#but it's sidious starting the fight and killing savage that really FINALLY knocks sense into maul. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lo-55 · 3 years

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Tilt The Hourglass Ch. 9

Maul was getting seriously sick of this Force Forsaken journey to Bandomeer.

“I’m beginning to think that you’re cursed,” he told Kenobi faintly. Even on his most dangerous missions for Sidious few things had gone so randomly wrong. What did go wrong was planned to test his abilities. This was just testing his patience.

“I’m not sure you’re wrong,” Kenobi smiled grimly and swung his ‘saber down to slice through the draigon that got too close. It fell with a shriek.

Something had stirred them into a frenzy, Maul thought it might have been a whiphid or one of the few remaining hutts with Offworld, and the whole flock had descended onto the cave that the Monument passengers had decided to shelter inside of. The tide had swallowed the ship and a storm had opened the skies above them with water and lightning. Thunder crashed through the skies.

Kenobi, Maul, Jinn, and Fett stood at the mouth of the cave, shooting and striking down each draigon that came too close. Further in the whiphids and humans with blasters sheltered, ready to shoot any that managed to get past the quartet. The arconan’s were further inside, singing a long, mournful song in their strange hissing language.

It made Maul’s skin sprickle and his heart race. There was something mystical in their singing, a shadow of stone and darkness. It felt familiar some how, and foreign in the same turn.

“Eyes on the draigons, boys!” Jango called loudly over the roar of the storm and the blaster fire. He shot twice, one hit a draigon in the chest, and another through the wing. Jinn drove his ‘saber through its head to finish it off. They may have been natural enemies, but Maul would be lying if he said they did not make an effective team.

Maul huffed and lifted his blaster to shoot another draigon through the head. Maybe it was suspicious that every one of his shots was a headshot, but there were too many of the beasts for him to consider that right then. Jinn was thrown violently back into the cavern by a massive wing.

Useless Jedi.

His irritation at their circumstances only fueled his anger, and each passing moment his accuracy increased with the Force.

Maul had come too far to let himself be killed by animals on a nameless, backwater planet surrounded by jedi! Maul’s will to live had kept him going through being cut in half, driven to madness, and losing his only brother. It had kept him going through the rise of the Empire and the years that came after. He would survive these creatures too.

That didn’t change the unsettling fact that he was fighting side by side with someone he had spent half a lifetime trying to kill.

They moved together, Kenobi cutting while Maul fired upon their assailants. More and more draigon corpses were piling up in front of them, preparing to block the entrance of the cave they sheltered in. That was the plan, but it was growing harder to fight with the closed spaces too.

Maul fired furiously, anger coursing through his veins and burning through him just as surely as a the blaster bolts burned through the dragons. His crystals hummed at his hip, hot and burning against his skin.

By his side Kenobi was ice, his blue ‘saber cutting cleanly. There was no anger from him, nor hate for the draigons. There wasn’t even fear. Only a heavy sense of duty and necessity. Through teeth and claws there was only survival.

The Force twisted around the pair. They were light and dark, united by the simple goal that all living beings shared.

Survive.

Maul was good at that if nothing else. They both were. Apparently Kenobi had almost as much experience as he. Or he would, eventually.

At this rate it was almost certain.

They had to start new fights several times. Sometimes Jinn was with them, sometimes he was not. Each cave entrance had to be defended, and when those became scarce the draigon’s tried to dig their own. Those they left to the miners, who knew rock like no other. Clat’Ha joined and vanished at times. Jinn disappeared so long Maul thought he might be dead.

Once or twice it was only Maul and Kenobi. Sometimes it was just Maul and Jango. Once it was Maul and Clat’Ha, who was a decent shot herself.

The Darkside curled around Maul’s hands, guiding his blaster where it needed to go. With each small victory he grew stronger.

Maul lost track of how long they fought, he and Kenobi.

Jinn wasn’t dead, but he only reappeared to Maul by the time pink light was spilling through the last of the cave openings not blocked by draigon bodied.

By that point they could scarcely see what was happening beyond the piled up bodies of draigons, but when the last of their enemies fled violet dusk lit up what little of the cave it could reach.

Night had come, and the draigon’s were done.

