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acescorazon · 7 months

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Chapter: 3/?

word count: 2514

Rating: M

Warnings: Crocodile , Explicit language, minor violence (slightly less than last chapter's lol.)

Chapter excerpt:

Crocodile glances around the room before looking back down at his papers, “It turns out with Buggy’s new status…” He pauses, grimacing slightly, “With the Clown’s new status, the marines won’t just come attacking us out of the blue, but these bounties will definitely be seen as a threat, possibly even a declaration of war, and we have to be prepared for when they do decide to come after us or the event of a buster call.”

A buster call?!

“W-Woah, woah, woah!” Buggy stammers, feeling the familiar sensation of dread rising in the pit of his stomach. “They…They wouldn’t do something crazy like blow up the entire island…right?” He asks, voice starting to crack a little as he speaks, “R-right?”

Mihawk speaks up, in a calm, flat tone, seemingly unworried about the possibility that the island could be wiped off the surface of the planet, “Of course they would,” he replies bluntly, “It’s only a matter of time before they try to annihilate us.”

[Previous part]

Buggy manages to avoid both Crocodile and Mihawk for about a week after the official public debut of Cross Guild, only catching brief glimpses of his ‘underlings’ out of the corner of his eye here and there around the island, before his luck comes to a rather abrupt end one morning. Crocodile calls for their first official meeting, after ordering Buggy beforehand to clear out a space for a makeshift meeting room, and even now Buggy has no idea why they even need a meeting room or to hold a meeting…

The quickest ‘meeting room’ Buggy can come up with is a storage closet filled partly with weapons that he cleared out a little and then put a table, a whiteboard, and three chairs in, and as soon as Crocodile steps foot inside the makeshift room, he sticks his nose high up in the air and sighs, “Whatever, let’s just get started,” He says, tossing an overstuffed manila folder onto the table in the middle of the room and having a seat first. Crocodile is impossible to please, and Buggy questions whether he’s an actual pirate or some kind of corrupted CEO with overly high standards.

“As briefly discussed before, our first step will be putting bounties on the Marines’ heads.” Crocodile opens up his folder, pulling out a couple of neatly stacked papers, “I’ve compiled a list of over one hundred marines, categorizing and ranking them all from highest to lowest bounties already to make things go a little faster,” He hands his papers over to Buggy, who looks at him, stunned and slightly horrified, “You make the bounty posters for them and have them distributed, but do come and see me before you distribute them, I don’t want a repeat of last weeks incident.”

Yeah…Neither does Buggy.

Buggy looks down at the papers Crocodile just gave him, scanning over the list in utter disbelief… There are so many names here…where did he get all these from?! Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp… Vice Admiral Tsuru…. Vice Admiral Smoker….He reads, and the list continues to grow from there. Crocodile has everyone from Vice Admirals to Captains, to lieutenants and even lowly ranking officers on his hit list, he has people Buggy didn’t even know existed on the list, and for once he’s glad he’s on Crocodile’s side and not one of his enemies.

“Of course, I don’t expect anyone to be able to take on any admirals, or even Akainu, but you never know what’ll happen,” Crocodile states, handing over what has to be the scariest list of names Buggy’s seen so far. “Moving on, We’ll also need ships, weapons, medical supplies, and most importantly, men and land.”

Woah, woah…Buggy’s still not even over this whole marine thing, are they really just going to skip over the fact that Crocodile was able to compile a list of hundreds of marines within a week? Where did he get this kind of information? “For the time being I want anyone we can get, making these bounties and offering protection to any brave individual who’s willing to take on the marines and or make a criminal out of themselves is the quickest way to get more people on our side because as it stands we only have about two hundred and thirty-five men, and there’s no way we could withstand a possible attack from the government.”

A buster call?!

Crocodile, who seems equally as unbothered by the idea of a buster call, simply nods, “Exactly, which is why we need more men and land. These bounties will give us men, power, and higher status, but obviously, it’ll come with consequences. There will be a lot of injuries, deaths, and overall destruction by doing this.”

“So why are we doing it?!” Buggy exclaims, “This seems…”

“We can’t live in the world government’s world, can we?” Crocodile asks, still acting a little too nonchalant for Buggy’s liking, “So we’re going to create our own utopia.”

What the fuck does that even mean…?

Oh, god. They’re going to die. They’re going to be blown to pieces and if they aren��t, they’re going to be executed in front of millions just like…

God, Buggy can’t do this. He can’t handle the idea of his home being blown up, or having to go back to Impel down, or, or being publicly executed. He-

He can’t just leave Cross Guild, Mihawk and Crocodile will kill him. But…remaining in Cross Guild will also get him killed. He’s really going to die. Any path Buggy chooses in life seems like it’ll lead to certain death, and he’s exhausted, he feels like he’s the one with a hit on his head. Buggy thinks back to when he was just a small-time pirate and finds himself missing those days where no one knew who he was or about his past. Back then he could run around freely without worrying about his men or his home being destroyed, but now even if he tried to run away from all his problems, there’s nowhere for him to hide.

God, he’s actually going to die.

There are tears in Buggy’s eyes as Crocodile rises from his seat, pulling out a photo before pinning it to the whiteboard in the room, “We can discuss ancient weapons in the next meeting, but for now let’s move on to land. In the event of a buster call, we’ll immediately have to get off the island and relocate. Now, I’ve picked a few islands out, but this one right here is the most interesting and closest, boys.” He points to the picture on the board, “This is Prickly Pear island, a spacious desert kingdom with a tyrannical king who’s starving his people and hoarding most of the country's wealth and resources. It’s easy pickings, we don’t even have to turn the people against their king, we just show up and ‘save’ all the citizens, and take over.” He grins.

God, Buggy doesn’t want Emptee Bluffs Island to be blown up and he doesn’t want to live in the desert with Crocodile where he’s practically invincible, he just wants this nightmare to end...He just wishes he were still a warlord, no.. no, he wishes he were just a lowly pirate in Orange Town.

God, he hates his life so much.

…

Their meeting lasts a lot longer than Buggy would have hoped it would, and he could hardly keep up with all Crocodile’s plans because, you know, there’s that new silly possibility of the world government blowing them to kingdom come… ahaha, so silly. Anyways once the meeting is over, he quickly gets the hell away from Crocodile and Mihawk as fast as possible and looks for men who can make the bounties for the marines because Buggy sure as shit isn’t going to do it himself, though he doesn’t know if they should really be doing this in the first place...

Whatever. Whatever, it’s too late.

Buggy counted one hundred and seventy-five different marines on Crocodile’s list, and the worst part: Crocodile says he’s actively trying to find out more names, and they’re…They’re fucking doomed. At this point, Buggy just has to pick which way he wants to die, and to be honest… He’d rather die by the Marines' hands than Crocodile’s.

He finds himself anxiously roaming around and just… taking in the view of his island and all the men at work. Even with Mihawk and Crocodile around, Emptee Bluffs Island is bustling and filled with life, and to think that all that could be taken away in a moment's notice just because of Crocodile’s stupid pla--

“Hey, Clown.” God, what now? Buggy thinks to himself, hating the way that Crocodile can’t be bothered to use his actual name most of the time. “I forgot to tell you that I want a main ship built right away.”

Buggy sighs, turning around to face his tormentor, ”But my men are already busy trying to fix the ships the marines didn’t completely destroy.”

“And? Find someone to build me a flagship, and make it quick.”

So bossy and annoying… Buggy closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, trying to remain calm. If he lets his pride and his ego get the best of him right now, he’s going to lose his life. For once in his life, he should just shut up… But the urge to tell Crocodile to go to hell is so strong…Crocodile’s so demanding, and Buggy… just wants to…

“Yes.” He replies a moment later, not wanting to get on Crocodile’s bad side again, he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.” He tries to end the conversation there and walk away, but Crocodile stops him, “One last thing, clown, about your appearance…”

After Crocodile has threatened to sell him into slavery, beat him senseless, took over his island, and gave him the world’s most unreasonable requests and expected him to fulfill everything in such a short amount of time, why was the straw that broke the camel's back Crocodile criticizing his appearance? “I don’t want Cross Guild to be seen as a joke. Get rid of the onesie and the annoying red nose.”

Get rid of the annoying red nose…

He told him to…He told him to…. Buggy stares at Crocodile, speechless, he feels like saying something he might regret, but it’ll get him killed. He wants to live… this whole time he’s been fighting for his life…and to throw it away so carelessly… “Understand?” Crocodile asks with a displeased look now on his face, not that Buggy knows why he’s looking at him like that.

Get rid of the annoying red nose.

This altercation marks the first (and last) time Buggy tells Crocodile to, “Eat shit and die.” and things go as well as one would expect them to as soon as the insult leaves his mouth. He really should have kept his big mouth shut, but he didn’t, and instantly ends up regretting his actions, like always.

Crocodile chases Buggy all around the island, face red and filled with rage as he screams every cuss word imaginable at Buggy, and Buggy runs away like he owes Crocodile money, which, coincidentally, he does. “I’msosorry,” He babbles out, and the phrase ‘I’m sorry’ has to be his favorite phrase considering how often he uses it these days, “I didn’t mean to…” Oh, who is he kidding? He met everything he said, but he doesn’t think he should get murdered for his words alone.

Buggy runs past a few of his beloved crew members: Cabaji, Mohji and Richie, and finally, Alvida, but no one seems interested in helping him out. They all watch as he runs by, looking confused, then horrified, then once realization finally sets in, they simply look the other way. Cowards! All of em are cowards, and they have absolutely no loyalty!

Crocodile does end up capturing Buggy though, he’s incredibly stubborn and that is yet another thing that Buggy has come to find out about his new business partner. He also really hates being insulted, go figure, and ends up punching the shit out of Buggy’s poor face, again, leaving welts all over him as he so graciously reminds Buggy that he can gut him like a fish at any moment if he wanted to and that he’s lucky to be alive.

Buggy begs for mercy the entire time, but that only seems to anger Crocodile more and he calls him…What was it…? Oh, that’s right, he calls him ‘A worthless coward who should have never been made an emperor’, and then proceeds to tell him how much he hates him.

He makes Buggy feel so good about himself…haha…

They never come to an agreement, Crocodile just grows tired of kicking Buggy’s ass and leaves, and Buggy winds up filled with more hatred than before for Crocodile, picking himself and his teeth up off the ground after his beating, skull still throbbing from Crocodile’s wrath. Okay, maybe he deserved that ass-kicking, but he still thinks Crocodile went a little too far… Nevertheless, Buggy continues on with his day, now instructing some of his crew who are shipwrights to build Crocodile his stupid ship for stupid Cross Guild, hoping that for once his crew will do something half-assed and that the ship will end up sinking or capsizing when Crocodile (and hopefully only Crocodile.) is onboard.

((A/N: Redeeming this fucker (Crocodile) is going to be a BITCH. Trust in me and the process, we'll get to where we need to go though. Thanks for reading, i love you pookies~! ALSO P.S ...Think the next few chapters might have depressed Buggy sooo.. BUT TRUST IN THE PROCESS BABIES.))

#cross guild #one piece #my writing #I CAN REDEEM HIM I SWEAR #i can fix crocodile TRUST ME TRUST ME #HES GOTTA BE NASTY FOR A MINUTE THO BARE WITH IT #mihawk too tbh #I CAN BREAK THEIR RELATIONSHIP INTO PIECES AND FIX IT #I SWEAR #its what the plot calls for pookies.

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sixminutestoriesblog · 8 months

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the London Necropolis

It was 1850 and London had a problem.

All right. London had a lot of problems in the 1850s. Thanks to the Industrial Revolution, London had seen its population boom so quickly that the city didn't have time to make room for everyone. Housing developments and slums sprang up seemingly overnight, cramming as many people into a warren of rooms, and partitioned off rooms. as could be fit. Poverty ran rampant, cholera outbreaks swept through districts regularly, the conditions in the factories, where small children were often also employed, were deadly and the environment itself was a lung-clogging morass of soot and sewage. Some made their fortunes and managed to rise through the layers of society but many simply hung on to the bottom rungs of it for as long as they could before their hands were wrenched off to make way for others. And that didn't just apply to the living.

The dead didn't know rest either.

It didn't take long for the graveyards of London to hit full capacity with the population influx. Even with the body snatchers, working to retrieve bodies for local hospitals and schools as well as even more unsavory employers almost as soon as the grieving family left the plot, couldn't keep up with the massive amount of bodies that needed to be buried in the local cemeteries week after week, month after month, year after year. The problem grew to the point that gravediggers, hitting older coffins would simply continue digging, tossing rotted wood and whatever body parts were left into the dirt pile behind them, making room for the newest arrival in the plot. Graves got so shallow that the bare layer of dirt over them easily washed away and utterly failed to keep what was slowly decaying in the boxes covered. Church goers learned to bring perfume covered handkerchiefs to Sunday services, if they were lucky, to hold over their noses the entire time, trying to blot out the smell seeping under the doors and into the confined interiors of the buildings. Flies and other, even more unpleasant, scavengers were impossible to get rid of, lured by the ease of a quick meal and a place to take up residence. Health inspectors, and many Londoners of the time, blamed the miasma rising from the graveyards for many of the disease outbreaks that swept through the city. Something had to be done.

An amendment was passed in 1852 prohibiting most new burials in the more populous sections of London. The problem was - where did you put the bodies then?

In 1832, the Magnificent Seven, seven large plots of land outside London, had been remade into cemeteries. One business group had higher aspirations than that though. In 1854, the Brookwood Cemetery, the largest cemetery of the time, opened for business. It soon became know by a different name.

The London Necropolis.

And the London Necropolis Railway was there to make sure everyone, dead and alive, found safe transportation there.

Railroads and their trains were still new at that time. Loud and noisy, belching steam and smoke into the air, trains weren't seen as a dignified way for the dead to travel to their final resting place and eternal peace. Worse yet, travel by train might lead to a mixing of the classes, dead as well as living (gasps of alarm and swooning!). Who wanted their sweet genteel maiden aunt's body to ride in the same cargo car as some low level rake's corpse?! Why it was undignified (and very against the social divisions of the time)! Even in death, standards must be applied.

Trains, however noisy and undignified, did offer a distinct advantage. They were cheap. And they ran regularly on a schedule you could plan around, daily in fact, including Sundays. As for social distinctions - well, the LNC had a solution for that too. Depending on the money you were willing to spend, the rail offered first, second, and third class funerals, with separate train cars for each class, living or dead. Knowing that most passengers from other stations would be reluctant to ride a train that had carried dead bodies, the LNC bought new cars and engines specifically for the job, kept separate from the other routes of train travel. They laid track specifically for the job as well, so that only the necropolis trains traveled to one of the two separate stations in Brookwood Cemetery. Mourners left the Waterloo Station in London and road the train, with their unique luggage, to either the Southern Anglican Station or the Northern Station, where the 'nonconformist' section of the burial plots were. While the trains originally only ran for funerals, enough mourners wanted to return for visits to the graves of their loved ones and eventually, after about ten years, the LNC built a third station for that purpose. Almost immediately, a small hub of shops and services sprang up around the new station to cater to, and prey on, the arriving mourners. For fifty years, until 1900, the funeral trains ran on schedule, ferrying bodies, and their loved ones, back and forth between London and the Necropolis. Even after that time, the trains still ran 'as needed' until, finally, in 1941 the London Necropolis station was bombed during the London Blitz. It was the final blow to an already declining system. The station was never rebuilt.

By the 1950s, funeral trains were almost obsolete and the last one in England carried its lonely cargo in 1979. By 1988, the British Railway didn't carry coffins anymore. Time, and more efficient methods, had passed the Necropolis funeral trains by. The tracks overgrew with weeds where they weren't torn up for scrap and the only wistful train whistle left to linger in the chill evening air at the grey and abandoned gates was the long, low ghost of a memory.

#superstition #london necropolis #london necropolis railway #funeral train #LNC #brookwood cemetery #train #trains #funeral #funeral rites #history #victorian #victorian era

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cordycepsfem · 7 months

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Since OP is a narc (see last paragraph), but makes some good points, I decided to just make it my own post. TRAs and people who want to avoid “icky TERFs” do it all the time in the opposite direction, so think of it as a tribute.

First, OP boohoos about not being able to receive an expensive elective procedure, and claims that lying would be required to obtain such a surgery. To me that sounds like something OP definitely doesn’t need, and something that would be potentially harmful.

