies. If even one of you encounters another compatible component, it will complete the process, regardless of its distance from you.”

Rodimus stilled, then sunk to the floor, his thoughts miserably coalescing into a single thread.

“So, either we drag someone else into this mess, or we’re stuck in this shuttle, trying to think over each other forever?” Forever was steeped in darker emotions that caught Ratchet off-guard, which Rodimus immediately covered up with nonsense branches of observations about the junk on the floor. A negativity storm, Drift would have called it.

From behind, he heard Rodimus chuckle, though his thoughts betrayed little amusement.

“If I may,” Cyclonus said, interrupting no one. “Ratchet, I do respect you as a physician, but modern medicine is not the only source of knowledge concerning the Cybertronian body. Even modern theology, shallow thought it may be, offers insights to the nature of sparks that your specialty lacks.”

“No.” Ratchet scowled and shook his head, though more so at the way he felt Rodimus stirring that observation than the idea itself. “None of the woo-woo nonsense. Drift’s mindfulness agility course was bad enough.”

Unfortunately, his words made Rodimus’s thoughts expand in blooms, accompanied by shuffling as he stood to lean over the pilot’s chair.

“Drift was always trying to get me into his meditation thing,” he said. “He—he talked about the Rossum connection, how the mind impacts the spark and vice-versa. It was mostly, you know, power poses and cool sword moves, but there was more advanced stuff we didn’t get around to.”

“It could be a lead,” Cyclonus said, his grave voice somehow failing to make a dent in Rodimus’ growing enthusiasm. “I know very little about Spectralism, but if it involves manipulation of spark energies, there is a chance it could be used to counteract the effects of the Enigma.”

“Yeah, remember how Drift can see auras?” Rodimus said. “Maybe he can see where we’re tangled and just undo the knot.”

“There is no scientific backing to that kind of pandering—”

But we don’t have any other ideas.

Rodimus drew him up short, his own dearth of creativity reflected back to him as though in a mirror. Loathe though he was to admit it, Rodimus was right: they had nothing else. No leads, no one to fall back on. Cybertron’s history, the ancient mythologies that might have shed light on this technology, was lost to war and time, and all that was left was the third, fourth-hand accounts of people who claimed to know what was lost.

There was a chance Drift would have nothing to offer them, but even the possibility of guidance was an improvement over the helplessness Ratchet felt when he tried to imagine them fixing this on their own.

He received an image burst: Drift, wild and beautifully unhinged, leaping for the chance to care for Ratchet with literally open arms. Rodimus shut it down, distracting himself by counting rivets in the bridge ceiling, but vibrating embarrassment persisted between them.

“Would it be appropriate to call Drift for this?” Ultra Magnus asked, pulling the further from their internal squirming. “The truth about his role in the Overlord plan came out months ago, and since we’ve made no effort to contact him. To approach him now so he can solve this seems exploitative.”

Ratchet caught only the yellow of Rodimus’ hand before the captain vaulted over the back of the pilots’ chair, landing with a solid bang.

“I’ll take the blame,” he said.

“For what?” Ratchet asked, though he could already see it.

“For not fixing this sooner,” Rodimus said. He shrugged, a movement so automatic Ratchet did not pick up who it had been directed to. “I’m the captain. It was my responsibility and I failed. That shouldn’t doom Ratchet to having to live with my mistakes.”

He avoided Ratchet’s optics as he spoke, but Ratchet still caught his expression, the shiver of his spoiler as he spoke. It struck him that the reason Rodimus was so hard to read from an external perspective was because a single look meant so many things: frustration, guilt, grief, and hope piling on top of each other too quickly to discern where any one emotion rooted. His thoughts were going in so many directions all the time, of course it would be a challenge for everyone else to keep up.

“How do you intend to locate Drift?” Ultra Magnus asked, ever pragmatic.

“I have a tracker,” Ratchet said.