By then it was evident even to Maul that the arconans were not the cowards he had assumed. They took the path of least resistance when it came to saving their own lives, but they fought when they had to. They were creatures born to caves and darkness, and when it came to time to fight in their own element, they proved themselves to be ferocious and cunning.

No draigon that tunneled through a cave‘s roof caught an Arconan by surprise. Maul could respect that much.

Smoke rose from the draigons‘ mouths as they let out their piercing cries in the dusky air. But the cries had changed from war cries to signals. Maul let out a breath. What were they-

Without warning what was left of the flock roared and leaped into the sky, their wings beating viciously through the air. The draigons circled the island twice in a horrible flock, then flew off in defeat. They were down over half their members.

Maul watched them go. Slowly, the roaring in his ears started to fade and he slumped onto the stone. His blaster was loose in his hand and hot to the touch. Jango sat heavily beside him with a dull clang of beskar.

A ragged cheer went up from the surviving Offworlders, whiphids and humans shouting and crying fat tears of relief and joy. Maul watched one of the great whiphids make his way over to Kenobi and smack him hard on the back. He laughed about something, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’d nearly knocked Kenobi over completely. Other’s started clapping, and laughing.

Maul scoffed quietly. Their former enemies cheered for the Jedi, while he and Jango sat in the shadows. It was only when the battle fire was fading from his veins that he realized he’d been slashed across the forearm at some point. It bled sluggishly, not cauterized like a blaster bolt or lightsaber would have left it.

“I don’t know where you came from, but I am glad I found you,” Jango said quietly.

Maul elbowed him. It didn’t do much against the beskar.

“You talk too much, old man.”

“I’m twenty two!”

Maul nearly choked. Twenty two?! He would have put money on Jango being older than that.

“... Right. Old man.”

“Can’t you call me something else?”

“Like what? Buir?” Maul eyed him speculatively.

Jango tilted his head. “I would like it if you called me that.”

Maul hunched his shoulders. “You’re still on about that?”

“On about it? Did you think I was joking about wanting you for my ad?” Jango asked, turning his visor towards Maul. After a moment, he pulled the helmet off entirely to lay it on a rock nearby. The blue paint was chipped.

His dark hair was sweaty and stuck plastered to his skull, and he could use a good shave.

He looked the same age as most clones did during their war.

Maul touched the pocket that held his crystals, idly. They were warm under his touch. A small comfort.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be. You barely know me. And I have tried to kill you at least once.”

“Maul,” Jango said slowly, looking amused and saddened all at once, “You leak mandokarla like a broken faucet. Any Mandalorian in their right mind would want you in their aliit. Their family.”

Maul studiously ignored the way his skin heated up.

Without the helmet getting in the way and muffling his emotions, Jango was practically projecting affection and hope towards Maul. It made him dizzy.

It wasn’t like the fondness of Kilindi and Daleen, or protective care of Savage. It wasn’t the loyalty that came with Kast and Saxxon.

Maul’s head spun.

He looked at the dead draigons. Some heads still steamed faintly with blaster bolts. The night had fallen, bringing with it the safety of the darkness that wrapped around Maul in a familiar cloak of safety.

“You barely know anything about me. You don’t even know where I’m from.”

“You don’t know where I’m from either,” Jango pointed out. He angled his body towards Maul. “I was born on Concord Dawn, in the Mandalorian sector.”

Maul’s gaze flicked up to Jango’s. He was waiting, patiently. His brown eyes were impossibly warm. His pupils were wide in the dark. Humans couldn’t see as well as he could, but Jango didn’t look away for a minute.

Finally, Maul swallowed.

“... I was born on Dathomir. In the Quelli sector.”

Maul didn’t know why it felt like he was giving up so much. It was easy information. He was clearly a Nightbrother to anyone who knew how to look for it, even if his tattoos were technically Sith in origin. If Maul focused long enough he could feel them hum faintly with the Darkside.

Jango smiled at him.

“Su cuy’gar, Maul of Dathomir.”

Maul nodded at him reluctantly.

Slowly, the arconan’s humming a song of grief, everyone made their way out of the caves. Maul stopped by one of the felled draigons and ripped three of its razor teeth out of its head. The water was already receding. The ship, already sealed up, was still where they had left it. Soon they would be off this damnedable planet, and then-

Well.

Maul didn’t really know what was going to happen then.