Do women who get plastic surgery procedures *need* those procedures? No. But they pay for them by themselves (no GoFundMe or taking advantage of Medicaid [see Kevin Gibes as an example of how *your* US taxes have now paid for a “vagina”, a revision to that “vagina” because he’s unhygienic and lazy and didn’t dilate, and breast implants]), and they don’t lie to get them.

Next, OP claims “gender is a stupid performance” yet a) has one that requires the participation of others through things like pronouns and a preferred name, b) has deformed ribs due to the performance of gender, c) says “cis” women have worse “dysphoria” based on their actions towards themselves, d) spends money to continue performing said “stupid performance” and e) doesn’t want to hear from women who feel the same way - ie radical feminists. Make it make sense!

OP is SO close to getting why gender is dumb, and if they weren’t so busy virtue signaling about why Performing Gender is OK When Trans Do It, it might be possible to have a real discussion about the harms of gender.

Just because women do it doesn’t make it right. Women holding themselves to these obscene levels of femininity are also falling into a trap of “what a woman is.” And yeah, OP is right, these standards are put forth as what a woman should be. But they’re not. Surgery and hair removal and makeup don’t make a woman, or make someone *more* of a woman. And doing them doesn’t make a woman. People who believe they do are holding themselves to an impossible standard (if female) or focusing on gender stereotypes to make themselves seem “more like a woman” (if male). Women don’t have to do these things, but a huge portion of them do, and it’s very societally and socially driven.

They’re on the other side of OP’s situation - these women believe these procedures and daily routines make them adhere to “what a woman is” and OP believes that not wanting to do those things means they’re not a woman.

But these women don’t do these things because they have gender dysphoria… or because they feel like they have it. OP mentioned a few of the reasons women might choose these procedures and yet seemingly doesn’t understand why they might have dysphoria… again, avoiding the topic of what all these women might have in common.

If dysphoria makes OP feel like a man, is it because OP showed no interest in performing femininity? Because lots of women don’t do these things. I can’t name anyone who had elective plastic surgery - I do know some people who’ve had it after being burned or being in a horrific accident. I hang out with a group of women who generally don’t wear makeup, or much makeup, and many of them don’t shave. We wear comfortable clothing. We dye our hair, but mostly just fun colors, rather than to achieve perfect ombré or beach waves. We’re all shapes and sizes and none of us feels particularly pressured to diet. There are lots of women in the same boat. Yet none of us feel like we shouldn’t be women, or that these choices make us *not* women.

Is OP conflating “being a woman” with “performing tasks society claimed women do to be women”? By this same token, does OP have dysphoria due to “not being feminine”? Either way, OP doesn’t want to hear from anyone who might want to talk them out of it, so I guess I’ll leave my food for thought here.

#radical feminism

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rockislandadultreads · 1 year

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Nonfiction Recommendations: Mental Health Awareness Month

Emotional Labor by Rose Hackman

We’re tired. A stranger insists you “smile more,” even as you navigate a high-stress environment or grating commute. A mother is expected to oversee every last detail of domestic life. A nurse works on the front line, worried about her own health, but has to put on a brave face for her patients. A young professional is denied promotion for being deemed abrasive instead of placating her boss. Nearly every day, we find ourselves forced to edit our emotions to accommodate and elevate the emotions of others. Too many of us are asked to perform this exhausting, draining work at no extra cost, especially if we’re women or people of color.

Emotional labor is essential to our society and economy, but it’s so often invisible. In this groundbreaking, journalistic deep dive, Rose Hackman shares the stories of hundreds of women, tracing the history of this kind of work and exposing common manifestations of the phenomenon. But Hackman doesn’t simply diagnose a problem—she empowers us to combat this insidious force and forge pathways for radical evolution, justice, and change.

You, Happier by Daniel G. Amen

Happiness is a brain function. With a healthier brain always comes a happier life.

After studying more than 200,000 brain scans of people from 155 countries, Dr. Amen has discovered five primary brain types and seven neuroscience secrets that influence happiness. In You, Happier, he explains them and offers practical, science-based strategies for optimizing your happiness. Dr. Amen will teach you how to

discover your brain type based on your personality and create happiness strategies best suited to you;

improve your overall brain health to consistently enhance your mood;

protect your happiness by distancing yourself from the "noise" in your head; and

make seven simple decisions and ask seven daily questions to enhance your happiness.

Creating consistent happiness is a daily journey. In You, Happier, Dr. Amen walks you through neuroscience-based habits, rituals, and choices that will boost your mood and help you live each day with clearly defined values, purpose, and goals.

Emotional First Aid by Guy Winch

Although we have bandages for cuts, chicken soup for colds, and ice packs for bruises, most of us have no idea how to treat day-to-day emotional injuries such as failure, rejection, and loss. But, as Guy Winch, Ph.D., points out, these kinds of emotional injuries often get worse when left untreated and can significantly impact our quality of life. In this fascinating and highly practical book he provides the emotional first aid treatments we have been lacking.

Explaining the long-term fallout that can result from seemingly minor emotional and psychological injuries, Dr. Winch offers concrete, easy-to-use exercises backed up by hard cutting-edge science to aid in recovery. He uses relatable anecdotes about real patients he has treated over the years and often gives us a much needed dose of humor as well.

What Happened to You? by Bruce D. Perry & Oprah Winfrey

Have you ever wondered "Why did I do that?" or "Why can't I just control my behavior?" Others may judge our reactions and think, "What's wrong with that person?" When questioning our emotions, it's easy to place the blame on ourselves; holding ourselves and those around us to an impossible standard. It's time we started asking a different question.

Through deeply personal conversations, Oprah Winfrey and renowned brain and trauma expert Dr. Bruce Perry offer a groundbreaking and profound shift from asking “What’s wrong with you?” to “What happened to you?”

Here, Winfrey shares stories from her own past, understanding through experience the vulnerability that comes from facing trauma and adversity at a young age. In conversation throughout the book, she and Dr. Perry focus on understanding people, behavior, and ourselves. It’s a subtle but profound shift in our approach to trauma, and it’s one that allows us to understand our pasts in order to clear a path to our future—opening the door to resilience and healing in a proven, powerful way.

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alrightberries · 3 years

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“may i?”

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff & angst. ❈ word count: 8k

❈ summary: you’re the medic assigned to take care of captain levi as he heals from the explosion. you’re also the only person he tolerates.

alternatively: in which you create prosthetics for humanity’s most war torn soldier.

❈ trigger warnings: manga spoliers. profanity. mentions of violence, blood, gore, and death. mentions of sexual themes.

a/n: levi’s kinda ooc bc i couldn’t write the progress of his relationship with reader without making it longer than it already is. also this is medically inaccurate (re: healing time of broken bones and amputations) for the sake of the plot so pls no one throw hands.

Levi doesn't like looking at mirrors.

There was no tragic backstory behind his distaste for the reflective surface, no deeper meaning or hidden symbolism as one would expect from a man with his past. The reason behind it was simple: he just saw no reason to.

He wasn't vain, wasn't too concerned about his face, didn't care much to look at his physical appearance aside from when he had to cut his hair or get ready for the day to look presentable to his comrades. He knew he was attractive, and effortlessly so. The little letters and gifts he’d received from fans and admirers proved as much, and his title of “Humanity’s Strongest” only added to the appeal. Really, there was no reason for him to always be looking into a mirror.

But now... Levi simply couldn’t understand why that mindset had vanished. It was replaced with the fervor to always be staring at his own reflection— not out of vanity but out of disgust.

The disgust of staring at his mutilated face.

He warily lifts up the small mirror he held in his hand, features contorting into a grimace at the man staring back at him. Scars and cuts littered his cheeks— some deeper than others, but none as terrible as the long jagged scar that ran down the right side of his face. It started from his forehead and ended at his bottom lip, held together by ugly black stitches the medics had hurriedly sewn on him the second he got back to the base. His right eye was split in half, completely useless, completely blind; held together by the same black stitches that donned the ugliest scar of all.

And Levi couldn’t help but think that this man was hideous.

He was hideous.

Levi reaches out with his right hand to touch his scars out of habit. He feels his heart tighten when he realizes there’s only air where his fingers should be and he nearly breaks the small mirror he held in his good hand from how hard he was squeezing it.

The mirror makes a gentle clink as he sets it down onto the mahogany of his desk. Bitterly, he stares at his three fingered right hand. His pointer and middle finger were gone, nothing but pathetic stumps protruding from his knuckles where they used to be. It was still covered in bandages and a makeshift brace so he wouldn’t strain himself when he moved, but he knew it was useless. He couldn’t move those stumps even if he tried.

He probably should’ve been thankful to have made it out of that explosion alive— not unscathed, but alive nonetheless. Though Hange had tried cheering him up (“Look on the bright side, we can wear matching eyepatches now!”) he simply couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate coming back so... useless.

His writing was as legible as chicken scratches. His right eye spasmed in pain every time he blinked. He couldn’t even try to relearn how to use the ODM gear with his new circumstance, and he mentally curses out his orders to stay put and heal.

Too many things were lost, too many people, too many lives.

All because of that damned explosion.

All because of that damned bearded bastard.

Levi is pulled from his thoughts when three soft knocks reverberate throughout his otherwise quiet office, and he rushes to put his eyepatch on and hide the mirror in his desk drawer. He attempts to sit in what he hopes was a seemingly ‘professional’ position but his stiffness gives away his discomfort.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

He feels himself release a breath he didn’t even know he was holding once he hears the voice. Your voice.

“Come in.”

The wooden door creaks open before it closes with a soft click, floorboards making minuscule sounds at the weight as you make your way to his desk. Levi pretends to look busy as his good eye scans the document he held in his hand.

The sound of porcelain clinking against porcelain grabs his attention.

“Brought you tea.” You murmured. “I figured it won’t be up to your standards again but I did try my best.”

Levi still doesn’t look up as you set the tray down on his desk, and his good hand reaches for the steaming cup to take a small sip. His eye twitches at the taste.

“If you were going to bring me shit tea anyway then why bother.”

He hears a gentle chuckle but doesn’t see the way you smile at his contradictory words and actions. He made no move to throw the “shit tea” away, something he was infamous for with teas that didn’t meet his standards. Instead, he keeps sipping, gently placing the cup down onto his table once he finished.

“I thought that maybe distracting you with terrible tea would keep your mind off me changing your bandages.” You explained, and Levi nods but doesn’t speak. When silence once again filled the room, interrupted only by the occasional crumple of documents you knew he wasn’t reading, you take it as your cue to pick up your pen and clipboard to start the checkup.

“Have you felt any discomfort or pain in any of your extremities such as your right eye or your right hand?”

“No.”

“Have you felt any throbbing or other sensations in any part of your body?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any fevers, headaches, dizziness, or sudden spasms in any part of your body?”

“No.”

He hears you set your clipboard down and his skin tingles from your doubtful stare. He didn’t have to look to know it was there. He risks a glimpse at the papers attached to the wooden board in your hands but just as he expected, you didn’t write down any of his answers.

“Have you lied to any or all of the questions I’ve asked during your routine checkup for today?”

“...yes.”

A soft sigh escape through your nose and your eyebrows furrow in disappointment. “Captain, lying to your medic won’t get you to the battlefield faster. You’re of no use to anyone when you’re injured.”

Levi clicks his tongue at your reply but he holds his smart ass comments back. He knew you were right, and it infuriated him so much.

“Fine,” he grits out. “My right eye’s been twitching all day. The fucking stumps on my right hand don’t feel like stumps. It feels like I still have fingers there, and I know it’s complete bullshit since they were lying next to my face when they got blown off.”

His angry glance finally lands on you. “That the answer you were looking for, oh medic of mine?”

It was now your turn to click your tongue. “Not quite,” you mumble, writing down his answers onto the file in your hands. “Feeling your missing limbs even after they’re amputated is normal. It’s called phantom touch.”

You place the clipboard back onto his desk and reach into your pockets, pulling out pristine white gloves before gingerly putting them on.

“Your right eye still spasming though, that’s concerning.” You add. Your hands slowly reach out to his face, and Levi momentarily flinches away out of habit. But you made no move to touch him.

He eyes you warily, tense muscles relaxing even just the slightest as he sees your gentle stare.

“May I?” You ask softly, a caring smile on your face.

Levi only nods, not trusting his words, and he once again tenses up as he feels your hands unbuckle the leather straps of his eyepatch before setting it down onto his table. He keeps his bad eye shut.

Your hands are gentle as you touch his face, touch nothing but a soft caress in such a way that his tender stitches felt no pain. Your eyes are focused on his stitches, lacking any judgement or ill will, and Levi’s suddenly aware of how close you actually were to his face.

Your eyes were beautiful, he noticed. They always were. The little furrow in your eyebrows as you concentrated was cute, and the soft caress of your hands on his cheeks as you inspected his face felt... nice, and dare he even say relaxing. Momentarily, when he finally lets himself adjust to the atmosphere, he lets his tense muscles ease.

“Can you open your right eye, Levi?”

“Y-yeah.”

FUCK.

What the fuck.

Did he just fucking stutter?

Levi’s surprise is only painted on his face for a few mere seconds before he schools his expression back to one of stoicness and neutrality, and he prays to all the existing gods he knew of that you wouldn’t notice.

He risks another glance at you. One of your eyebrows is arched and the corner of your lip is quirked up in a small smirk, but you dared not comment on the captain’s speech mishap.

Fuck. So you did notice.

Before he could try to save face by dishing out some bullshit reprimand of being disrespectful for calling him by his name and not his title, the words die on his tongue as you lean in impossibly close and oh god your noses were almost touching, your eyes are even more beautiful up close, and what the fuck is—

“Captain,” you repeat. “Can you open your right eye please?”

Oh, right.

He doesn’t speak as he does what he was told. He feels his eye open but no vision comes to his senses.

“It’s looking... not so good.” He hears you mumble, face contorted into one of concern. “It’s actually looking pretty bad.”

Levi scoffs. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you.”

You roll your eyes, the small smile once again returning to your lips.

“How long have you been keeping the eyepatch on?” You ask. Your hands are holding his head in place now, grasp a little more firm but not enough to hurt.

“An hour at most.”

“Are you lying again?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

You nod but made no further comment, leaning back to grab the clipboard once more to write down your observations.

“So,” you start. “Are you going to tell me the truth or do I have to poke your bad eye?”

Levi’s lips turn into a frown at the notion. “I’ve kept it on the entire day. And I know you’re probably lying about poking my eye, but in case you’re not, no. I do not want you poking my eye.”

You nod your head again, writing more things down onto your little clipboard.

“You should let it breathe. Keep it on for an hour or two at most but take it off when you sleep. Too much friction with the eyepatch might cause irritation.”

As the consultation draws on, Levi tries (keyword: tries) to be as honest as he could. Not that he could be dishonest when you were so good at snooping out his lies, though. You were already used to his stubbornness.

He wasn’t lying, however, when he tells himself that his heartbeat did not speed up when your hands gently held his own as you changed his bandages and cleaned his amputation; he wasn’t lying when he tells himself that the tips of his ears were not burning a bright red, cheeks flushed as you asked him to take off his shirt; and he definitely wasn’t lying when he tells himself that his dick did not twitch in his pants when your hands caressed his abdomen and back, accidentally hitting sweet spots he didn’t even know existed, to inspect his still purple bruises and healing ribs.

Yeah, he definitely was not lying.

“Okay, I think we’re done for today.” You say cheerfully. “I’ll be back same time tomorrow for another checkup.”

He glances up as he finishes buttoning the last buttons on his shirt. The gloves from your hands are taken off and tucked back into your pockets, and you hand him a small vial full of pills.

“Take one of these, twice a day at most, whenever you feel pain in your right eye.”

“I’m not feeling any—“

“Sure you’re not.” You cut him off with a smile. “I believe you. But feel free to contact me for any pain or discomfort you feel at any time of the day. I’ll be more than glad to find you.”

Levi says nothing, opting to instead stare at you as you gather the now empty teacup and kettle, placing them back onto the tray along with your clipboard and pen.

“Oh, by the way.” You speak, walking towards the door and opening it. You don’t spare him another glance as you finish your sentence. “I don’t think I can prescribe any pills to lessen blood flow to your dick.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and Levi’s momentarily mortified as he processes your words. He risks yet another glance, this time down to his lap.