“I memorized the specifications for his shuttle,” Rodimus added, his processor spitting out the codes in full.

“And will that ship be adequate? Do you need additional supplies?”

Ratchet turned in the seat, looking around the scattered contents of the bridge, to say nothing of what their collision might have done to the storage down below. Despite the mess, he saw what looked like intact crates of potable energon, and the shuttle’s own systems were not in imminent danger of running dry.

“We’re stocked,” he said, and catching Rodimus’ primary concern, went on, “Unless Cyclonus know how far the Enigma’s effect extends, it’s going to be too risky to dock back in the Lost Light. We’ll make due with what’s here.”

“I’ll have Rewind compile you a list of known energon distributors with minority Cybertronian populations. That will be your best opportunity to refuel without risking exposure, should the need arise.”

Could the Enigma grab non-Cybertronian mechanicals? Rodimus wondered, a query Ratchet did not have the energy to entertain.

“Thanks, Mags,” Rodimus said out loud. “Take care of the place while we’re gone; you know the drill.”

“Of course, Rodimus. Uh, stay safe?”

Rodimus laughed, a sound that Ratchet felt as a golden thread, spun in a ripple through space before vanishing to nothing. He squinted, trying to make sense of what the hell that had been, but Rodimus’ burst of enthusiasm and plans for the coming journey overwhelmed him.

“Don’t worry, Ratchet’s pride will make sure I get back in one piece.”

You—!

It was going to be a long journey to the outer rim. Though Rodimus was grinning cheekily, the tense coil at the center of his thoughts agreed.

#maccadam #transformers #rodimus #ratchet #my writing #longfic #fault lines

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rametarin · 3 years

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The Fuddsucker.

I thought in my head about how to make the most milquetoast, most emasculated, most pointless firearm that the ATF would allow after whittling away every other freedom and liberty about firearm ownership. The sort of firearm that the ATF and anti-gun people would allow to exist, just as a honeypot to torture gun owners into not seeing legal gun ownership and possession as worth their trouble. Here’s what that would look like.

To start, the Fuddsucker is a handgun. Why a handgun? Because the Powers that Be that are the ATF and the masters they answer to clearly don’t mind handguns. Handguns can be used by the criminal element for small time burglary as well as mafioso work, and they cannot be used to threaten rich and powerful people from a reasonably long distance. That lack of assassination range is crucial. The ATF does not care as much about handguns, clearly, as we see in any state or city where the majority of gun crime comes from narco gangs using revolvers and pistols.

So, the gun would be a handgun. How long the barrel? Too short to be effectively accurate at any respectable range and too long to be a snub nosed for very close melee stuff. So, standard regulation orthodoxy milquetoast size.

And what would the body be made of?

Cheap steel. Designed both for easy detection by law enforcement and feds using state-of-the-art metal detectors if they need to find it, as well as to force the person to clean it often. If it’s not cared for and well maintained, the firearm owner is considered negligent and unfit for firearms ownership, and the property seized.

And what sort of bullet would it fire?

Why, a special, proprietary bullet, of course. This bullet would be a composite type material, because it’d be better for the planet than lead. It’d also be very light. Lighter than copper or bronze, and unable to be melted down to be re-used upon impact. Because can’t have metals that could be used to smelt bullets, can you? No that’d be against the law. So the bullets have to be one-shot and then lost forever unless you have a machine capable of manufacturing more of them.

This bullet would be of a caliber that was too small to do more than wound a person. We’re talking, ‘Makes the .22 look roided up by comparison’. Like the Kolibri’s ammo. Maybe it’d embed in their skin and possibly get infected and gangrenous, but the infection would be more dangerous than the penetration. You MIGHT be able to shoot a rat with it, but then you might get busted for your mental health. The bullets would come individually in tiny boxes like Funko Pops, each with their own serial number and little inaudibly chirping signature that the gun can read. The bullets’ proprietary nature allows them to assign them to a person based on an account they have with the company- which is one proxy removed from the ATF having a national gun registry- and so they can see both how many bullets you’ve bought in the past, how many bullets you currently have on you, how many bullets you’ve personally fired and how many were fired from that gun specifically. And they can limit how many bullets you’re ultimately allowed to own before raising the flags and deciding someone needs to go to your house and collect the, “excess.” You know, so you don’t get any funny ideas about hoarding ammunition for any reason.