He picked his way down the cliffside with Jango at one side and the five moons shining down upon him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Qui Gon was glad to be rid of the planet of the draigons and the sea.

They were only a short hyperspace jump to Bandomeer from here, barely an hour at most, and the ship was completely repaired. As much as one like the Monument ever was, in any case. There were still missing wall panels, and lights tended to flicker in the kitchens. Even with the assistance of the Mandalorian and his young charge, a child called Maul of all things, losses had been heavy. The arconans and the Offworld company had lost much, a good percentage of their people, and Clat’Ha had used the situation to buy the contracts of the Offworlders from the human who had taken command of them after Jemba and Grelb’s deaths. Now they were free. So some good had come of the bloody business, he supposed.

Clat’Ha was courageous, and a pragmatist in her own way. She had Qui Gon’s respect, even if he didn’t like all the company she kept. She was the one who had invited the Mandalorian, Fett, along for the ride. There was bad blood between Jedi and Mandalorians, especially after what had happened on Galidraan.

Qui Gon hadn’t heard the full story before he’d left, and what he had heard was certain to be gossip, but he knew his former Master and sister Padawan had been present for the incident. Qui Gon hadn’t spoken to them much after he’d renounced his own Padawans in their entirety, both Xanatos and Feemor. Perhaps it was time to change that.

It might do good to be more aware of incidents where Senate information was faulty and Jedi were nearly massacred.

Qui gon sighed. He needed to meditate on the matter, but he didn’t have much time right then.

It had been a long journey, even for him, but more so for Obi Wan.

Qui Gon knew when to admit he had been wrong. He had underestimated Obi Wan Kenobi.

Qui Gon looked outside of the ship to take a last look at the great sea that swallowed most of the planet. He needed a moment to consider all that had happened.

The surf pounded the rocks beneath them as he gazed at the planet‘s five multi-colored moons, already beginning to dim with the rising light. They had seemed smaller from the surface, but the Monument would pass by one of the blue ones on their way out of orbit. He was glad not to be able to see the cave where so much death had occurred from here. They had had to climb across so many dead to get free of the caverns. The joy of surviving had been swiftly squelched with the reminder of what they’d had to do to win their lives. The crash landing was a horrible accident, as most of the crew saw it.

A Jedi saw it differently.

“By chance alone we do not live our lives.” Yoda had told him, barely three short days ago in the temple he called home. He’d been upset with Qui Gon for not taking on a Padawan, even though he had refused all other options since Xanatos- Well.

“If take an apprentice you will not, then, in time, perhaps fate will choose for you. Hmm?”

At the time it had sounded more like a threat than anything else.

Qui Gon still wasn‘t sure if fate had appointed Obi Wan as his Padawan, or if it had just thrown them together for one odd adventure.

He‘d thought it coincidence that both he and Obi Wan were going to Bandomeer. After all, Yoda had sent the boy to Bandomeer, while Qui Gon‘s orders come from the Senate. From the Supreme Chancellor himself, in fact. There was no way that Yoda and the Supreme Chancellor could have plotted this together. Right? Qui Gon didn’t think the Supreme Chancellor was even very familiar with the Grand Master of the Jedi Order.

But here they were.

Both of them were going to Bandomeer, and Qui-Gon had an uneasy feeling about this assignment.

And there was a further matter. It was not a simple thing for one Jedi to touch the mind of another. It was an intimate thing, the kind of thing usually only done between the closest friends.

Or between a Knight and his Padawan.

For the first time in a long while, Qui-Gon didn‘t know what to do.

“When the path is unsure, better to wait, it is,” Yoda had told him many times.

Now he would use Yoda‘s advice, even though he suspected Yoda would want him to take the opposite position. He would not ask Obi Wan to be his Padawan. He would wait and trust in the Force to guide him forwards.

And he would watch. They had separate missions on Bandomeer, but he would keep any eyes on Obi Wan. One mission was not enough to test the boy. There would be more to come. Only then would Qui Gon be able to tell how true Obi Wan was to his Jedi purpose. Bandomeer would test him, for Obi Wan was unhappy with the mission he‘d received. Would he accept his position as a famer with the grace and dignity of a true Jedi? Or was he only a dreamer of glory?

Qui Gon smiled. He had to admit, the boy was no farmer. He was meant for different things. But whether his path would intersect with Qui Gon‘s, he still didn‘t know.