Shit, he thinks before he sighs. His hands readjust the hard-on in his pants.

Nothing goes past your observant eyes.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Levi doesn’t bother to look busy like he did last week, you noticed, because this time he was actually busy. Which was odd considering he was taken off paperwork duty until he could write again.

“What’re you up to?” You ask, setting the tray down onto his desk and pouring him a cup of tea. Your eyes curiously glance at the papers scattered about his usually clean desk, each filled with indiscernible writings of his name.

“Trying to write. I’m useless until I can.” He mumbles before he scoffs. “This would be easier if I had all my fingers.”

You nod along to his replies yet made no move to stop him. You picked up your pen and clipboard to write things down as well.

“You’re not supposed to be using your right hand, your amputation is still too tender.”

“Tch, what do you expect me to do then?”

“Uh... use your non-injured, complete left hand?”

Levi blinks at your words, and he has half a mind to slap his forehead for being dumb and not thinking of that. Which he undoubtedly would’ve done had you not pushed the steaming cup of tea closer to his sitting form.

“Have some tea. You look like you’re about to pop a vein.”

Your smart remark is met with silence and a steely glare, and surprisingly, as Levi drank the tea you prepared, he notices it’s not downright terrible.

“Your brew’s better.”

“Yeah. I finally took your advice of using a thermometer to get ‘the perfect temperature’ after you complained about my ‘shitty tea’ for the nth time that week.”

Levi hides his little smirk behind the teacup, silently reveling in his small triumph before setting it down. From the corner of his eye, he notices you eyeing something, and his heart drops as his gaze follows your own.

The mirror. He forgot to hide the mirror.

Discreetly (or as discreet as he could) he takes the mirror and shoves it back into his desk drawer. You had many questions, that much he knew, but he was thankful when you didn’t push it further.

“Shall we begin?” You ask instead.

“Yeah.”

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Levi’s been trying to write again, you surmised, as you glanced at his focused eyes and the tenseness of his shoulders. Scattered papers still littered his desk and he was still trying to write his name. This time though, you were relieved when you saw he was using his left hand.

“Finally took my advice?” You asked, pouring him a cup of tea.

“Regretting it.” He doesn’t look up from his task as he answers, something you noticed he always did. “It’s been three days since I took your advice and my handwriting’s shittier than it was then.”

You smile, hand reaching out to hold his incomplete one that was clenched into a fist on the desk. He immediately stops writing, opting to instead stare at your hand atop his before glancing up at you.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you relax. You might tear your stitches.”

He feels you give his hand a gentle squeeze, and the warmth of your hand is suddenly gone from his own. You reach for the cup of tea you prepared, and he wills his cheeks to not show his blush at the small gesture. You slide the teacup across the table.

“What makes you think holding my hand will make me relax?” He asks snarkily. He reaches for the tea with his good hand.

“Are you relaxed?”

Levi ponders the question in his mind, noticing how his muscles were no longer tense, his shoulders were now slumped down, and his eyebrows were no longer scrunched. He sips the tea.

“Your brew’s still shit.” He replies instead.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I came here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

Your head peaks out from behind his door as you enter, closing it with your foot and making your way to his desk. You were no longer surprised when you saw him still writing and scribbling messily at his desk as he’s done for days now, and you discreetly eye the papers as you pour him his tea.

“You don’t have to keep bringing me tea.” He comments, still focused on writing.

“I know.” You reply. “But how am I going to perfect your brew if I don’t practice?”

Levi glances up, and he raises his eyebrow as he sees you sat on his table, a cheeky grin on your face. He makes no move to scold you for being so casual in his office and instead reaches out to take a sip of the tea. He notices your expectant eyes, the grin on your face widening as he nods in approval.

“Your tea’s not bad today.”

“Really?! You think it’s good?”

“I said not bad, I didn’t say it was good.”

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your daily checkup.”

“Come in.”

The first thing you noticed as you entered Levi’s office was, of course, the scattered paper around his desk, face focused as he continued to practice his writing. The second thing you noticed was that he was no longer using his left hand.

“It’s barely been two weeks. Did you give up already?” You ask as you pour his tea.

“I write better with my right hand.” He simply replies, not even glancing up as you slide him the beverage. He uses his good hand to reach out for the cup, silently preparing his tongue for another unpleasant attack.

He takes a sip and his eyebrows shoot up from surprise. The tea was... delicious, absolutely delicious, and Levi couldn’t find anything to complain about. The temperature was right, it wasn’t too bitter but wasn’t too sweet, and the aroma was delectable. He takes a sip once more to double check if his taste buds were deceiving him, but the second sip was just as good as the last.

His suspicious eye makes contact with yours, a shit eating grin painted on your face as you eagerly awaited his feedback. The porcelain makes a sound as he sets it down.

“You bought this from the tea shop across the barracks. That’s cheating.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

Three soft knocks reverberate through the door to Levi’s office. The captain hastily hides the papers with your name scribbled on, shoving them inside his desk drawer. A shiny glint catches his eye before he could close the shelf and he pauses as he realizes it was his mirror. He hadn’t taken it out in a while. He was always too distracted with criticizing your piss poor tea to even think about his appearance.

“Name and business.” He calls out, still eyeing the shiny object.

“Hange Zoe. Y/N asked me to do your daily checkup.”

Levi's eyes widened, heartbeat stopping for a second as he heard Hange’s voice. Where were you?

“Come in.” He closes the drawer as the door opens and Hange walks in.

Levi couldn’t help but notice that he was becoming uncomfortable the closer his friend got; skin prickling, hands sweating, his collar feeling a little too tight. Little by little getting more conscious of himself as Hange walked closer.

Was this what insecurity felt like?

He briefly wonders why he didn’t feel it with you, but his mind answers him with a simple fact: you were the only person who’s seen him mangled and bruised, and each time, you showed nothing but gentleness and care. Yet even with this knowledge, the notion that a person other than you would be doing his checkup today didn’t sit right with him.

He pushes his discomfort to the back of his mind, telling himself to remain objective. But it didn’t stop him from subconsciously adjusting his eyepatch and hiding his incomplete hand underneath the desk. He eyes the tray in Hange’s hands, spotting the kettle and teacup.

“I don’t want your shitty tea.”

Hange doesn’t look up as they pour him a cup, humming a tune Levi doesn’t recognize as they hand him the warm beverage.

“It’s not my shitty tea.” They reply. “It’s Y/N’s shitty tea. They made you a batch before they left for the mission.”

Levi’s good hand pauses for a brief second as he reaches for the cup, mind still processing the fact that Hange said Y/N and mission. You hadn’t mentioned anything to him, and since he wasn’t allowed paperwork duty until he could write legibly, he wasn’t aware of any missions.

“I see.” He takes a sip, and he immediately squints his eyes in doubt once his tongue caught taste of the flavor. “This isn’t Y/N’s tea.”

Hange looks up from the clipboard they were writing on, eyebrows are arched in curiosity. “What?”

“This isn’t Y/N’s tea. This is from the tea shop down the road.”

Hange’s confused face stays still for a few seconds, silently assessing whether Levi was being serious or not. A smile cracks on their face, turning into a grin as small chuckles left their lips, before finally turning into full blown laughter. The captain waits for the eccentric soldier to stop cackling and start explaining, but Hange’s answer only serves to confuse him more.

“Nice try, shorty. You crack me up.”

Levi ignores the remark about his height. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N owns the tea shop down the road. Made the recipe for the black tea you love so much, even.”

The captain’s good eye twitches, and if Hange notices, they don't comment. Levi takes a sip of the tea once more, a little more doubtful this time, before sighing in content as the drink makes its way down his throat.

“Why did Y/N go on the mission? I thought they were to be my caretaker until further notice.” He chooses to ask, placing the cup down and pretending to busy himself as he absentmindedly starts practicing his writing.

“Y/N is our topic medic, their skills are more valuable on the battlefield than in an office with you.” They reply, and the captain pretends that the truthfulness of the statement doesn’t sting the slightest.

“Besides,” Hange pulls out white gloves from their pockets, sliding the cloth over their hands to prepare for the checkup. “Y/N personally asked to be reassigned.”

Levi sputters and chokes on his tea at the sudden revelation, and he feels Hange’s hand patting his back as he tries to compose himself. You asked to be reassigned? But why?

“Why?” He manages to choke out before once more descending into a coughing fit. Hange silently hands him a napkin.

“They didn’t say.”

Perhaps you were done with his incessant criticizing of your tea making skills (if so, then why’d you keep brewing him a crappy batch? Clearly you could’ve made good tea whenever you wanted.) Perhaps you grew tired of watching over him everyday when you could’ve been attending to more injured soldiers in the medical wing or the battlefield. Or perhaps you felt a little cooped up in the office with him, hating that you were confined when you could’ve gone on missions to help the wounded.

Whatever your reason may be, Levi finally gets himself to stop coughing and wipes his mouth. Any questions he had, he would ask you. For now, he pushes his feelings to the back of his mind to ask a more important question.

“Why are you here and not on the expedition, Commander?”

Hange shrugs.

“I wanted to bond over eyepatches with you.”

Levi was trying, okay? He was really trying.

But god, the new caretaker assigned to him was nothing short of a complete and utter noob. His bandages were always either too loose or too tight, his touches every time he tried to inspect Levi’s scars were always an ironclad grip, and worst of all, his tea was pure and utter shit.

“Watch it!” Levi barks, and his caretaker jumps about two feet away from him at his yell. “What’re you trying to do?! Are you inspecting my broken ribs or trying to give me a broken rib?”

Oh, that too. His caretaker was the hands on type, something Levi wouldn’t have minded if not for the fact that his caretaker was also heavy-handed, and Levi had had enough of this bullshit.

“Stop it, just stop. Get out of my office, right now, and find me a new caretaker.”

“B-but, Captain, there’s no one else who can—“

His caretaker is cut off when he makes eye contact with the enraged captain. Levi’s eyebrows were knitted together in anger, and the glare on his left eye was nothing short of terrifying. The fact that he only had one good eye left did nothing to lessen the intimidation of his glare; if anything, it made it even more intimidating.

“I will not repeat my order. Go.”

The boy in front of him nods nervously, head bowed down and metaphorical tail tucked between his legs as he quickly scurries out of the room. Once Levi hears the soft click of the door shutting, he takes a deep breath and lets his body slump into his chair.

That was the fifth caretaker he’d kicked out this month. He wasn’t picky, he tells himself; he just had standards. Standards that apparently these damned amateurs they kept sending him couldn’t meet.

Briefly, his conscience contradicts him; the image of a certain top medic popping in his mind, one that he hadn’t spoken to in almost a month since they dropped him out of the blue. Maybe, just maybe, he was being picky. With a dash of passive aggressive and a sprinkle of butthurt. But Levi quickly brushes that thought aside when he remembers the incompetence of all his recent caretakers.

That was definitely it. He wasn’t petty, all his caretakers were simply idiots.

The captain hears three loud knocks on his wooden door, and he grits his teeth as he mentally prepares himself for whatever fuckery the clown caretaker they assigned to him was about to do this time. True to his words, Levi did end up breaking a rib from how heavy handed the last one was, and though he knew it was partially because his body was still quite fragile, it didn’t hurt his request for a new medic.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here to do your daily checkup.”

Levi feels his eyes widen and heart speed up, and he once again rushes to hide all the papers scribbled with your name as he shoves them into his desk drawer. He composes himself, trying to appear uninterested and professional as he speaks.

“Come in.”

The door squeaks open and Levi doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes soften and his shoulders slump in relief as he sees the familiar sight of you. A soft smile dawned on your face as you gently kicked the door close, walking towards his desk and setting down the tray you held in your hands.

“Heard you fired everybody who came after me.” You mused, eyes teasing as you poured him a cup of tea. He didn’t think he’d miss someone pouring him a cup of tea as much as he did now.

“Their tea was shit.” He replies, taking a sip of the warm beverage and holding back his sputter at the god awful taste. “Yours is too.”

You chuckle, picking up the clipboard and pen to start writing for today’s checkup. “Can’t help that I suck at brewing tea.”

“You don’t have to keep making me shit tea anymore. The secret’s out.”

You freeze in your spot, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before you nervously clear your throat. Levi definitely noticed.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you own the tea shop, Y/N. Stop lying.”

You let out an irritated sigh. “Hange told you, didn’t they?”

“Yep.” He replies, popping the ‘p’.

I’m going to fucking kill Hange, you think to yourself, silently gathering your composure once more. Levi watches you intently, continuing to sip on the terrible tea before deciding that he’d assaulted his taste buds enough and placing it down.

“Why’d you do it?” You hear him ask. “And don’t lie to me. You’re not the only one who’s gotten better at spotting lies.”

Why’d you brew shitty him tea? Is he that affected by it?

Your reply was already on the tip of your tongue, head glancing up from your clipboard to say your answer. But your words don’t come out and your mind suddenly cleared when you saw the look in his eye.

Levi’s eyes were nothing short of gorgeous; a beautiful gunmetal gray with a gaze deadly enough to kill a man with one mere look. But right now, even though they were schooled into his usual look of disinterest, you could see him... wavering. A mix of unanswered questions, curiosity, and— for the briefest second you swore you saw— hurt.

“I take it you’re not asking me why I brewed you crappy tea for the past three months?”

Levi clicks his tongue in irritation. “No, you idiot. I’m asking you why you left out of the blue. If you had a problem you could’ve brought it up with me—“

“No!” You quickly interrupt. “No, god no, you’re perfect.”

The captain’s eyes widen, and you suddenly realize the words you’d spoken as you quickly try to explain before Levi could interject.

“There was no problem, okay? I didn’t request to be reassigned because I had a problem. It’s quite the opposite, actually.” You murmur.

He eyes you curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I have a solution. May I?” You gesture, asking if you could sit on his desk. Levi nods, not understanding why you needed permission now when you’ve done it of your own volition countless times before, but he suddenly understands when you sit directly in front him and not across from him like you usually would.

He watches as you pull a small brown box from your jacket, placing it down onto his desk before opening it. Levi is quiet as he eyes the item inside.

“It’s just a prototype for now. I was hoping to carve out a better one in my free time, one that would be a custom fit, but my free time kinda went flying out the window when you started firing people left and right until no one would accept you but me.”

You pick up the wooden prosthetic fingers and gently place them onto his desk. Your hand opens palm up, waiting for Levi to be comfortable enough to lend his hand to you, and he does so silently.

“The prosthetic’s made from redwood and the joints are connected by small metal rods. It’s light and durable, and I weatherproofed it so it wouldn’t break down so easily when you use them.” You explain, unwrapping the bandages around his hand. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out the concept, actually. I just took a pair of standard issue Survey Corps gloves and cut out all the fingers. Then, y’know, attached the wooden fingers to where the pointer and middle should be.”

Levi could only nod. You weren’t sure if his silence was good or bad and you couldn’t read his look. But Levi— Levi was speechless. In his mind, he dared not speak in fear of looking like a fool. Especially not in front of the person who gave back a piece of himself (quite literally, at that.)

He tenderly looks at the way you fitted the prosthetics onto his own hand, fastening brown leather straps around his wrists to secure the glove. The minute the glove is on and he sees all five fingers for the first time since the explosion, he feels like he’s about to cry.

“I had Hange help me with the anatomy so you could still bend them as you would normal fingers. I couldn’t figure out how to make them move on their own though, so you’d have to manually do that yourself.”

To demonstrate, you bend one of the prosthetics, the wood imitating the bend of his finger but not springing back up despite his brain commanding it to do so. You watch intently as he fumbles around with his hand, moving the fingers about. The wonder and astonishment in his usually unimpressed eye didn’t go unnoticed by you, and it spurred you to continue on.

“Unfortunately, it’s not strong enough to flick the switches on ODM gear. You still have to relearn how to hold your blades when you’re cleared for training again.” You say regrettably. “But it’s strong enough to hold a pen.”

Your hand reaches for the forgotten quill across his desk, dipping it in the inkwell before offering it to him with a small smile. Levi slowly takes it, still speechless, as he readjusts his prosthetic to hold the quill and write.

His writing is still shit, undoubtedly; still no better than chicken scratches as he messily writes down the words. But god, the sight of the indiscernible handwriting next to five fingers brought tears to his eyes as he finally finished writing his name. The slightly legible letters of ‘Levi Ackerman’ stared back at him.