The gun itself would not be analog and mechanical, it’d be electronic. The computer IS the firing mechanism. No computer, no functional firing mechanism. The Fuddsucker is built to monitor itself and the integrity of its systems. If it falsely or correctly senses it has been disconnected, it peeps wirelessly to home. If Home loses connection with your Fuddsucker, they phone call you to let you know, “the gun isn’t able to chirp at us to let us know it’s fully intact and healthy. You need to assess that and get it functional within 92 hours, or we’re sending someone to confiscate it. And if we can’t, you’ll be imprisoned for criminal negligence for allowing your gun to be stolen.”

The Computerized Fuddsucker would have tiny diode cameras that take pictures of whatever you’ve fired it at at the second of fire to upload them to the home site of the Fuddsucker company, for legal posterity. The gun snitches on its own GPS location, right down to the millimeter, and the vector or angle the barrel is pointed at, every single second and the exact time it fires.

The gun also will only allow you to chamber a single bullet at a time and deliberately makes the reloading process as tedious as possible while still pretending to be practical about it. So you get one singular round, and the chamber has small glowing OLEDs that light up to display when there’s a bullet in the chamber. A pressure sensor on the trigger makes these OLEDs turn red and glowing and make a tiny, consistent whining noise when your finger is on the trigger. You know, so it’s impossible for you to use the gun silently and stealthily at all.

Returning to the bullets; each bullet has to be purchased individually for a premium, and its own case serves as a gun case. To free each bullet from its case, you have to phone the company and get it authorized to use each bullet individually. Where they would write down your consent and request to utilize each individual bullet by its unique identity and signature.

The gun itself keeps a biometric lock record of all the people that have touched or held the gun, whether it was loaded or not, for evidence purposes. And you have to be holding the gun when requesting authorization for the company to allow the bullet mini-safe to open. If you break the case and remove the bullet from it without this compliance, you will be considered in violation of federal law and that will be taken as intent to commit an unlawful act.

The bullets themselves store in their own separate ammunition safe, proprietary to the company. Only bullets of that particular company are allowed to be stored inside of the compnay ammunition safe; cameras inside must be accessible to the company at any time with a live webcam feed, with a weight sensor. Any boxes of ammo discovered that are not that caliber or round and it will be considered a misdemeanor and mishandling of the gun. The ammunition safe is also biometric as well as password protected, and access is permitted only by phoning the company meanwhile for facetime.

Similarly, the gun itself has to be accessed this way, and the gun safe has to be kept in another part of your home. If your home is too small for regulatory gun safety, that’s too bad. You couldn’t have it in an apartment building, because you wouldn’t have enough distance between them. Tough shit, peasant.

In order to acquire your Fuddsucker gun, you’d need firearm insurance and to sign a waiver to all “unnecessary searches and seizures.” Just possessing the Fuddsucker means that absolutely no forms of monitoring or tapping or eavesdropping on your transmissions, conversations or contacts is considered a violation of your civil rights, because it’s in the interests of making sure you don’t go ham with your big scary gun. The Firearm Insurance industry is very pricey, and medal prices go up to handle firearm injuries or fatalities, forcing firearms owners to pay out the ass in order to legally possess and take part in firearms culture. And if you won’t play the game this way? No right to participate for you. And anyone that misuses the Fuddsucker brand firearm opens the Fuddsucker company up to being sued out of commission as liable for every injury sustained to any person shot with them.