Until he did, he would not choose. The boy would have to be strong to dispel the shadow of the one who had come before. And Xanatos cast a long, deep shadow across Qui Gon’s very being.

Xanatos was not the only one casting a shadow on this voyage.

Qui Gon’s smile vanished.

The Mandalorian’s charge, Maul.

He unnerved Qui Gon.

It was not just the way he had killed without hesitation or remorse, nor the way his accuracy seemed super human. Zabraks were known to be warriors, Master Eeth Koth was proof enough of that, and he was being escorted by a Mandalorian of all creatures. If it was anyone else Qui Gon might have feared for his safety.

Clat’Ha said that the child was something called a ‘Foundling’, and that he was safe with Mandalorians. Qui Gon was not so sure, but he got the distinct feeling that Maul was not fond of him. A shame, Qui Gon was normally quite good with younglings.

While the matter of killing Jemba and Grelb was not one to take lightly, there was something unsettling about Maul besides that. He looked at the world with the eyes of one used to combat, and he didn’t flinch even when he’d been injured fighting the Draigons. He spoke harshly to Qui Gon in a way that he had never had a child do. Jedi children were taught better manners, and how to respect Masters.

When they’d fought at the mouths of the caves Qui Gon’s mind had touched Obi Wan’s. The boy did not fight with fear or anger in his heart. He had already accepted that he might die, and that he was only doing what must be done.

Yet there was something more.

Qui Gon had barely been able to feel it, so steeped was it in the swirling fear and rage of the miners, but he swore he felt the whisper of the Darkside from Maul.

It was not unheard of for Jedi Seekers to miss Force Sensitive children. They did their best, but they were not infallible. Sometimes those children grew to use passive abilities. Untrained they might have quicker reflexes, or strong intuition, but little more than that, and that too faded with age.

Maul couldn’t be older than ten, by Qui Gon’s estimate. He would grow out of his powers, if he did not train them.

It was probably better that way.

The boy had already touched the Darkside. He was angry and unafraid to kill if it seemed like the easiest move to make. He had no patience and he looked ready to stab a man if given a moment provocation.

A worrisome being, to be sure.

Perhaps if that were not the case Qui Gon would consider taking him back to the temple, if only so the council could decide what to do with a dangerous Force sensitive child like him. Yet, the idea of bringing him back to the Temple filled Qui Gon with uncertainty and fear.

He let those emotions go into the Force, and sought clarity, but none came.

Nothing was certain with Maul. It was like a thick mist floated around his future.

While one Bandomeer, Qui Gon would try to keep an eye on Maul, and on young Obi Wan as well.

He had a feeling the fate would give him no other choice.

With that settled Qui Gon turned away from the window just as they made their jump into hyperspace. The ship shuddered faintly and lurched but the repairs held all the same. The Monument was stubborn.

Qui Gon walked through the labyrinth of the ship‘s corridors until he reached Obi Wan‘s cabin. He knocked on the door twice. He could sense the boy inside.

“Come in,” Obi Wan called.

The boy was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring out at the blurred stars of hyperspace. It was hypnotic, in its way.

“I‘ll be glad to leave this place,” Obi Wan said by way of greeting. “I saw too much death here.”

His gaze fell from the window to his hands in his lap.

“You did well,” Qui Gon said kindly. “I felt the Force move in you.”

“It was . . . astonishing,” Obi Wan said quietly. It was disheartening to realize that only a few short days ago any praise from Qui Gon would have been enough to have the boy beaming with excitement. Now he only looked mildly pleased. “I thought I understood its power. But I see that I had only glimpsed one corner of what it could do. For years, I thought myself worthy of it. But it was not until I recognized my own unworthiness that the power began to fill me.” Obi Wan turned to Qui Gon. His eyes searched his face. “Do you know what I mean?”

Qui Gon smiled.

“You are learning. And yes, I know what you mean.”

Silence grew between them, but it was a comfortable silence. Always before, Qui Gon could almost hear the pleading Obi Wan was holding back. Now he felt only acceptance of Qui Gon‘s feelings, and his own fate.

Another victory for the boy. He was impressed.

“We should reach our destination very soon,” Qui-Gon remarked. “I fear there will be nasty business on Bandomeer.”