Levi couldn’t hold it back anymore. He immediately set the quill down before standing up to engross you in a warm embrace. You tense in his arms, not used to Levi willingly initiating any form of physical touch at all. But as he tucks his head into the curve of your neck and his shoulders start shaking, splotches of wet dripping onto your collarbones, you feel your arms encircle his waist, bringing him closer as you whisper sweet nothings into his ear and let him cry in peace.

Your hands ran through his scalp, willing him to calm down. Though normally the sight of a crying Captain Levi was something you never thought you’d see, you couldn’t help but feel honored he chose to share this rare moment of vulnerability with you.

You let him cry, still holding onto him, giving him his time. Briefly, you wonder what he was thinking. What pushed him to tears? Did the captain ever let himself mourn his losses? Does he mourn his friends, his family, the little pieces of himself that he’d lost along the way?

Though you had a million questions in your mind you dared not pry as you continued to comfort the weeping man in front of you.

Finally, after a few moments of nothing but silent sniffles and your sweet words, Levi finds it in himself to finally speak.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

Night had fallen around the base, encasing the world in darkness that beckons slumber. Levi continued to stay awake, still in his office, staring at the prosthetic you had given him hours before.

Curiously, he feels himself form his right hand into a fist, not surprised that the two wooden fingers didn’t comply like the rest. It was imperfect and he himself thought it could use some tiny adjustments for the sake of comfort— something he definitely would bring up to you as requested.

And yet, despite knowing his ‘fingers’ were nothing but wood, leather and metal, he couldn’t help but think it was the best thing he could ever ask for.

Silently, under the lone glowing light of his oil lamp, Levi pulls out a blank sheet of paper and begins to turn his feelings into thoughts, thoughts into words, and words into sentences as his quill meets the white surface.

Hours later, he finds himself in front of your quarters, a candle in his left hand while his right held a pristine white envelope. The envelope containing unsaid words, unspoken wishes, and hidden feelings.

Your eyes are sleepy when you answer the door, half lidded and hair a mess when his knocks had woken you from your slumber. You rub your eye, adjusting to the light as you stare at the person in front of you.

“Captain?” You ask, stifling a yawn. “What’re you doing here so late?”

He doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he opts to look at you with an unreadable expression as he asks, “Can I come in?”

You stare at him for a few seconds more, and the thought of you slamming the door on his face crossed Levi’s mind; but that didn’t happen. Rather, you nodded and ushered him inside your bedroom, closing the door behind him as you once again flopped onto your bed.

He places the candle down on your bedside table and now he was unsure what to do. He had a plan— or, he thought he had a plan— but awkwardly standing in your room in the middle of the night wasn’t part of it.

Quietly, you chuckle at the sight of Humanity’s Strongest looking so odd and out of place, unsure and slightly panicked. You pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit, and he complies.

Both of you had your knees pulled up to your chests and you were thankful when you noticed Levi had taken his shoes off before sitting on the bed. A comfortable silence encompasses the atmosphere in the dimly lit room. Shoulders touching, heads not daring to turn because of the close proximity.

From the corner of your eye, Levi looked like he was deep in thought. Not the kind you saw plenty of times in the battlefield or in strategy meetings, not the kind you saw when you entered his office as he hastily tried to hide his mirror. But the kind you saw when he quietly suffered through his own living hell.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, finally breaking the silence. He shakes his head.

“Well, what brings the mighty Captain Levi to my humble little room?”

“Levi.”

“What?”

“Call me Levi.” He murmurs, downcast staring intently at the envelope on his lap. “In this room, I’m not your captain. I’m not your patient. I’m not Humanity’s Strongest.”

You feel your eyebrows scrunch as surprise and curiosity paint your face, but not because of the captain’s offer to call him so casually. No— the surprise you showed was because he unclasped the prosthetic you made, not even sparing it a second glance as he carelessly threw it to you, and you barely managed to catch the limbs you’d spent countless hours and sleepless nights to create.

“Levi, what are you—“

“But I’m not a broken teacup for you to fix either.” He says, eyeing the stumps on right hand. “I’m not a doll who’s missing some parts. I’m not a charity case accepting donations.”

You were looking at him now, head turned in his direction as he unclasps his eyepatch and lets it fall onto his lap. He raises his head, eyes making contact with yours.

“I’m just Levi.”

A few moments of silence pass but neither of you look away. The reason why the captain continued to stare wasn’t something you knew. But the reason why you never looked away was because of his eyes.

Levi’s eyes were still as gorgeous as you remembered them to be. Though his right eye was a different shade from his left, a lighter and paler shade of gray; though it lacked the light and emotions his unharmed eye bore; though it had a jagged scar running through it from where he was hit, you couldn’t help but think that his eyes were still the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen.

Gingerly, you lift up your hand to touch the right side of his face where his battle wounds lie, the prosthetic forgotten as it falls somewhere in the sheets. He doesn’t flinch like he did the first few times you did it, when you reached for his face during checkups to inspect his scars. But it didn’t stop you from asking.

“May I?”

Levi doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings your hand to rest on his cheek as his head leaned closer to your touch. His eyes closed momentarily, almost as if he were reveling in your warmth. But they opened once more, and you willed yourself not to get lost in the sea of gray.

“You were never a charity case to me, Levi. Or any of the things you just said.”

“Then what am I to you?”

Your heart stops, eyes widening ever so slightly at his question. Would you tell him? No, you couldn’t. Not when—

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N.” His grip on your hand tightens a bit, not enough to hurt but enough to distract you from your thoughts. You realize the hand that held your own against his cheeks was his broken hand, his mutilated hand.

...would you really tell him?

You sigh, eyes finally leaving his. “You’re just another soldier who got hurt from a battle, asking a medic to take the pain away.”

Your hand slips out of his grip and goes back to your side, and you turn away from him once more.

“Are you lying?” He asks.

“No.”

“Then look into my eyes and tell me what I am to you.”

“I can’t.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly, hesitant but determined to stick to your words. And Levi knew that he was never going to get an answer. He sighs, shoulders slumping down in defeat. It was now his turn to look away from you, gaze falling to his lap. The envelope holding the letter crinkles and he’s reminded why he’s here.

“I know.” He whispers back. “But do me a favor.”

He doesn’t look your way as he hands you the letter. He doesn’t look your way when you silently took it, eyeing the red wax seal that bore his initials, fingers tracing over the edges before—

“Don’t open it yet. Open it tomorrow morning before you come in for my checkup.”

You only nodded in response. You reached out, placing the envelope on your bedside table before once again sitting next to Levi. Just as you had started, a comfortable silence blankets the atmosphere. Shoulders touching, heads not daring to turn because of the proximity.

But this time, it was he who breaks the silence.

“I don’t know what the future holds.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what the future holds.” He repeats. “I could die in action tomorrow and be one of the bodies they wheel back from war, or you could die trying to save someone in the battlefield. Even if neither of us die tomorrow, there’s always a possibility that we’ll die the day after that. And the day after that and the day after that. Such are the risks of our jobs.”

He takes a deep breath. “But tonight, I don’t want to focus on tomorrow. I don’t want to focus on what the future holds. I don’t want to focus on titans or enemy troops or looking after my team.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You.”

Your eyes soften. “But what am I to you?”

You didn’t know what to expect, what his answer may be. But you know you didn’t expect it when Levi’s fingers gently grabbed your chin and coaxed your head to look in his direction. You didn’t expect it when you opened your eyes and met his, his warm palm resting on your cheek. And what you didn’t expect most was for his eyes to look at you with so much love, so much care and adoration. Gone were the facades of boredom and disinterest; the stoicness and detachment they always seemed to reflect. All there was left was softness, warmth, and what seemed to be the unmistakable swirls of vulnerability.

“You’re just another medic too busy putting other peoples’ lives before your own.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.” He whispers. “But you make me want to plan for a future I know we won’t have— a future we can’t have.”

And for the first time, you knew he meant it. You knew what he meant.

In your line of work full of death and violence and risks almost too big to take. In what you once thought was your little world, turning out to be too big for you to handle. In your personal brand of hell where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, and loss was the only constant— it was enough. This small moment was enough.

“You have the most beautiful eyes.” You whispered, entranced. A soft chuckle leaves Levi’s lips, eyes turning into crescent moons so fitting of his gray orbs and your heart twitches at the sight and sound of his melodious laughter.

His thumb brushes over your cheek and your eyes meet his once again, the beautiful shades of gray staring you back. You didn’t know who did it first but at this point you didn’t care enough to find out because slowly, you both leaned in. Slowly, you both closed your eyes. And slowly, you both tilted your heads.

He pauses.

“May I?” Levi asks, lips merely inches away from yours. You nod.

“You may.”

And suddenly, the distance between your lips was no more.

There were no fireworks, no explosions in your heart or butterflies in your belly. There was no feeling of cloud nine, no feeling of want or need. There was only warmth in your chest, the feeling of a small fireplace crackling and glowing in the coldness of the night. The feeling of warm sheets and warm bodies cuddled up in an embrace.

Home.

The feeling of home.

Because that’s what you were to Levi, and what Levi was to you.

“Name and business.”

“Y/N L/N. I’m here for your routine checkup.”

“Come in.”

As the door opens and you set the tray down on his desk, hands gently holding the kettle to pour him his cup of tea, you noticed that Levi was still trying to write. But what caught your attention wasn’t the fact that it was no longer his name he tried to scribble, opting to write down complete sentences. What caught your attention was that he was wearing his prosthetics, and his eyepatch wasn’t on.

“Did you read the letter?” He asks. His hands were still writing and his eyes were still staring at the papers in front of him. But you could tell he was anxious.

“Yes.” You simply reply, and he nods.

“Good.”

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#the bit where levi visits oc #is my favorite part to write #and the lil banter at the start too #i love banter but i also love sweet little words #this is proof that i can be romantic without calling someone a dumbass #writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine

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the-phantom-ender · 3 years

Text

An Exploration Into Minecraft and Language.

I’m breaking this into sections and doing this literally just because I did a bunch of early human language stuff as review and I need a way to. Make my brain stop thinking about history. But I’ll start with canon knowledge first and slowly break into less official stuff from there!

Everything’s under the cut, because this got very long.

Early Language:

Pictograms are written languages where an image represents a thing and specifically just that thing, an expansion on pictogram languages are ideogram languages, in which an image represents multiple things. Likely the most well known pictogram/ideogram language (as it evolved as the need to say more did) was Hieroglyphics. Hieroglyphs were modeled after specific things but eventually grew to have many different meanings.

What’s the reason for the history lesson, I hear you asking? There’s evidence of a pictogram/ideogram language in Minecraft, of course! Chiseled sandstone (both normal and red) have images on them that highly seem to imply that there’s language and meaning behind them! Sandstone has a creeper face (which as well as being obviously a nod to creepers, could also mean explosions, as these blocks are found in Desert Temples), and red sandstone has a depiction of the wither (it wasn’t uncommon to have drawings of god-figures in pictograms so there’s a chance that withers were a deity of sorts).

There’s also chiseled stone bricks, but that’s a much more abstract shape. Perhaps it’s meant to symbolize an eye, though, and therefore the end, as stone bricks are often found in Strongholds, but that’s much more speculative. Chiseled stone bricks themselves also naturally generate in Jungle Temples. Chiseled polished blackstone seems to have a face on it of sorts (resembling the nose of a Piglin, most notably), and chiseled nether brick resembles that of a skeleton skull.

The only two major minecraft structures that don’t seem to have chiseled variants with symbols on them are the End City (purpur) and the Ocean Monument (prismarine). Ocean Monuments aren’t easily livable spaces, so it makes sense that language wouldn’t be a major factor, though. For the End, however, perhaps the lack of a symbol block is because there was already written language.

(above is a chart with all blocks mentioned in this section, listing their names, the symbols that appear on them, where they generate, and what they may represent)

Development of Language:

Here we get into full written alphabets. There are several types of alphabet, but “true” alphabets are those with distinct characters for both consonants and vowels. The most widely used modern day true alphabet is the Latin/Roman alphabet. Minecraft items in general adhere to the language the player is playing, so for the sake of things, the language you speak doesn’t play a factor here.

As many people know, there’s actually a true alphabet present in the game! That is, of course, Standard Galactic! There’s no official words tied to it, but it is the script used in the enchanting table and various other smaller details in the game! Now one thing to note about the Galactic in the enchantment table is that if you actually take the time to sit down and translate the words present, they don’t translate exactly. Most of the time, they will be a word similar to the enchantment, but not the same. Sometimes it’s just entirely gibberish.

(above is a chart of the Standard Galactic Alphabet, with the scripts corresponding Latin letters)

What this means is that, talking about translation wise, Galactic and English (or whatever language you play in) don’t translate directly into each other. So it isn’t simply just English words but different letters. At least not exactly. Perhaps this is the language Villagers speak, as they can and do trade enchanted books and items.

What people may not know, however, is that there’s actually another script present in Minecraft! Or… at least kind of. There’s six letters of a different script present in the game. And unlike Standard Galactic, it doesn’t appear in any other sources, so we will likely never know how it works in its entirety. What we do know, though, is that there are symbols on the End Crystals! And, digging into those textures, we can translate a word out from them by messing with them a bit! That word is… Mojang. It’s probably meant to just be an easter egg used to fill space, that one.

(above is a visualization of how the symbols present on End Crystals can translate into the word Mojang)

That being said, though, lore-wise, it can have a bigger impact! Remember how I said that End Cities are lacking in a pictogram? This can serve as an explanation! Perhaps the Enderman developed with language, even as far as having wide-spread Galactic (as there are enchanted books and armor in End City structures), but upon entering the end, after many years, they broke away from the standard script. Development of a new written alphabet and even more different languages is certainly possible, it’s happened plenty in the real world. Isolation creates new advancements. So the Enderman create the language present on the crystals at some point, eventually.

Additional Concepts and Less Canon Tidbits:

Here we get into wild speculation and fun ideas that don’t really hold any weight! If you don’t want that, that’s entirely fair!

Obviously, Villagers have what is technically the most advanced society economically. They trade for goods, have various jobs and artisans, and have an item that they value costs at (emeralds). They also have the most concrete communities, having villages, obviously. Villagers also have domesticated animals! Both in the sense of farm animals and also cats.

There’s also Pillagers- which I haven’t mentioned much here. They have giant mansions which seem a lot like manors. They don’t do trade, but they’re skilled fighters and have trained war animals, as well as people who have specific combat styles. They’re plenty advanced, especially because they have potions and therefore understand medicine at least to some degree, but much more war-oriented.

Piglins are essentially wandering tribes. They don’t trade, they barter, most of their structures are in ruins and the structures they do have are very heavily guarded because they contain riches. The Piglins seem to follow animals that they use (hoglins), but are also seemingly in the process of domesticating them. They also don’t seem to have much more in the way of language than pictograms (though there is Galactic present and they do seem to understand enchanting and brewing to an extent). Piglins seem to be midway in advancement, really.

Enderman are… complicated. Because yes, they do have written language and they do have cities and communities and means of transportation, they don’t exactly… interact. They don’t trade. They’re technologically advanced beyond any other groups in the game, but they are mostly isolated. So they’ve advanced entirely alone, building off only themselves.

There are also Nether Fortresses but that’s… complicated. Those tied exclusively to these structures are Wither Skeletons and Blazes. These are very different creatures, however. There’s also the fact that Blazes spawn almost exclusively from spawners. It’s hard to tell if Wither Skeletons or Blazes are the proper inhabitants of the area, but it could be both. Wither Skeletons likely originated from traditional Skeletons adapting to the environment of the nether. They’re undead and therefore it isn’t impossible that they may have, at least in the past, known how to build structures. Eventually losing that ability as the Nether degraded them.

Nether Fortresses provide no trade but there are chests that can contain loot! And some of that loot suggests a knowledge of places outside of the Nether (horse armor, most notably). Wither Skeletons/Skeletons generally may have also descended from people fearing a god figure called the “Wither” and therefore, the blackened skeletons were made out to be part of what would summon the creature. So they were kept in the Nether to avoid something like that reaching the Overworld.

There’s also… Ocean Monuments. I have no idea with those. Elder Guardians are likely a figure that’s revered. Giant structures were built for them to appease them or something of the sort. They might be told to keep the seas at peace or something of the sort. Not an active civilization, however. A structure built to pay respect to something powerful.

