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bracketsoffear · 11 months

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Columbo (Columbo) "A shrewd but inelegant blue-collar homicide detective whose trademarks include his shambling manner, rumpled beige raincoat, cigar and off-putting, relentless investigative approach. Columbo was the master of perp sweating. Though he generally settles on his horse from the outset, he never lets on, instead worming his way into their confidence via fawning adulation, begging their assistance as he "solves" the case. Usually he forces them to weave a huge web of lies until he can finally pull the thread — justified because he's always right. Without letting on that he suspects the perp, he'd have long, seemingly innocuous conversations with the murderer who would get more and more frustrated as they tried to get this annoying man to go away, and thus already be off-balance when the topic turned to holes in their cover-up. Columbo's favorite move was seeming to leave once the suspect thought they'd thrown him off the scent, then turning around and adding "Just one more thing," knocking them on their heels. He's overly nice to people in a bloodhound sort of way; he convinces people that he's just a country bumpkin more interested in whatever 'hat' the villain wears than solving the crime, only to reveal in the end a cold detachment and clinical mind that the bumpkin persona allowed free rein. He plays with the feelings of the criminals, making them like him (more often than not) or at least pity him and drop their guard, or he pushes them subtly and continuously to the point where they break. He attributes his success to merely working harder, thinking longer, and looking closer than anyone else would. However, Columbo has solved every case put before him onscreen (he sometimes claims that he only solves about a third total, but this could well be part of the humility act) and hasn't gotten his man only once — in which case the perp was dying anyway. In true classic mystery fashion, each episode wraps up with the Lieutenant confronting his prey with his train of deduction, culminating in the vital clue; the perp may not confess, but they know, and the viewer knows, they have been beaten. He also possesses an encyclopedic knowledge on some subjects, which he usually hides, and has explained to colleagues that his wife believes there is "something wrong" with him."

Cecil Palmer (Welcome to Night Vale) "I know he won last time, but I honestly think he deserves it. He is seemingly all knowing about current events in the town and sometimes reports them in a similar way to fear statements. I don't pay enough attention to all the lore to know exactly how he knows all the goings-on all the time, so it seems spooky to me. Though there is no canon description of him having a third eye he is often depicted with one, and a huge eye is a part of the logo. Being watched is also a theme throughout Nightvale, with the government agents who are always outside your house, or the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home"

#eye poll #the magnus archives #the eye #poll #columbo #welcome to night vale #wtnv

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fierypen37 · 5 years

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Throne of Lies

Here’s a Dark! ficlet that wouldn’t go away. Set decades after the GoT ending. Evil!Bran and my tinfoil theories.

Throne of Lies

The city hadn’t improved much since he’d last seen it. All evidence of the Burning of King’s Landing had been washed away, but the city shrunk into itself. Haggard and creaking, like an old man. Much like Jon himself. The decades had not been kind. No peace could find him. Not in the wilds beyond the Wall, not among the black brothers of the Watch. Days haunted by guilt and nights spent sleepless with uneasy ghosts. I killed the woman I loved.

Brandon the Broken, First of His Name did not rule a peaceful realm. Soon after his crowning, Dorne and the Iron Islands rose in rebellion, and won free after a long and bloody war. Edmure Tully was killed in battle, and the other kingdoms gobbled up his lands. Robin Arryn fell from his horse and died, and the Vale was consumed by civil war as the noble families fought for supremacy. Famine ravaged the North in the heart of winter and the now independent kingdom could not rely on the Reach’s fertile land for aid, despite Queen Sansa’s pleading. Plague and lawlessness followed. Rule of law held by the barest threads. All this Jon learned from monthly letters from Grandmaester Samwell, who often detailed his struggles in his new position. There was an irritating subtext that Jon could aid his brother the king in service instead of rotting on the Wall.

Jon reined up his garron at the gate the Red Keep. Rotting at the Wall is all I deserve. Queenslayer and kinslayer. Oathbreaker and evil bastard. The guards there bore the device of a weirwood tree with gaping red eyes on their breasts.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, ser,” one said, no older than thirty. The wary awe in the guard’s eyes irked him. Jon’s bones ached down to the marrow, from the long ride and the deeper burden that plagued him always. He felt so very old and weary.

“My mother and brother died in the Burning, ser. Thank you for what you did. You saved us from the Mad Queen.”

The words winded him like a blow. Gods, Daenerys. That one moment destroyed everything you built. Now they know you as the Mad Queen. Not the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons. Jon stared at the boy, hoping his cold loathing was plain on his face. There was none he hated more than himself.

“The king?” Jon croaked at last, peeling off his gloves and tucking them through his belt. Best face his brother at once. Neither sleep nor food would tempt him away. Not after the urgency of the summons.

“Of course, this way,” the other said, ushering him in.

The Red Keep fared little better than the rest of the city. Wind creaked through barren, dusty halls. The only ornamentation was the weirwood banners and raven sigils. The melted Iron Throne had been replaced with a plain square chair of polished iron wood, carved with the strange spiral designs of the Children. Seated upon it was the king, serene and unblinking as always. His head bowed, as if in prayer, his long black hair threaded with silver. He looks old. The thought was rueful. Near fifty, Jon felt stooped and wasted. His gut rebelled at being here of all places. Gods, just there she had kissed him, held his face even as the knife--

“Bran?” Jon said softly. Bran lifted his head, his lean cheeks clean-shaven.

“Jon, thank you for coming.” That same colorless voice, flat and even.

“I was summoned,” Jon said, not bothering to temper the heat in his tone, “you could have killed Tormund, warging into him like you did. He was insensate for a week.” A fugitive amusement lit those bottomless eyes. Hadn’t they once been blue? Now they looked as dark as Asshai’i black amethysts.