Obi Wan met his gaze. His once bright blue eyes were dark and troubled. Yet underneath it, Qui Gon sensed his strength.

“I know,” Obi-Wan said. “I feel it, too.”

“When we get there you should be careful,” Qui Gon warned. “Careful of your work, and careful of your friends, too.”

The boy, Maul, could be trouble.

Yet Qui Gon had faith that the Force would decide what to do with him.

#Darth Maul #Maul #darth maul time travel #time travel #Star Wars #star wars the prequel trilogy #star wars time travel #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #jango fett #clat'ha #tw; violence

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doorsclosingslowly · 7 years

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Without the protection and infancy’s guard

Savage always thought that the story of the Nightsisters raising a boy was just a drunk’s rumor.

AU where Talzin raised Maul, first draft of part one, 1.5k currently

Savage is sitting and exhausted and proud in the kitchen when the first knock comes for him. It’s not-there, almost respectful, and he takes no notice. Tonight, there are better things to care about than company, and worse things to fear.

The knock hits the door again, and Savage doesn’t hear it this time either, not really, and it’s probably just the wind driving a couple of stones against his door anyway—against their door. It tends to do that in the choking hot summer nights, so it wasn’t a knock: it was just the storm. There must be a storm. There must be a reason for the itching in his bones, something more than the sweat running stickily down his uncovered chest and the new baby finally asleep on his bed. Something more than the clingy afterglow of the sun. Something more than the diffuse unease coming closer and closer. He’s probably feeling the coming storm, he decides, although there’s no wind driven in through the cracks in the shutters, yet. No thunder.

He doesn’t hear the third knock: he’s listening with great care, but the sounds that he cares about are different. A dropped leather strip, or shuffling. A creaking bed. Crying, the ultimate sign that his little brother’s woken up and lost his teething pacifier again—that one’s unmissable, head-splitting, for the seconds until Savage gets to the bed and the hours until he calms his bother. Soon, I will be faster, Savage decides. I will be better.

Soon, Feral won’t wake up crying anymore.

There are no cries tonight, just yet. Savage’s been sitting on the table, expecting Feral to wake up, for many beats of his hearts now. He lost count a while ago, and mercifully, the baby is still fast asleep. Or maybe, it’s not mercy, Savage isn’t quite sure. His fingers drum the table. He’d have been doing something, at least, if Feral was awake. He wouldn’t just be waiting for it, anticipation crawling like insects under his skin—something is coming, white and greedy and strong—holding onto the threaded bone needle and the already-cut sleeve parts for a tiny leather shirt that he should be stitching together but, somehow, can’t.

Savage would still be bone-tired, if Feral was awake—he will be tired for the next two years at least, all the old and young nightbrothers advised him—but he’d be moving. It would be better, to not just feel his purpose but to fulfil it, too. He is to protect his brother.

(“A nightbrother is always ready for his child’s needs. He anticipates them,” Brother Viscus dunned a half-year ago, holding Feral to his chest and not handing him over just yet. “This is Carve’s son. The Choosing was successful. Your older brother hasn’t survived, the Sister told me, and you could move in with me if you are worried but… You are already fourteen, Savage. You are responsible. Teach your brother well.”)

Feral’s teeth have maybe finally grown in, or tonight’s heat is sedative, or maybe it’s just turned Savage’s brain too sluggish for sound to enter. For his fingers to move. Either of those. The susurrating of the small-flies is closer than the not-knocks, anyway; already, another two greedy insects have settled on Savage’s arm. They will eat, or he will kill them. It does not matter, except for the tickling on his arm feeding the nervous calm inside his skin. The bites will itch for days—layer into the strange fear inside his skin—but still, lifting a hand would be a pointless effort, when another two flies wait to replace them, and three after that, and… it is pointless, but it is movement. It is something to do. Savage crushes them easily.

There’s no need for hurry, for Savage to stop feeling the leather he’s picked up again and to start sewing, although Feral’s growing slightly faster than expected and it’ll be weeks rather than months before he outgrows his current clothes completely. Still: there’s no need to work just now, even though there’s no telling whether the next night will be a bad night, again. What the itching in the air means.

There’s no knowing how much time Savage will have tomorrow, when there is so much to do, but right now, Feral sleeps and Savage can… exist, in this rare lonely moment without a wailing, teething toddler.