There’s probably plenty of things I blanked on mentioning, but yeah! This has been fun! I don’t know why this is my definition of fun.

#phantoms membrane #minecraft #mineblr #minecraft theory #minecraft analysis #minecraft language #aaaaa i dont know what to tag this #please reblog it though!#i spent. quite literally all day on this ;^^#like i had fun but also!!!! it was a lot of work!!

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neon--nightmare · 3 years

Note

also yes plz continue i would read an entire fic

Item #: SCP-4200 SCP-4010

Object Class: Safe Keter

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-4200 SCP-4010 is to be kept in a 40-by-20 yard enclosure, and will be moved to a larger one if necessary. (READ: If it keeps acting up. Seriously, did we HAVE to put the thing in a 420 401 foot... God-*DANG!* it.)

Additionally, SCP-4200 SCP-4010 (NOTE: Can we please just use 4010? This is getting obnoxious.) must be supplied with a new, preferably healthy, D-Class personnel approximately every two weeks. Apon acceptance by SCP-4010, the D-Class is reassigned as SCP-4010-1, and will be promptly disposed of once the time is up. NO instance of SCP-4010-1 should ever be allowed escape or to attain any sort of recovery.

Description: In its natural form, SCP-4010 resembles a gelatinous purple starfish approximately 3 1/4 inches in height. Maximum length is, as of now, impossible to measure without undue risk to researchers. It is a parasitic being, requiring a physical host to survive. Subject has a singular humanoid eye located in the center of its ‘core,’ ringed with ██ small growths resembling teeth that SCP-4010 can fold over the lid as a protective shield, and no visible mouth. (NOTE: Further testing is necessary. What are these growths made of? Can they regrow? Attempting to get a sample may be a good idea. - Dr. Collins) (You do it. “Resembling teeth” my *RAD,* the little *SHED* bit me! - Dr. [REDACTED FOR SAFETY.])

In its natural state, SCP-4010 is rendered unable to communicate in any way with staff, apparently only capable of screeching. Despite this, it is still highly intelligent, and will use any chance it gets to escape. Subject is coated with a self-replenishing, transparent layer of ‘slime’ that allows it to slither around without injury to itself, as well as providing a shield from the sun and other semi-extreme temperatures. Although it looks similar to the slime from a ███, testing has shown it matches no known substance.

SCP-4010-1: Once provided with any humanoid creature, preferably a standard D-Class subject, SCP-4010 will rapidly enter its mouth (or other available orifices) and [DATA EXPUNGED.] Once inside its new ‘host,’ Subject immediately gains the ability to speak with the voice of SCP-4010-1, along with several more anomalous properties; such as the ability to replace any spoken curse word with a “child-friendly” alternative. This, apparently, extends to this very document. (NOTE: How does it know what we’re going to say before we say it? Is the process automatic? Requires further testing. - Dr. Collins.)

When able to speak, SCP-4010 displays a callous lack of care for lives other than its own, stating that it is aware of the suffering SCP-4010-1 experiences and simply finds it amusing. Currently, it is unknown if the subject is capable of any recognizable ‘human’ emotion, but with further testing, it seems unlikely. [SEE INTERVIEWS-1 BELOW.]

Other properties include a bright red Fanny pack (confiscated) that can seemingly hold a limitless number of items, including those that shouldn’t even fit in the opening, but can only be accessed by SCP-4010-1. Subject also has the ability to ‘teleport,’ complete with a cartoony “POOF!” sound, leaving behind a cloud of rainbow smoke. Thankfully, there appears to be a limit on this power, as the subject has not teleported out of the building yet. Although, it has left containment multiple times, and requires constant monitoring to prevent more escapes. (Note: Requesting reclassification to Keter, at least. Scared me half to death when this thing showed up in our break room. Who the *HECK* marked this nightmare down as ‘Safe,’ anyway??? My ears are still ringing from the anti-drug PSA. - Dr. Hart)

Thankfully, all instances of SCP-4010-1 share several similarities, which makes them easy to spot. While ‘possessed’ by SCP-4010, the right sclera of all subjects turns a murky black, and the pupil is replaces with a white, cartoony heart. As possession continues, the heart appears to ‘crack.’ When the crack reaches the heart’s bottom, it will appear to ‘break,’ and the subject will be afflicted with sudden, immediate cardiac arrest. If medical personnel is alerted in time, the subject can be resuscitated, but all brain functions will have permanently ceased.

As this is a very easy way to tell if an acquaintance is afflicted with SCP-4010, the parasite appears to compensate by wearing some sort of eye covering, preferably a pair of sunglasses emblazoned with “YO LO,” slang commonly used in the year ██ and referring to the saying “You only live once.” (Note: Yikes. - Dr. Hart) SCP-4010-1 also maintain a constant speech pattern, constantly using slang such as “rad,” “bro,” “sick,” and “dawg,” as well as speaking in a heavy Brooklyn accent no matter the ‘host’s’ place of origin. Even if the host only speaks a foreign language, once overtaken by SCP-4010, they will speak in fluent English. (Does 80s’speak even count as English? - Dr. Collins)

SCP-4010-2: When left in a host body for longer than two weeks, SCP-4010 will begin to produce smaller versions of itself, labeled henceforth as SCP-4010-2. It appears to show extreme distaste towards these instances, crushing them until they [REDACTED.] When asked why it is so hostile, as SCP-4010 has previously ranted at length about how “murder is unrad,” it simply laughed and stated, quote, “They don’t count as people.”

Instances of SCP-4010-2 vary from SCP-4010 in many ways. While SCP-4010 itself is purple, SCP-4010-2 appear in all shades of the rainbow, though each has a single eye with black sclera. Most commonly, they appear as a single tendril, though some take on the same starfish shape as SCP-4010. It is as of yet unknown if they maintain the other anomalous properties of SCP-4010.

Final notes: As of now, SCP-4010 is classified as *SAFE* Keter, though this may change in the future. Outside of a host, it is harmless, but there’s no way to sustain it without allowing it inside a body. Do NOT let it near other SCPs. Do not listen to anything it has to say. If an associate is speaking oddly, or hiding their eyes in some way, report them IMMEDIATELY. Better safe than sorry, honestly. A D-Class described the thing’s possession as ‘a nightmare you can’t wake up from,’ and I am NOT letting that *SHED* happen to me. - Dr. Hart

Addendum: God, *FUNK* this. I need a pay raise. - Dr. [REDACTED.]

#scp #undertale multiverse #fresh sans #underfresh #fanfiction #xtale #LISTEN I SPENT A LONG TIME ON THIS OKAY!!!!!#IM VERY PROUD OF THIS PLEASE REBLOG #my writing #PLEASE SHOW IN TAGS PL #PLEASE #SCP fresh #SCP fresh au

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flickeringart · 3 years

Text

Thinking and Feeling - What keeps you civilized?

In order to be able to live in a civilized manner, a person has to align with certain values and standards that enable behavior that doesn’t threaten, disturb or cause disruption in social interactions. The air signs in astrology represents the thinking function, the ability to formulate ideals and communicate with the environment. The air element is the function of deductive reasoning and it allows for a certain detachment from the emotional-physical reality. The thinking function allows us to interact with the world on an intangible level, through sublimating actual experience to conceptual reality. “Communication” is only possible when there’s separation present – where there’s a subject and an object present.

The air element is often referred to as the basis for “civilization”. It is uniquely human; it is what sets us apart from the animals. Without thinking, there are no ideas, no conceptual ideal to strive for. This is not to say that thinking on its own is productive – there needs to be a physical- emotional reality in order for thinking to have something to conceptualize of in the first place. As humans, we are only partly thinking creatures, and we can hardly be said be defined solely by our thoughts. Even though air dominant types might be more justified in basing their identity on their capacity to think and navigating conceptual reality, there is so much going on at a denser, subtler level, a feeling level that might or might not fit into pre-conceived conceptual framework, that might not be understood through concepts.

Thinking is undoubtedly powerful. In a “civilized” society the pen is mightier than the sword, if used skillfully. A lot can be done with a sharp intellect and a quick mind. However, thinking is not responsive, it is a conscious construction. Powerful emotion or overwhelming instinctual reactions are more organic and dynamic. People can hold values and ideals that are perfectly in line with civilized society, but it doesn’t mean that the instinct is ever “tamed” because it can’t be constructed. Thinking can’t hold emotion back and the thinking function can’t ever perfectly define or describe what is felt simply because emotion is subjective and not objective. No person can completely act and behave in accordance with ideas and ideals. Emotions prevent this from happening – they are immediate responses that are personal – not impersonal. This is why, on an intellectual level one can say, “it’s wrong to kill”, but it won’t prevent the person from affectively responding to a situation in a way that results in a killing. Reversely, on an intellectual level one can say, “I have to kill”, but it won’t prevent the emotions from moving in a different direction.

Does thinking really keep us civilized in a real sense then? It seems not; it only creates a façade of civilization, a light façade of connectivity and communion, a light façade of love that stems from detachment from actuality and idealization of potential. The intellectual ideal is impersonal, seemingly more pure than the ambiguous and powerfully primitive emotional response, but in a sense, also inhuman (superhuman?) and inorganic. The thinking function is indispensable, but it is shallow in its own way, less potent and less alive than emotion. Words only have true power in connection to emotion; on their own they are simply tools, empty and dead. Perhaps it is accurate to say that civilization cannot manifest without alignment of the soul and the mind. Thinking can’t control feeling and feeling can’t control thinking, inevitably one is operating separately from the other but they can align. Thinking and feeling are unable to reduce each other to nothing. Thinking doesn’t cancel out feeling and vice versa. Strong emotion might call for intellectual justification socially, yet, since thinking didn’t cause feeling in the first place (at least not consciously), one can only speculate as to what the emotion is or was in response to – why it was so intense and if it was reasonable and so on… In a sense, trying to conceptualize of emotion is like trying to conceptualize of life and it’s never productive because it won’t make the feeling nature be different than it is or prevent it from expressing itself.

Generally speaking, emotions don’t “fit in” socially and societally because they are strictly personal and untamed – often impossible to fit into a conceptual framework that everyone can understand and make sense of. There is no logic behind emotions because they are immediately experienced and are not part of some pre-conceived conceptual construct. In fact, many people find it insulting when others try to make sense of their reactions and responses, to make them fit into a neat intellectual-conceptual “box”. Emotions demands acceptance no matter what – they essentially reflects organic truth rather than conceptual truth. The feeling function is often devalued and deemed “less evolved”, but without it, we would lack deeper “personal truth”.

------

On a separate note, albeit connected to the text above,

Some claim that thought creates reality and emotional experience is a direct result of subconscious thought patterns and programming. I believe this is true in the sense that there’s a universal blueprint that is set up for us, however, I don’t think that thought creates reality in our own personal lives in the sense that we can separate ourselves from our personal blueprint (reflected by our birth chart) by “working on ourselves”. It is true that one can become more conscious of components and facets of the psyche, but it’s too presumptuous to believe that one could “change” the self for the better to fit a preferred mold. Some people seem to work well with the “law of attraction”, they are able to positively focus and manifest the personal reality they want. This ability is undoubtedly reflected in the birth chart of these people – optimism, a propensity to believe and receive effortlessly. Not everyone is set up that way, which is quite evident considering the struggles and hardships that people face, despite the effort to look on the bright side of life. Some charts are set up in order for the individual to experience pain and crises in order to discover something of value through the death and rebirth process. This is a valid path, although it might not seem blissful or peaceful in the least. For these types it is not realistic or rewarding to soar on the surface of life.

Take Esther Hicks for example, a famous channel, author and public speaker. She helps people to close the gap between their desires and the manifestation of them. She is channeling a “collective thought stream” (called Abraham) in her talks that is concerned with seeing humanity actualize its desires and dreams. Her chart, as shown below (from astrotheme.com) has a grand fire trine with Jupiter, Venus and Mars. This trine blesses her with a certain fundamental and natural faith in her own ability to receive what she wants from life. Her chart is not void of friction and trouble, but this grand trine has her back when the going gets tough. She would have a natural propensity for generosity and an “abundance mindset” as they call it.

The conjunction of Pluto-Saturn-Mars (all in retrograde which makes the energy experienced internally) in Leo points to a charged desire nature, a concentrated and powerful drive that is, for lack of a better word, ruthless and almost painful. As Mars is the fighter of the personality, this kind of configuration makes me think of an insatiable, prideful yet painfully contained fighter who can’t admit to any personal passions without feeling weakened, but at the same time can’t let go and has to have at all. It makes sense, that a person who helps people to get what they want through mental-emotional alignment would understand the pain and dissatisfaction caused by not being able to control life. The conjunction opposes Mercury, which is interesting since she writes and speaks for a living, or rather speaks for an autonomous “entity” of sorts. She lends her communicative ability to something other than herself. When she channels, she’s not in her Pluto-Saturn-Mars mode. Venus and Jupiter, the two benefics, and Uranus nicely support Mercury. She can convey ideas that are revolutionary and speak of happiness and abundance. It strikes me that when she speaks, she speaks to people with frustrated desires (Mercury opposite Pluto-Saturn-Mars) – it is as if she projects this cluster of energy and experiences it through her audience. I’m sure she avoids identifying with it and meets it through others that she encounters. The Pluto-Saturn-Mars conjunction is highly uncomfortable and the person would likely attempt to work around it in any way possible if the chart allows for it. In Esther’s case, she has a lot to lean on in order to avoid its harshness - the trine certainly helps and the Mercury opposition allows detachment. Nonetheless she meets it in her life because it’s part of her blueprint.

My point with all of this is to illustrate that certain “philosophies” and belief systems come easier to others because of the personal astrological setup and it being backed by experience in accordance with the planets. It always makes sense why a person thinks and feels a certain way from looking at the natal chart. Nobody’s wrong and nobody’s right, there’s only the chart and what it allows for and doesn’t allow for. I do believe that no one can act outside of his or her chart. All paths are ultimately valid from a universal perspective. Work with your own blueprint because that is the only way to live anyway.