As the Fuddsucker also records every angle and direction and GPS location and time every shot is fired, every bullet is a snitch, every bullet is individually registered and chirps its status and location every second to headquarters, it will know exactly what surface it hit, where the bullets went, where they were fired from and whom fired them. They will always know exactly what inanimate objects were damaged or destroyed, and the shooter as well as the insurance company will both have to pay an absolute premium for the destruction of both private and public property, as well as face heavy fines for negligent discharge of a firearm and willful destruction of property, possibly resulting in seizure of property, jail time and a permanent criminal record.

In addition to all this, a middleman for the Fuddsucker company will show up at your house unnanounced for the random inspection in person to make sure all your guns and all bullets registered to you are still there, the safes are intact, your papers are all together, you don’t have any hint of domestic problems- from the main or extended family, and to make sure you don’t have signs of ownership of any analog firearm, or “hostile or harmful paraphanelia,” like bump stocks, suppressors or scary over or under barrel attachments for lights or laser scopes, like some sort of Hollywood spy or assassin!

In order to acquire your Fuddsucker brand firearm, you have to go through an expensive gun training course that “deprograms” and “decolonizes” you of your “whiteness.” Said history course will go over how your, “whiteness” is evil, behind all atrocities on planet earth, the warming of the planet, the marginalization of minorities, the deprivation of non-white communities across the globe, and these aspects of gun ownership WILL be on the test. If you are not white, you’ll automatically score higher on all written portions and fewer points will be deducted for spelling errors or grammar mistakes, because, “That is English spoken by your culture! It’s not wrong!” Accepting that you are an oppressor just by sitting at a table with another human being of a different skin color, or that a white man is your oppressor for doing such, will be as important a lesson in gun handling and safety, as trigger discipline. And if you answer wrong or dissent to answering that way, you fail the course and cannot be trusted with a firearm, as well as getting flagged for potential criminal or hate crime activities. You will be time gated from applying to the course again for a minimum of a year, to incentivize getting it right the first time. And while you’re there it might also improve your odds to donate cash or property to BLM, or any of another dozen groups.

The gun would also feature faux-wood paneling, like a cross between an electronic cigarette and a 1970s station wagon. Because only evil terrorist white supremacist gun nuts use metallic finishes on “AR style” firearms. Nice happy farmer firearms have wood grain texture. But, this wood pattern is merely aesthetic. Underneath the thin veneer are sensors that measure pressure. If it senses you’re addding after-market stocks or accessories, it squeals to home. The gun safe itself that constantly monitors the presence of your Fuddsucker’s state will be alerted, and if the undesired pressure on the skin exists too long, a representative will tele-conference with you and demand to see the gun to make sure you aren’t applying something like a bump stock, or an illegal stock to it. If you do not comply, they’ll send law enforcement to seize the gun. If the machinery is malfunctioning, they’ll send a technician to take your gun from you for refurbishing. Expect to lose access to your firearm for 4-6 weeks, and forever if they determine (correctly or incorrectly) that the cause of the damage was willful negligence or malfeasance.

You will also pay, over the course of your life, for the cost of the gun transferring back to the company (government.) Your next of kin will not inherit your firearms, but the family gets a 100 day window to proactively pursue taking up your legal firearm. If they have the property, papers, are deemed mentally fit, are willing to start paying the insurances, all of that themselves, sign the papers, then they can inherit your gun. The gun’s history will be updated for the new owner as if they bought it fresh from the company, and they’ll have to pay the cost for every bullet in the gun safe as well as for the gun safes as if they were new to transfer legal ownership to them, regardless of their condition or any improvements to the makes or models over the last 5-50 years of the product’s existence.

And after all of this, you’ll still have anti-gun people asking, “What do you need a gun for? Really? What are you going to do with that? Stop a tyrannical government? They have full auto and nuclear bombs and fighter jets. You have a Fuddsucker, Farmer Jimbob. :^) What are you going to do with that?”

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