(“The first one’s a bad year,” Dudgeon commiserated three weeks ago with his still-breaking voice, when Savage had begged off the hunt yet again because he was so, so tired. It was better that he stayed home, anyway: he’d have felt bad foisting off his crying child on any of the Elders. He knew, logically, that they’d raised brothers too, but it felt wrong regardless, to leave his family. Things feeling wrong without reasons: it is the way of the summer. Soon, the Sisters will return.

“Second’s worse. Third, too. Honestly, the first days weren’t a worm-hunt either, and just wait until you get to ten,” his friend had whined, and Savage had stopped listening to him then. Feral is always crying for food or company or the air to cool, and Savage just wants to lie down. Still: Feral gnaws his fingertips. Feral is small. Feral trusts him.)

Another knock, and it is harder, impatient, and Savage wonders whether he’s closed the shutters tightly enough to withstand the storm. He double-checks them, usually, and the door too, but he might not have done that today. He can’t remember. He usually can’t remember, though, or hasn’t been able to for half a year now, and it’s probably nothing, and he’s comfortable right now. He’s so tired. He should accept that he cannot sew tonight, and sleep.

The next knock wakes up Feral.

Harsh, ugly beats now against the front door, now; loud, deeply unhappy wails behind him. Someone is out there. It cannot be denied anymore. If Savage was thinking, he’d go for the door first. It would be the respectful thing to do, if he knew who is coming—and he knows, he hears the knock pattern and somewhere deep in the bottom of his mind he knows and fears—but he does not want to see. This isn’t the first late night visit. Besides, Feral is louder, and Savage knows what to do with him. He’s been learning how to calm him. He’s been waiting for a chance to calm him, for the need to calm him, all night, and so the bed is where he goes.

Savage picks up his brother and rocks him, for hours or minutes, and babbles until the cries turn to hiccoughing. The knocks stop. The itching inside Savage’s skin grows into hornets and wound-flies. Then, he turns around.

Talzin fills the room as if She owns it.

She does.

Feral, clutched tightly against his chest and wailing again, is no barrier against Her eyes. No muscle in Her pale face is moving, but She is looking at him—has been looking at him for minutes of longer now—and Savage wishes it was winter. He wishes he was wearing a shirt. He wishes he was a year younger, that his voice hadn’t broken yet, or that Feral was ten feet tall and big enough to hide behind. They don’t take brothers from one bloodline twice after another, he thinks, but can he remember that clearly or is it children’s talk? He’s old now, old enough to live alone with a child and old enough to be chosen. This is no trial. There is no-one to fight, and Savage could never prove he is worthy of the Mother. He can’t even take any of the Elders in a fight yet. It doesn’t calm his hearts.

“This is Savage,” Brother Viscus says. He’s standing behind Her, tense and sorry. He was sorry half a year ago, too. He must have been knocking; it sounded just like then.

In the gap between Viscus and the Mother, holding onto Her hand, there’s a young boy. Nine and short, maybe, or six and tall. A Sister’s deep red robes, and a brother’s small horned face. Curious yellow eyes. Patterns, red and black, and Savage has never seen the boy before. There have been rumors in the village for years, drunk-tales. Rumors of the Prince of the Nightsisters, of the Mother’s boy, the Son of Dathomir Reborn, living and trained in magic in the city with the Women. The Return of the First Nightbrother, as red as Wrath was and just as powerful. Stinger always claims to have seen him, but Stinger always drinks, and the idea never made much sense. Why would Women raise a boy? A boy. It makes no sense to think of a boy doing magic. What use would the Mother have for a nightbrother child?

Still, he exists.

He’s inside Savage’s hut.

The legendary Return of the First Nightbrother is looking at the baby in Savage’s arms and frowning, deeply and unhappily and confused, as if he’s never seen anything this small and loud before. As if this is the first time he’s ever seen another nightbrother.

“This is Maul,” the Mother says. She pushes the myth-boy forward. “A man called Sidious will come to Dathomir, and you will hide him.”

This story exists mostly because I need to figure out Talzin and how she sees Maul before part 10 of Runaways (yes I know I’m currently procrastinating on finishing part 6 and I’m sorry but I like planning and I’m easily distractible)

#dimtraces makes things

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