“I needed to be sure you received my message,” he said. Jon exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils. What use was he to anyone?

“I did. And now I’m here. What do you want?”

“I need your help with something.”

“And no other man in the Seve—Six Kingdoms can aid their king in this but me? What need have you of me? I’m an old man now.” Jon scaled the three steps to the throne, looking Bran eye to eye. Old, broken, half-mad. I still talk to the woman I loved. The woman I killed in this very room. Each one of his scars ached as if stabbed anew. Stabbed like he stabbed her oh gods, he knew what it was to be stabbed and killed . . .

King Bran ignored his words, instead studying his face with his usual abstraction.

“I’ve watched you through the trees, through the ravens. Even beyond the Wall you were never happy. Never bedded a woman, never close with anyone but Ghost.”

“A sworn brother of the Night’s Watch can take no wife.” Jon hid the chill that went through him at the thought of Bran spying on him for years. An enigmatic, all-seeing eye. Bran steepled his long fingers.

“You still love her?”

“Yes.” The word fell from his lips with barely a thought. Tears burned in his eyes.

“Good. That’s good.” A deep, aching fury flared to life, the aged wheeze of an old dragon. How was it good? How did a single moment of his godsforsaken life have meaning?

“She fought it, you know. From the start.” Jon blinked, trying not to tremble at the cold in those words. Nothing burned like the cold.

“What?” he said.

“Daenerys. She fought my grip for quite a long time. Targaryen blood runs a bit hotter than I’m used to.” With sickening clarity, Jon felt the world shatter beneath his feet.

“You---you . . . how . . .” he stuttered, tears welling and falling from unblinking eyes. A knife-thin smile touched Bran’s lips. His eyes, oh gods, he knew that unholy blue glow.

“It took some work, but she finally broke.”

“She wasn’t mad. You broke her,” Jon said.

“You burned our forests. Slew us by the thousands. It was what you deserved. All of you.” It wasn’t Bran’s voice but a multitude, old and dry, young and sweet. The dagger was in his hand.

This time, it felt right.

It felt good.

Parting flesh and bone to pierce that black, empty heart. Bran gasped, jerking in his chair. The bloody smile chilled Jon to his marrow.

“Thank you, Jon.”

#got fic #anti got #anti bran stark #evil!bran #he used his mind powers to break Daenerys ok #poor poor Jonno #flash fic

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forceblinded · 4 months

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@alootus / some meme i can't find anymore 🥴: [ 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 ] ― sender hears receiver crying and approaches comfort them

She can't recall when last she shed any tears over this man, or the personalised torture he's exposed her to. In truth, she's begun thinking herself insensitive to it; numb to the lashes of his whip. It was the only way to shoulder the constant threat not only her life is under, but the precious few loved ones she has left.

And despite that, she simmers in the guilt she feels for putting those very same people in danger. Her own life she holds in low regard these days — she's expendable and needs no protection, but her family? Her parents, her brother, the innocents in the equation they've been inserted into? She's responsible for the repercussions they might suffer for her refusal to hand herself over to Arkken.

So she considers it for the first time, really considers it. Keldra already paid for her dogged determination with her life, and that's one person too many in Rein's eyes already. She can't push herself to ponder the matter with more feeling — at least not any feeling other than frustration, anger, even. If she does that, she'll never recover from it. She knows that much, at least.

But the alternative isn't much better. She's watching herself slide down a slippery slope now, leaning into the perception that it's solely injustice she's found in this life of late, and for what? What purpose does it serve, refusing to 'stoop to his level' — refusing to take the fight to him, to end it once and for all, one way or another ( either by letting the arms of her ire sweep her away at the expense of his life and her dedication to being good, or by losing that fight, and surrendering to his will )?

The Jedi mires in her doubt for minutes, or perhaps even hours — long enough to dissolve her resolution to never again shed a single tear for him and the hurt he's dealt her. She thinks of her demise, whether in the literal or figurative sense, for the price she'll have had to pay for it. No matter which path she takes, her current form of stasis is unviable; she must move in some direction and end his reign of terror over her once and for all.

Rein is sat there, kneeling along the edge from the waterfall-dotted outcrop overlooking the spaceport. She thought listening to the ships coming in and departing again would provide her with some tranquillity by means of distraction, but she's had no such fortune.

Instead, in the pit of unfiltered emotion where her repose should sit, she finds only more of the former — and notwithstanding her resolve to abolish her sorrow especially, it's precisely that which returns with a vengeance. It washes over her like a wave across the shore at high tide, and in this moment, where she thinks herself alone, she sheds a tear.

And then another, another, another — and then a sob, try as she might to mute it.

She recognises the depth of her downward spiral only once a hand on her shoulder startles her out of it abruptly. Her left forearm hastily dries her eyes and her unfocussed gaze instantly falls from the source of said touch — jarring as it is. She feels a fool for appearing this way in front of the senator of all people. Was she not meant to be the picture of composure, circumstances be damned?

Self-chastisement aside, there is one thing Rein can't deny: she welcomes the approach, the broaching of her otherwise carefully guarded personal space. So she doesn't shirk the subtle squeeze to her shoulder; doesn't even try to get up. She even feels an urge to lean in towards it, somehow, but she remains still instead, kneeling still. Her eyes shut as she straightens her posture, facing the spaceport far below and ahead of her. ❛ I'm sorry, senator. I didn't think you'd find me here. I just ... needed a moment. A long one, I suppose. ❜

#alootus #query / ic.#❛ thread / rein li vale.#well. that got away from me didn't it JADSJFJ #i am just so very !!!!!!! about this! them! AAAA

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