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fruityutas · 3 years

Text

heart-shaped box

taglist ~ @puppywritings , @xiaojours , @svchengss , @prettyjaems

part of @du0tine ‘s 21 ways to kill your lover collab

cannibal!stalker!sicheng x reader

not proofread

genre ~ horror, angst, suggestive but no smut

wc ~ 2.5k

warnings ~ the following writing is FICTION and has very heavy and unsettling themes like murder, stalking, and cannibalism. if these themes are triggering or otherwise uncomfortable to you, do NOT read this story.

synopsis ~ you meet sicheng unexpectedly when out for groceries. he seems to be the most normal person in the room, but what you don’t know can’t hurt you, can it?

the basis of all life is the heart. it beats so we can have oxygen delivered to our organs. it is precious and works hard to let us live. one must protect it at all costs, never let it weaken, not even from love.

sicheng walks the aisles of the store slowly, inspecting each item, analyzing its contents. he keeps his focus until it’s interrupted by a sweet voice. yours. “excuse me?” his gaze floats to meet yours. you stood before him, smiling shyly. “can i help you?” sicheng stands straight, his figure taller than you’d expected. “um, i just need help getting that box of cereal off the top shelf.” his eyes follow your arm up to the top shelf, the cereal clearly out of reach for you. he grabs it and hands it to you. “thank you so much! i really didn’t want to climb the shelves.” the giggle that accompanies your statement makes his ears turn red. sicheng is enthralled by you, your scent, the soft tendrils of hair cascading down your shoulders, your sweet smile. he feels the urge come up. one he hadn’t had in months. Obsession. sicheng knew he’d be seeing you more, he’d make sure of it. “it’s not a problem…” “oh! y/n, that’s my name.” you laugh awkwardly, the pause between him implying to ask your name a bit too long. he grins and nods before wishing you a good day.

it hadn’t been hard to find your sns, a foreigner in mainland china was rare. the pictures you posted did no justice to what you truly looked like. you’d be a good addition to his collection of hearts stolen. he doesn’t follow you and doesn’t like any posts. he has to stay invisible for the time being. he finds out the college you attend and lurks there whenever possible to figure out your schedule. the first two days gives him what he needs, now he stays just to see you. sicheng eventually gets the gall to trek closer to the actual campus, sitting on the benches of the park on the edge of it. you spot him one day, waving at him. strike one. you make your way over to him and sit beside him. strike two. your compassion was going to be your downfall. “fancy seeing you here! are you a student?” sicheng knows better than to lie, so he says no. “i just like to sit at this park from time to time, it’s very relaxing.” you hum in response. “well, i have to get going to my next class, but it was pleasant seeing you again!” he nods and sends you off with a smile, but little do you know, he’s planning the main course for his next feast.

you see, sicheng and his six friends are all what some would call disgusting and horrible people. they don’t understand though, the delicacies of the human body. eating together brings you closer, but eating a person brings you impossibly close. but sicheng was a smart man, and he didn’t need people to call him disgusting, so he prefers to keep his tendencies in the closet.

sicheng’s daily routine rarely changed. he got up, fed his cat, made breakfast, ate, showered, and went to work. though he didn’t need to work, his parents had left him an empire of wealth to live off. he got bored with no work, so he decided to use some of the said wealth to get a degree and use it. and what better degree than a doctorate in biology? he used it to his advantage, he knew the exact cuts to make, and how the body could be used. throughout his cannibalistic diet, he’d eaten nine people. sicheng had picky tastes, though. no minors, no one over 30, and absolutely no one he didn’t deem pretty enough. gender wasn’t an issue, sicheng admired both. his victims were unsuspecting, falling for his good looks and seemingly sweet personality. sicheng would usually bed them before killing them because while eating someone connects them to you, he felt as if sex powered it more.

the next time sicheng sees you, it’s at the grocery store again. he uses this as his chance to try for your number. “fate really wants us to see each other huh?” you laugh at the coincidence. he gives a small chuckle back. “well since fate wants us to see each other, maybe i can take the chance and ask for your number?” his question takes you back, and you turn red in slight embarrassment. “well, of course you can, but i’m not looking for a relationship right now, so just friends?” annoyance spreads through sicheng, but he agrees nonetheless. this would make it hard but not impossible.

for the next week sicheng was texting you and gaining your trust. you’d agreed to meet up with him at a cafe for a “friend date” as he put it. he offers to pick you up, and you naively give him your address. sicheng is getting closer to what he wants, and it’s making him giddy. the outing goes well and sicheng takes you home. he lurks around that night, though, and sees you leave your house dressed up nicely. a car pulls up and a man gets out to greet you. sicheng’s blood boils. how were you not looking for a relationship when clearly you were going on a date with this man?

the entire night, sicheng watches and follows your every move. his rage heightened each time the man touches you. you were his, not anyone else’s. sicheng clearly had to get rid of this problem. he’s done it before, and even though he won’t be dining on this man, his friends will. there is never a wasted meal between the seven of them. a quick phone call to kun, to who he gives the address of the restaurant, and the man is taken care of. sicheng decides to leave before he gets mad enough to do the job himself.

not a word is mentioned by sicheng, because if he did, you’d know he followed you. the “friend dates” continued and sicheng was as unsuspecting as any normal person, but behind the scenes, his obsession grew. he was getting impatient, he wanted to have you now. but he just couldn’t push it. you were becoming more flirty with him after the other guy stood you up. at least, that’s what you told sicheng, not knowing the man was long dead and eaten.

“sicheng, are you alright?” your honey voice pulls him out of his thoughts and back to reality. he nods feverishly and shoots a shy smile, one that hides his true intentions. today is the day, he thought. nothing could stand between him and your extravagance. you smile at him, and place a hand on his arm. “would you like to come to my apartment? i have water and medicine if you don’t feel well.” of course, he agrees. his plan was coming together. throughout the last seven years, the nine victims he’s claimed have all been to his basic standards.

taeil, the street musician he encountered while still in high school. he was the first, a quite easy job, as he was desperate to find connections to anyone -street performing wasn’t enough to pay the bills- and sicheng was just the perfect person for that.

yeri, his first girlfriend. sicheng had a lot of fun with her, she was almost always yearning for him, begging for sex whenever the chance arose. but sicheng grew tired of her constantness and got rid of her.

irene, his best friend’s aunt. she was much too old for sicheng when he’d fucked her, but she was just too cunning to pass up. her seductive nature got the best of sicheng, and her kill was his most gruesome to date, the anger of falling for another’s trick clouded his mind.

yuta, his first true love. sicheng doesn’t regret killing his lover, but the heavy guilt of what could have been had sicheng not been this way weighs on his mind at all times.

yangyang, the small cousin that annoyed him to no end. sicheng showed no emotion at the boy’s funeral, and he was the only family member he’d killed.

wendy, the girl from college. she was also in the medical department and had a small crush on sicheng. he used this to his advantage, killing her swiftly and secretly.

jaehyun, the secret boyfriend. his junior year of undergrad school was filled with parties at frat houses, and jaehyun being the president of one proved sicheng showing up to many of them. jaehyun was a whore in every sense of the word, and it extended towards men.

renjun, the only other chinese boy in his graduate school. sicheng was a mentor to him, and even cared deeply for the boy. but renjun wasn’t special, he was still just another meal to be consumed.

seulgi, his dance partner. many days after school were spent fucking her in the dance studio on campus, until one day he got tired of her. the dance studio was closed for weeks due to the amount of blood.

and finally you. you were different from the rest, you were the tenth victim, and the fifth girl. an even number of victims, something he took pride in achieving. he knew he had to do something special for you. the pink heart-shaped box he’d got to hold the very organ it was modeled after. it had golden details painted on, and the latch had a pearl on it. sicheng thought it was beautiful, and the perfect thing to hold your heart. he was going to keep it close to him, as a token of remembrance.

the way back to your apartment was filled with sensual touches and flirty kisses on each other. it wasn’t far from the small cafe you both chose to eat at, so the walk wasn’t too long. a passerby would look and see what appears to be a happy couple when the reality of the situation was much darker. sicheng was hungry, and you were the main course. the door to the apartment was in sight when a policeman stopped the two of you. sicheng hides his annoyance well and puts up an unsuspecting front. “good evening, officer.” the officer nods before speaking to you. “miss, you were one of the last people to see johnny suh last week. do you know anything about his whereabouts?” the shock from his sentence washed over your face as you shook your head no. “i ate with him last tuesday, and arranged another meeting, but he never showed nor answered his phone and i haven’t seen him since.” the officer nods and writes a few things down before turning to sicheng. “and do you maybe know anything about him?” sicheng analyzes the picture of the man he sent kun to kill, almost smiling. “no sir, i’ve never seen him before unfortunately.” the officer nods again and thanks the both of you for the help.

sicheng starts to rush along, wanting to complete the task at hand. the walk up the stairs to your door seemed endless, tunnel vision forming at the thought of what was about to go down. an evil smirk graced sicheng’s features, and as the sunset glowed down on you, he knew your time on earth was ending soon. you both didn’t get even a foot in the door before sicheng was all over you, kisses exchanged between clashing of teeth, hands roaming everywhere that was in reach. clothes discarded around the floor, not to be worried about until later. the only thing that mattered to sicheng right now was getting you in bed. he guides you there quickly, kisses getting messy, the rest of your undergarments gone. the only sounds in the room were the escaping moans from you and the creaking of the bed.

you’re fast asleep, sicheng makes sure of this. he creeps around your kitchen and finds a knife suitable for his art. the gloves he brought already on, he picks the knife up and examines his reflection. he sees himself as a wonderful human, there are no flaws in him, he is the perfect being. his trek back to your room is hasty, his excitement barely contained. he is moments away from having the best meal of his life.

his body hovered over your sleeping figure. how peaceful you looked, soft breathing, a neutral look on your face. it was such a shame that you’d be dead in less than a few minutes. sicheng took his time preparing his weapon, the carving knife shining in the moonlight. he silently plans out where to take the first stab, even a small error would result in a faulty kill. the pink heart-shaped box in his bag yelling at him to hurry up and do it. taking in a deep breath, sicheng raises the knife, but only enough to get momentum. as he plunges it into your chest, he covers your mouth as to not let the scream out. he can’t have anyone hearing this, for obvious reasons. you awake to a painful sensation. eyes still raw with sleep, you scan your surroundings as best you can, the painful burning almost too much. the figure above you looks familiar, and you thrash around to get away from him. the sleep now long gone and adrenaline coursing your veins, you realize it was the man you’d been seeing around often, sicheng. you try to get away from him, but he is inevitably stronger than you.

“you’re only making this harder for yourself.” his voice comes out deep and full of annoyance. you pay it no mind and continue to wriggle your body, though it is slowly weakening. sicheng continues to carve around your heart, and you try to scream out but the large hand on your mouth blocks it. the pain is unbearable at this point, and you find yourself losing this fight. your skin pales at blood loss and you start to lose consciousness. the last thing you hear before the dark was sicheng’s sultry voice whispering in your ear. “my present to me is the only means of life you’ve got left.”

you go limp in his arms, your heart ripped from its cavity. sicheng takes one glove off to grab the box, placing the heart inside it gently. he admires his work, standing and taking pictures to save for later. he thinks about how delicious you will taste. sicheng simply cannot wait to be fully connected to you, the excitement making him hurry with transporting you to his house so you can be prepared. sicheng calls up kun, and the only thing he says before hanging up is simple. “tonight, we shall feast on a delicate one.”

the basis of all life is the heart, and you let yours be taken by a man you truly didn’t know.

#neowritingsnet #nshitty-frathouse #unfortunatus: inferno #nct #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 #wayv #wayv scenarios #wayv imagines #wayv sicheng #sicheng x reader #sicheng scenarios #dong sicheng

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slugtranslation-hypmic · 4 years

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important question that's been bugging me for a while. since hypmic plays in a female powered society.. does that make everything like..our world but reverse? so that guys are more often oppressed and girls are more likely to be predators, taking what happened to hifumi (like men are more likely to us) and stuff like that? (or like if we imagine everything genderbent and apply our society to that) sorry I hope this is not too triggering. love your work!

This is a delicate question. I am going to put my answer below a cut. Topics included: sexual predators, misogyny, assault, kidnapping, the mistreatment of male sexual assault victims

I don’t think that I’m necessarily the best person to answer this or examine this. I’m not educated enough in this particular topic. However, I have tried to give it as much thought and respect as I can.

The Question of Female Predators

This is a very complex topic. Female predators are already not uncommon in the world we live in, so I guess the question of whether there would be more or less female predators depends on what factors contribute to people becoming a predator.

I could be entirely wrong about this, but I think one factor that causes a lot of fear of being preyed upon is the size difference between most AMAB people and AFAB people. Obviously, there are millions of exceptions to this rule, but AMAB people generally tend to be taller, more muscular, and broader than AFAB people. The majority of AMAB people are also men (whereas the majority of AFAB people are women), so on average, an altercation between an untrained man and an untrained woman is not likely to end in the woman’s favor. This isn’t going to change in the world of Hypnosis Mic.

It’s the societal factors that would change. The Center for Hope and Safety says, “A sexual offender generally believes he is better than other people and so does not have to follow the rules that ordinary people do.” This is a stance the Party of Words elevates. The Party constantly practices “othering” and promotes themselves as an elite group. Only they are allowed to enter a certain area. Only they are allowed to write the name of their ward in kanji, whereas every other location must use the foreign-looking katakana. ARB events frequently feature Party members shoving characters around from place to place with no explanation, as questions are not allowed. Only the Party can know what’s going on. Using this as a guideline, I think it’s very possible for predators already within the Party to use this as an excuse for being a predator. “Men are worthless, so I can abuse them.”

You could argue that the Party is founded on the principles of safety for women and non-violence, but the Party is also very hypocritical. Its promises of safety are only for the party itself; it puts on painful gladiator battles to turn a profit and purposefully cause infighting to keep the Party safe. Ramuda even suggests (and I have no reason to disbelieve him) in TDD 12 that they have a stockpile of weapons as well. The Party doesn’t care for anything but itself and staying in power.

So yes, predators within the Party are probably more likely to abuse their power, but would the shift towards a female-dominated society create more female predators? That’s a much harder question to answer. I am not remotely equipped to speak on what causes someone to become a predator. I do, however, think that societal norms can enable predators or foster mindsets of fright against certain groups.

In the world that we live in, it is very possible for men in certain areas to sexually assault or otherwise mistreat a woman and be applauded by their communities. Think of online communities such as “The Red Pill” or “Men Going Their Own Way”. Such communities believe that women deserve this mistreatment, and while these are very extreme examples, this same mindset permeates a lot of global societies. Even on a small scale, a lot of men tend to make casual sexist comments because we were raised with the notion of this being socially appropriate. And there’s the issue - it’s inappropriate, but it’ll continue to be socially appropriate as long as we don’t continue to challenge ourselves, challenge our friends, and raise our children with better standards of accountability and respect. These social changes do not happen in the blink of an eye, and I highly doubt that a single three years with the Party of Words in power would change that.

Similarly, a lot of girls in our societies are taught (both consciously and subconsciously) to defer to their male peers or even to fear men in positions of power. Once again, unlearning this and teaching future generations more positive standards does not happen overnight. I doubt that most women in the Hypmic universe are able to make radical shifts of thinking and acting over the course of three years. Furthermore, I doubt that many men are really taking the Party’s misandristic words to heart. None of the main characters seem particularly bothered by Ichijiku calling them barbarous fools on the regular; it’s an annoyance, sure, but that’s it. We’d have to see the Party in power for a much longer time to witness any large societal changes.

Additionally, the world inside Chuuouku and the world without are quite different. While Chuuouku boasts state-of-the-art architecture and technology, the rest of Japan gets by like normal, if perhaps in a bit shabbier fashion than to be expected for this futuristic world. Men and women seem to still fit into stereotypical gender roles in much the same way that they do today. Doppo’s bosses are all men; the majority of doctors we see are men, and the nurses tend to be women. While some of Jirou’s female classmates seem to be especially assertive, male and female students get along in the same way as we would expect to see in our world. Women are still kidnapped and trafficked by primarily male yakuza. The former military looks to be exclusively made up of men. Progress moves slowly, so I think we can assume that the Japan outside of Chuuouku is approximately our modern Japan.

One of the major issues in examining this topic is that we see so little female-male interaction in regards to sex or romance. Ramuda and Hifumi are the only characters (that I can think of off the top of my head) who have any on-screen sexually/romantically charged interactions with women, but probably because this is a series largely marketed towards women, these interactions never go beyond light, impersonal flirting. To really take a look at how predators and assault may be featured in the Hypmic universe, we would need a much larger sample size. That being said, I’d still like to examine two case studies: Nemu and Hifumi.

Nemu

The two driving forces of Nemu’s character are her rejection of violence and her desire to have personal strength. The first of these is probably rooted in her childhood, from living with an abusive father, witnessing his violent murder, and witnessing the subsequent suicide of her mother. Samatoki doesn’t appear to have any resources for dealing with his own processing of these events, and he turns to violence and emotional outbursts as a way to channel his feelings. This violence continues to wear on Nemu, but she can still withstand it under normal circumstances up until the moment she is kidnapped.

Nemu cites her kidnapping as an example of her weakness, when in reality, it is an exhibition of anything but weakness. She remains calm throughout the entire ordeal, comforts Jirou and Saburou and keeps them hopeful, throws her shoe at Genchou, and offers him to cut her fingers off if that means the others will be spared. Nemu isn’t weak – she is a hero. She is a seventeen year old girl who lost both parents at a young age and has witnessed horrifically traumatic situations, yet she keeps her head during a hostage situation and acts with courage in order to keep everyone else safe.

Nemu calls herself weak not because she thinks she’s weak for anything she did during the situation, but because the situation happened to her in the first place. She is victim blaming herself for violent assault. This isn’t a logical position, but it’s a very understandable position for someone with her background. Unfortunately, Samatoki doesn’t have the knowledge or resources in order to help her process her trauma safely, and his own coping mechanisms only set her off further.

Nemu isn’t mentally weak, but she is very emotionally vulnerable. Even without the Party’s hypnosis, an offer from the Party would be too tantalizing to ignore. They can promise her a world in which suddenly she has the power over everyone else and where violence is not practiced. An offer like this is impossible for her to ignore. Even though the Party are the ones putting her in jeopardy again, they implicitly promise her that she can never be hurt again. For a young, brave, powerful girl holding in so much pain, that promise is everything she’s ever wanted.

As mentioned before, the Party doesn’t care about stopping violence. In fact, it encourages infighting among its civilians. If Nemu were not in an emotionally vulnerable position, she could see that and reject the Party’s offer, but that’s exactly why the Party targets her and not any of her peers. Imagine how many other young girls in similar situations fall prey to the same trap. These girls need healing and positive environments, but they are fed propaganda instead.

Hifumi

I don’t talk about this much because it’s a very uncomfortable subject for me, but the way Hifumi is depicted is a real tragedy.

We don’t know the details of what this particular girl did to Hifumi, but we do know that it continues to impact him over ten years later. We know that Hifumi developed his coping strategy on his own, seemingly without professional help, and that without it, he can’t begin to live even an approximation of a normal life. The illustrations of him encountering a woman show him hiding, cowering with his neck covered, or crying. He looks to be in genuine fear of losing his life. Consider being this afraid of half of the population and how frequently he must encounter women in his daily life: on the street, in the grocery store, on public transportation. Without the jacket, Hifumi’s life is a nightmare.

And yet the canon source material frames it as a joke. The humurous background music in ARB and Hifumi’s exaggerated gestures in the manga show that his fear and discomfort is a punchline. This would definitely not be a funny gag with the genders reversed (a woman sobbing in fear and running away every time she sees a man), so it is a travesty that this is the stance the authors continue to take.

The world we live in is, generally speaking, not kind to its male assault victims. Misogynistic attitudes create an environment in which it is shameful for men to admit that they were assaulted, especially by women. It should not be a punchline when one human being hurts another, and it is wrong and sexist beyond all belief to perpetuate the idea that women can’t be cruel, violent, and manipulative just as much as anyone else can.

I would like to hope that Hifumi’s case isn’t indicative of all Hypmic universe male assault victims, but I don’t think that’s the case. Hifumi definitely has access to mental health resources, considering that his roommate does, but there is no evidence that Hifumi has ever come forward to ask for help about this issue. This is probably a combination of Hifumi’s internal shame and an unsupportive environment. While Doppo does help Hifumi navigate daily life around women, Doppo’s facial expressions suggest he considers the matter a nuisance. He threatens to take away or withhold the suit when Hifumi’s coping method annoys him, and otherwise doesn’t seem to take Hifumi’s distress seriously. Jakurai appears to be more supportive, but he doesn’t ever offer additional help or resources to Hifumi beyond what Hifumi already has. In fact, the majority of Jakurai’s interest in the subject seems to be around examining Hifumi like a case rather than as a person needing assistance.

It’s also probably a result of the faux macho attitudes that are rampant within the Hypmic universe. Hypmic men are bound by a multitude of ridiculous expectations that I always feel like an idiot translating. “Men don’t cry.” “Men don’t get stuck feeling disappointed.” Absolute nonsense. Men can and will do anything, just like any other group of people. It’s far more productive to encourage men to be their best selves, respectful and helpful to themselves and everyone else, than to feed into this sort of behavior which implies the hideously false “men can’t be assaulted”.

This all results in Hifumi living a double life and only being able to remove his façade in the safety of his own apartment or with his two friends. That’s a miserable existence, and while Hifumi appears to be cheerful enough, it’s sickening to see that this is supposed to be comedic.

The Question of Male Oppression

The Party of Words does institute laws to oppress men, but this oppression is fairly ridiculous. Yotsutsuji says that men are taxed at a higher rate than women and that men aren’t allowed into certain areas (such as Chuuouku, I presume). Despite these challenges, the majority of Hypmic universe men seem to lead pretty normal lives. As mentioned above, the professional fields still appear to be dominated by men, and male-on-female violence doesn’t seem much different from how it is in our contemporary world. These laws aren’t making a significant change in male lives, so they must be made to impact women. Yet these are token impacts only, as they don’t in any way actually make the lives for non-Chuuouku women any better. By making this an “us against them” deal, the Party is able to make more women sympathetic to their cause and cause more infighting (thus distracting people from “us against the Party”) without actually having to make positive changes for anyone.

These laws also aren’t the reason why rebel groups exist. Consider the motivations each character gives in TDD 11. Ichirou mentions a lack of central law and regulations making it difficult to keep loved ones safe. The infighting that the Party promotes via its rap battles allows for power-hungry individuals like Mozuku to take over whole areas and instate whatever rules they want, no matter the cost to the citizens. Samatoki is frustrated by being directed to fight when he can’t see a good cause; similarly, Ramuda is concerned about the effects of the fighting on the neighborhoods they pass through. Even with non-lethal weapons, a country in constant conflict is not one in which its citizens can prosper. Jakurai is concerned about inequalities between Chuuouku and the rest of the country. He mentions in FP/M 15 (which we’ll have up in a few days for you to see for yourself) that he’ll use the prize money from winning the DRB to provide medical care for locations that the Party can’t or won’t supply with aid. Later in the chapter, he drives away from the spectacular, futuristic city of Chuuouku back into a Tokyo marked with graffiti and squalor. Even the male citizens don’t care about how they’re treated as compared to their female counterparts; they care that everyone is suffering together under the Party’s poor governing.

The Party has never sought to oppress men and elevate women. The Party’s goal is to elevate itself and oppress everyone else. The gender inequality is as much of a diversionary tactic as the Division Rap Battle.

#not a translation #asks

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thethreemages · 3 years

Text

*rises from the grave to finally deliver on a certain new story arc chapter*

...Heeeey everybody lol I know this may not be something anyone expected in like, ages compared to my other recent TTM-content... but well, ever since my last chapter upload from maaany months ago... I've just continuously kept getting blocked from wanting to get back more into the main story, especially with the influx of developing lore and side casts I've been having fun with a bit more in comparison.

But well, after some more heavy thinking and reworking a bit of how I wanted to frame the next few bits of the story to go (while still keeping relatively faithful to my original concepts)... here's the official next part to keep the main story flowing with some rather "juicy" drama ahead~

((Here's the DA Link for the fic itself in case it gets too cut-off here-))

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The eerie stillness of the forest was something all too familiar to those raised around this trek of the woods… but this night in particular was getting all the more “curious” for what semblance of peace was broken left and right....

On one side, a noble prince and a gentle strength mage were connecting all the closer together as they were quietly walking through the woods.

On another, a fiery prince and a gruff healer mage were stumbling into the middle of an ominous find… enough to have stirred up some lingering “threats” following after them.

And finally, as of now… a cunning dark mage was finding herself apprehended by a group she once looked up to, respected, and trusted…

“-I will not say this again! Unhand Me. This. Instant!” Prym Fletcher hissed towards the pair of guards who were roughly escorting her back to the camp, feeling tempted to have blasted them back already with her magic… had it not been for a fierce pair of eyes ordering her to keep still.

“Save it, kid. You’ve snooped upon very classified information against official orders, you’re not leaving our sight.” Taiyin Zhou replied back with a firm tone, “You’re about lucky we haven’t already arrested you as is…”

“Ughhh, I’m telling you I did NOT snoop! I had simply stumbled across your camp by accident!” the young dark mage insisted, her voice already growing exasperated with frustration, “Why won’t you believe me?? I’m Lady Meradyth and Sir Luka’s daughter, for Saint’s sake-!”

Halting in her tracks upon hearing that, Taiyin only turned her head to give a… rather puzzled look, “Sir… Luka? Um, sorry but... no one’s ever been registered in our ranks with that name…”

Rightfully confused as ever by that response, Prym had taken the moment to shove off the guards restraining her as she offendedly exclaimed, “Wait… w-what?? Oh, now this has to be a damn joke… Luka was once one of your top members back in the day! Closest friend to Ivor and my mother Meradyth, what do you mean by ‘never been registered’??”

“-Look, I’ve been here in the Elite for a good number of years, kid... and I think I would know if I was aware of anyone named Luka,” Taiyin furrowed her gaze to Prym in a frustratedly tired way, almost reminding her of one of the strict & overworked teachers back at St. Ravilda’s, “I don’t know what else to tell ya on that front, but we’ll be the ones handling the questions here, thank you very much...”

The younger mage could feel her fists clenching in a rising anger towards this woman’s insensitivity… yet didn’t have time to make another retort as a pair of familiar faces joined to greet them from behind Taiyin.

There stood the imposing General himself, alongside the stoic Alastair who gave a quiet look of disapproval towards his comrade’s harshness to Prym. In the meantime, Ivor’s face seemed to twist with many mixed feelings upon seeing his daughter’s friend. Shock, disappointment, confusion… and perhaps even a bit of fear?

“Prym… what in the Saints’ good names are you doing out here??” Ivor shakily demanded to know, the stern fatherly side of his kicking into high gear as if she were his own child caught in the act, “I told you specifically to stay back at home where it’s safe! Don’t you know what kind of danger you’re putting yourself in, especially at this hour of night within these woods??”

“I… w-well,” Prym struggled at first to find the words, not wanting to risk giving away that Tula and the others were very much out there in the woods too… so, after taking a second to think and compose herself, she retorted back to him with an unamused tone of her own, “Hmpf… I suppose I should be more asking you the same question, Ivor. Don’t think I didn’t hear His Majesty giving you orders to collect this insidious-sounding ‘white plague’ for him… whatever the hell that means for his standards…”

“-Hey, what did I say about watching your tone, kid-!” Taiyin attempted to scold her… only for Alastair to hold up his hand to let the young girl speak her mind. Not exactly expecting Prym to have spun the question onto him now, Ivor gave a conflicted moment of silence… but eventually, an approving look from Alastair encouraged the hulking General the resolve to just admit what’s up, not seeing much else to lose now that she’s already here...

“The… white plague we were speaking of earlier, Prym… is a code name for this strand of white fungal root that had suddenly taken bloom within Graystone. These plants… they’re about the most devastating plant species our country’s faced in these past few decades… once was the stuff of legends within our oldest history books, but then… somehow some twisted, sick individuals decided to recreate these plants and spread them loose to cause countless amounts of destruction among the lands…”

Hearing of these plants made Prym’s eyes widen a bit in recognition… taking a moment to think on it, “Hold on, I… think I might’ve heard of such plants back in this one story Professor Blanchard once told us; an old crone who was jealous of the younger beauties in her town made up a mash of brew from these weird, white twigs so she could poison the girls, and absorb their own beauty to become a ‘goddess’. The plan backfired when it simply made the other men exposed to her inner flaws despite all her good looks, so she was cast off in a ritual fire to pay for her sins. Could… those perhaps be the white plague plants you were mentioning?”

One by one, Ivor and the others had given a nod of yes as Alastair floated up a steel box to open in display… revealing within a sealed-jar the shriveled up remains of a ghastly, half-rotted root… curled into a position like that of a crooked hand. Nauseating as the contents were to look at, the fact that this root was seemingly swimming in a sickeningly thick black liquid near the bottom didn’t help either…

“Indeed, Prym… this is the white plague we’ve been tasked by King Grayle to retrieve,” Ivor continued on to explain, “In our years of tracking them down, they’ve been linked to many terrible cases of people becoming infected when they didn’t expect it. Whether it’d be from injesting the root itself or the snow-like spores spread out into the air… its almost impossible to fully recover from it before its too late...”

“Yes… these roots were the ultimate cause of many terrible tragedies our country will never forget…” Alastair finally spoke up as cleared his throat, his tone serious yet solemn as ever, “Queen Elianne’s death, the double-crossed Wraith Night survivors, the village residents of Yulong…”

‘...Aevri’s hometown…’, Prym thought as she felt the tears prick to her eyes, remembering when her friend was given the grave news of her parents passing away of illness a few years back in school... so sudden and out of nowhere during a seemingly peaceful period of time. Long as it was since the last she saw Mr. and Mrs. Ren, Prym could still plainly recall them both being such kind, healthy-bodied people who wouldn’t hurt a fly… so hearing of them being the unsuspecting victims of such a ghastly plant this whole time was beyond tragic… “...even among our own ranks we’re all too familiar with white plague being inflicted right under us… ” Ivor admitted with a saddened tone, his gaze to Prym signifying she’d know who he’d talk about next, “The night Lady Meradyth had fled, the arrow blades recovered from the crime scene were found to be traced with this blackened poison linked back to the plague root… which, in connection to those other past incidents could only mean one thing..”

Not having to say another word, Alastair let his magic do the talking for him as he enchanted his glowing aura to shapeshift a group of silhouetted figures gathered together, each holding the white plague roots within their hands in an ominous, unified fashion. With that, signifying that whoever was perpetrating these white plague attacks… were all working together in a single, spread-out group.

Hearing all this was already pretty heavy for Prym to bear… breaking her more into confusion as she noticed Taiyin and Alastair turning to leave along with some other guards, “w-wait, where are you going?”

“Continuing the rest of the mission, kid.” Taiyin informed her, thankfully not as harshly as before but still firm enough to try and hold the young dark mage back.

“Yes, if our sensors are correct then its only a matter of time before these plague roots bloom upon the first morning hour. We must give haste at once.” Alastair joined with Taiyin as he packed some quick essentials nearby, looking over to his superior, “General, please inform us if anything stirs around this area while we’re gone, and we shall do the same in return.”

“Noted.” Ivor simply nodded as he gave some silent orders for the two to continue heading out. As much as a part of Prym wanted to say more in perhaps suggesting to go with them or however… her mind was still much too focused on the growing anger she had towards all these suspicions and secrets being kept from her. Not even letting Ivor reach to touch her shoulder in comfort, she had resigned to simply stomp towards the tent to cool off… the shining light of the moon following behind her.

——-

On another section of the sprawled forest, making their way through the thickets was Prince Elas and Tula… seeming to make good headway on the path they were on. Further back they had found some tracks being quite imposing enough to belong to no one else but Tula’s father,

“Okay, looks like it won’t be long to find Papa!” Tula had deducted, feeling some more confidence at finding another cluster of footprints up ahead, “my guess is that he might’ve set up camp just a few trees away, by this rate.”

“Indeed, I can’t say I can find much to disagree with that notion.” Elas gave an approving nod, analyzing some of the tracks for himself, “Seems to me he might’ve had some party members of his own crossing though here, so whatever he may be up to then he’s bound to not be alone…”

Looking on ahead in the direction they were headed to, something inside Tula was feeling… odd, and kind of confused as to how everything was going so smoothly at the moment. Perhaps… a bit too smoothly, as the forest seemed eerily still at this point in time.

“...Elas, does something seem ‘off’ to you?” the young Strength mage pondered, her gaze glancing around for any signs of possible life within the trees or bushes. At first, the prince didn’t seem to detect anything out of place as he stepped ahead… until his foot caught sight of something that made him jump back in shock.

“Oh good Saints, w-what in the world was...?” gathering himself to calm down, Elas took a closer look to find that his shoe had stepped into what looked like a puddle of thick, ghastly-white goo… the contents sizzling a bit under the glow of the moonlight above. Tula had curiously peaked over his shoulder to see what was up… only for them both to jolt back again once the puddle started to bubble and release a hissing, acidic green stench.

“-What is that stuff?? I-I’ve never seen anything like that in these woods!” Tula exclaimed with a clear worry in her tone, “Do you think any of the girls or Kain found-”

Halted in her thoughts was the ear-piercing shriek of something very much inhumane ringing throughout the trees, rattling both her and Elas from standing upright. Careful to at least not fall back in the goop behind them, the two helped pick the other up as within these shrieks, they heard the loud crashing and glowing of magic clashing near the distance ahead.

“-Kain!” Elas deducted, upon recognizing the reddish-orange glow from where he was standing, “He and Aevri must’ve found something dangerous up there, come on!” he encouraged to Tula while instinctively firing up some blue fire in his hands.

Answering back only with a firm nod, Tula didn’t take long to summon up her Strength gauntlets as the two of them hurried on to try and help the other mages. If only they had looked back behind them, they would’ve noticed how that white goo from earlier was beginning to fade away as a figure summoned it back into the darkness…

—-

The normally firm General was in quite an awkward spot having Prym stumbling upon such top secret info as she did… having hoped that tonight could’ve been just a simple detour mission without having to drag any of the kids along. And he knew that hearing the truth about the dangers of white plague had truly shaken her up… so, he knew that he couldn’t have any room to blame her for not being willing to talk to him at the moment while they were alone at the campsite.

A few more minutes would pass before he’d finally make the move to head inside the tent as well… looking to find Prym with her back turned from him, clearly lost in thought and conflicted.

“...Prym, I know what you may be thinking,” Ivor steadily began, trying to keep his tone as delicate as possible, “-But you must understand that this situation was... much too dire and dark for me to just confess it freely among you and the others back home. I simply wished to protect you all-“

“-Protect us from what, Ivor?” Prym finally spoke up, not so much defensively as much as she sounded… tired, “If you haven’t already noticed, me and the girls are not little kids anymore… if you truly meant to be on an important mission regarding these plague plants, then we could’ve understood if you simply told us. Otherwise I thought… well, with the King’s orders and that one lady’s coldness to me, I…”

“...I know. And for that as well, I deeply apologize...” the General lowered his head as he sighed, “Taiyin is quite a strong soldier, noble-hearted as well… but we’ve been meaning to correct her more about not letting her loyalty to the Elite get the better of her towards outsiders. I’ll be sure to have a talk with her when she gets back, I promise.”

Assuring as that thought was, as well as relieved at his genuine apologies… something in Prym’s mind was nagging at her to not let it go. Something regarding one, particular detail that wouldn’t leave her thoughts…

“...Ivor, earlier Lady Taiyin had given me this… really strange response to me mentioning my father Luka. Basically saying he… apparently never existed within the ranks.” Prym had turned to further face the general, looking up with a look of questioning, “You didn’t even directly say that he died within those other plague casualties, simply that there was poison found at that scene where Mother ran away. Is… there something you’re not telling me, Ivor...?”

“...Prym, n-now is not the time to-“ he looked quite shaken by her sudden accusation, but Prym continued to stand her ground further with a firm anger in her tone.

“-No. Now is more than the perfect time to explain- Why is it that all my life, I’ve been told my father was this grand, loving hero of the King’s Elite alongside my mother, giving his life to protect countless innocents… and yet now I learn that’s all apparently been one big lie?? Ivor, please what is the real truth here?? W-Was my father a true soldier, or not?? Was he working for some other party, dealing with some unsavory types?? Please, j-just tell me already, Ivor!”

Steadily her voice began to shake more to a near-sobbing tone, lip quivering as her mind was drifting to all sorts of possibilities… and one more question stuck out the most as she pitifully looked up to the older general,

“Ivor… is my father even alive…?”

Silence quickly fell upon the tent… as Ivor looked conflicted as to how exactly he should answer such a question, let alone in a situation like this. As the seconds were passing into a minute between them, Prym was afraid that… perhaps he wouldn’t give her an answer, that maybe it was a mistake to ask at all after she had already stepped out of line as is… until at last, the still air broke when Ivor delivered a simple, one word answer that changed everything…

“...yes…”

——-

On their end of the forests away from everyone else, things had… really picked up much more chaotically for Kain and Aevri, the two of them now lost in a battle between an eerie group of monsters clamoring around them. Resembling that of tall, ragdoll-like humanoids made of white tree bark… their gaping mouths and hollow eyes dripping with white goo could’ve easily shackled their two foes in complete fear, if they both weren’t so stuck in fighter mode right now.

“-Eat this, bitch!” Kain had exclaimed with some kicks and punches of his crystal magic blasts, encasing the tree-like creatures in red shards that pinned them all to the ground. Aevri in the meantime did her best to defend them both, having summoned her shields to ward off and slice away closing-in enemies.

“Ughhh, will you freaks get the damn hint already?? Piss off!” the Healer mage grunted, swiftly throwing her summoned-shield to knock back some of the foes before it flew back into her arms. Try as they might through their defenses, however… Aevri and Kain could only watch as the monsters had simply risen up more from the ground up, not even seeming phased by their earlier attacks.

“Oh for fuck’s sake… what the hell is keeping these things alive??” Kain cursed while powering up another set of crystal attacks, “Even a wyvern would’ve fallen down by now, shit!”

Before Aevri could’ve answered back with a possibly-snarky retort, their thoughts were halted as they saw a flurry of blue flames burning back the horde of monsters that tried to make a grab at the two… the sender revealing none other than Elas and Tula who had hurried on to join the battle.

“...Greeaaat, perfect timing, bro.” the younger Graystone prince flatly remarked with a roll of his eyes, his brother simply scoffing in response with a flick of his hair, “-Save the backtalk til after we’re safe, Kain.” Letting his companion Tula take the next step in pummeling down some of the creatures with her firsts, she at least gave a more grateful and relieved look to her healer friend at seeing her standing strong in the fight, “-Aevri! Thank the Saints you’re alright! I-I hope these things didn’t hurt you too much…”

“Pff, hey... what would it be a fight without a few scrapes?” Aevri joked a bit to lighten the mood, bringing a small smile to Tula’s face before the both of them turned to ward off the next wave of monsters. It almost seemed concerning just how much these things were reanimating up again despite the waves of attacks… only seeming to keep going and going within the next few minutes to pass.

All… until each of the tree dolls suddenly halted in their place like statues, the melting white goop re-materializing into their eye sockets properly as each of them stood up straight. Confusing the hell out of the mages that were fighting them, the four watched as these dolls started to assemble into some upright positions… almost like an army awaiting their leader approaching. And with a rustle of movement coming from the bushes from behind, that… actually seemed quite closer to the truth as a pair of footsteps came walking out from the dark.

“-Hey! Who’s there??” Aevri turned in the direction of the steps as did the rest of her party, all rearing for another big battle… but then pausing as they finally saw who it was. Turning out to be a pair of hooded, ominous figures greeting them in plain view… their features hidden from where they were standing a lil far back. All until they stepped further into the moonlight was it shown that they were both women, one of them covering their face with a featureless white doll mask… and the other simply smiling back in a rather calm, calculating way.

“Aww… whats wrong, little ones~?” the hooded figure with a mask tilted its head, giggling in a tone that sounded much too saccharine sweet, “Sister and I simply wanted to have a lil playtime with my babies here… don’t be so mean~”

Naturally, this quite frankly creeped out the young mages who were now all the more confused seeing the masked lady stepping over to gently caress one of the tree dolls, as if it were her most prized possession. Compared to everyone else ain was at least trying to mask his unnervedness by standing back more boldly,

“H-Hey, these things of yours attacked us first, lady… what the actual fuck are you on about-??”

“...Hmmmm, temper temper...” came the much more dignified voice of the other woman, shaking her head in Kain’s direction though that smile of hers still remained clear as day, “Is that any way to speak to your family… Kain?”

The once-fierce gaze in Kain’s eyes had… very much evaporated into a look of disbelief upon hearing that voice… the crystal auras in his hands disappearing as they dropped to his sides in shock, “...w-what…?”

Alarmed by his brother’s sudden distress, Elas had turned to try and step up in Kain’s defense as he demanded, “-What in the Saints’ good name are you on about?? Kain is my brother, and I do not recall either of you being anywhere near ‘family’!”

“-Shhhh, manners… young man~” whispered the masked-figure, holding a finger to her lips as all stilled around her… summoning an eerie aura that surrounded the other mages into freezing in place, much like the tree dolls. Unable to do anything but move their heads and faces, Tula, Elas and Aevri all looked on as only Kain was allowed to move on his own… yet all he could do was just shakily stand in place as the unmasked figure slowly approached him… again still smiling that damn smile of hers…

“-No, n-no no you can’t… you can’t be her…!” muttered the now-shaky voice of the usually-haughty prince… trembling as the figure was now up face-to-face with him. Even without being freeze-spelled like the others were, Kain could do nothing but stare as the figure reached up a hand to his face… gently caressing his cheek as her free hand moved to pull back her hood.

Now… there was really no doubt who exactly she was. The striking red hair, the ruby red lips, the amber eyes all too similar to Kain’s… save for the subtle signs of aging, he could never forget a face like that....

“Yes… it is me, my son~”

———

Millions of thoughts were running through Prym’s mind as she recalled what Ivor just confessed to her. Her father… her own father Luka… was alive all this time?? As much as she wanted to celebrate such news, another dark side of her was just reeling at the implications…

Where was her father, all this time she and her mother were in hiding? Why didn’t he come back for them? Was someone keeping him hostage, forcing him in place? What if… what if he willingly chose to abandon her? Not even sparing her a second thought, wherever he’s at now…?

Sensing the growing conflict growing within Prym, Ivor did his best to try and diffuse the situation as he reached to comfort her, “Prym, I… p-please try to understand-“

“-What IS there to understand, Ivor?? Nothing is making sense anymore!” the dark mage exclaimed as she threw up her hands, feeling her tears growing hot as she began to pace back and forth, “You say my father’s apparently alive all this time, but where in Terra IS he?? Obviously he’s not within the Elite ranks now, Mother hasn’t heard from him in ages, and none of the current Elite seem to know who he is! All I want now is the truth, and I want it now!”

“...” Ivor had grown quiet for the moment, heavily sighing as he gestured for Prym to follow him near one of the seats, “I… know this is very much against protocol, but… i-it’s about time you knew, Prym…”

As much as she would’ve liked to argue and stay pouting… the ever-curious side of Prym decided to relent in at least hearing his side of the story out, wiping away her tears with a still-determined look in her eyes. All she could do was watch on as Ivor went and grabbed an old wooden chest to carry over to her, opening the contents to pull out a sealed document folder hidden under some other papers and trinkets inside.

“Prym… your father was a man that had many burdens over him at his age,” the General began to explain, handing Prym the folder as he sat down next to her, “As much as he tried his best to fulfill his duties as a leader… others still feared and hated him for feeling like he took away what wasnt ‘rightfully’ his, on top of the already-detested dark magic he carried. And well… being his oldest friend, I knew that it wouldn’t be healthy for him to linger on all this bad press… so, it was my suggestion that he would involve himself more with our growing Elite forces, to help him lighten up from the stress of it all...”

Within her grasp, Prym flipped open the folder to see the first page contained a picture of Luka’s face on it, with the royal insignia of the Elite stamped below it. With a silent nod from Ivor, she flipped under it to see that inside held some various papers and photos from the old days of Luka’s younger years… from sparring with his troops, to happily posing with some grateful-looking civilians, to joining together with his team to stand vicariously together all at once.

“Overtime, your father grew to fit in well within the Elite for letting him express himself for who he was… beyond all the titles and dark magical stigmas, but as a loyal comrade who’d do anything for the good of Graystone. And since the local civilians didn’t seem to recognize him as a simple soldier like the rest of us, he had even felt comfortable enough to try and help out these communities through his own acts of vigilantism…” Ivor chuckled, unable to resist a small blissful smile at the memory, “Not too surprising that he and your mother grew to get along a lot well in that department, denying as they were at first...”

Pausing for a moment from browsing through the folder, Prym looked over to Ivor with a look of puzzlement, “...So, if you say my Father did all these great things for the people… why would they turn on him because he performed some darker magic spells than normal? I know Mother had mentioned that he enraged some uptight army for his necromancy, but…”

“...W-Well, truth be told, that... wasn't exactly the ‘full’ reason for his eventual attack, Prym...” Ivor admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “Luka, well-meaning as he was… at the same time was always rather stubborn and reckless when it came to what he thought was the right thing to do, regardless of the possible consequences ahead. There was no better example for when he had stepped out of protocol in one of our missions against a local crime-lord of the downtown New Grayle district… Boss Byzantine.”

“Byzantine…?” Prym blinked, steadily recognizing that surname after a bit of thought, “-One of Kaz’s bully friends shared that name back in school… Cable Byzantine.”

“Ahh, yes… the Boss would’ve been Cable’s father, from what I recall of that man.” Ivor gave a nod of acknowledgement, “Often kept to himself apart from the few public appearances with his family… most wouldn’t even know much else of him aside from that automobile company of his. But well… we as the Elite were having our growing suspicions after examining more of how poorly the downtown area was, and interviewing the locals terrorized from his gang’s past attacks. And thanks to one of our undercover operatives, Sgt. Kodiak, we had not only started to put any and all accomplices in jail, but had planned in the near future to soon put Byzantine to justice too. Luka, however… well, turns out he had decided to take fate into his own hands by cornering the Boss one day in his office with his dark magic… giving into temptation with his soul-ripping spells to really show the crooked man who he was messing with…”

The air seemed to grow heavier as Ivor quickly grew quiet again, his gaze going back to the chest’s contents as he pulled out something else from under all the papers… a locket with a purple moon gem symbol on the front, “...In the end, thanks to some nearby guards catching wind of his actions, Luka wasn’t fully able to be rid of Byzantine as he hoped… but that would soon seal his fate as the Boss had subtly planned a “vengeance” of his own. And so, a few years later Luka and Meradyth had made plans to head into the Downtown area for a quick errand, picking up this upcoming birthday present for you...” explaining as he gently placed the pendant within the girl’s hands, eyes closing as he painfully recalled further...

“...and, just as they were heading back home… they were ambushed. A mix of Byzantine’s own men and a few hired hands from the army Luka has disgraced, together overwhelmed the couple in more ways than one. Within all the smoke, blades, and spells being thrown around it was practically impossible for either of them to evade it all on their own…”

“So, how exactly did my father manage to survive from it all...?” Prym turned her gaze to ask, a hand gently resting onto Ivor’s as he felt himself getting shaken by the recollecting… only pressing on further for Prym’s sake, “-Through having to spend a good chunk of his aura energy on teleporting Meradyth away from safety, and the last of it to unleash one, devastating blast to ward off the remaining foes, they were defeated and got taken into custody… but at a grave cost to Luka, himself. Our troops, try as we did to bring him back to heal him up, just weren’t able to stop the plague-induced infections from slipping him into a deep sleep. Hours had turned to days, and days turned to weeks… and throughout it we were beginning to lose hope. Finally, at last he was able to wake up and face us again, b-but…”

It was here that Ivor had turned to look back at Prym, placing a hand to her shoulder as he delivered the news that had shattered the shred of hope she had earlier...

“Prym… h-he didn’t recognize us anymore, and… neither could he remember either you or your mother when we tried to tell him after waking up…”

“...W… What? No… n-no that can’t be right..!” the dark mage bitterly broke into a sobbing mess, shaking her head in near-denial, “-What kind of father would just up and forget his own loved ones, his own family?? P-Please tell me this isn’t true, Ivor! Please…!”

“...I-I’m sorry, Prym...” a guilt-ridden Ivor muttered, instinctively pulling Prym in for a tight hug despite her protesting sobs, “We tried all we could, believe me we did… but this plague proved to be the most resilient curse on our fellow comrade, even with the best medicinal help. Showing him pictures, records, and home videos did little to jog his memory… after awhile, he started refusing our help all together despite our protests…”

Soon, even as toughened as he usually was… even Ivor has begun to shed some tears as he held Prym close,

“He’s changed so much as time further passed, Prym.. not even going by his name anymore whether he’s off duty or not these days. To the point where eventually we just decided to never bring up the subject of Luka anymore, with the very few remaining soldiers from our old ranks swearing to silence never to speak of him either. As much as we wanted to reunite him with you both in the coming years, we just… w-we didn’t want to task the risk if anything were to… well, go wrong…”

To say that this did anything to soothe Prym’s heartbroken state would be a lie… as in the minutes that passed her furious sobs had silenced into mere whimpers, whilst Ivor continued to do his best to hold and comfort her as if she were his own child. In some ways, this news had devastated her even more than her initial thoughts of her father being deceased. To even imagine having to go through as much as he did, miraculously surviving but erased of his own memories like that… it was beyond crushing of a thought...

...Yet, the more she had paused to think on this info, the more she began to realize the implications of what exactly Ivor meant by Luka not going by his name anymore. Thinking back to the folder left next to her, she couldn’t help herself in pulling away from Ivor… desperately flipping through until her eyes caught sight of the last page. Her father’s medical file.

And this time, even Ivor didn’t move to stop her as he defeatedly looked away, accepting that she had to know this sooner than later...

...our current patient has been confirmed to have been inflicted with trauma-induced memory loss, and by royal order we have been requested to withhold further treatment by his end. Our staff has grown worried with his own past history of ongoing PTSD and Chronic Depression, but well… as our fellow staff had put it, an order’s an order.

With a heavy heart, this concludes our progress into looking after our patient of the past year and a half... Luka Grayle.

#the three mages #main storyline #my art #my fics #(at long last I finally returned to this oml-)#(again *mega* apologies in advance for the delay on this for anyone who's originally followed it more closely)#(as much fun as I had with developing lore and side casts I knew it was about time to get more back on the main story)#(soooo enjoy~)#(and stay tuned for the some upcoming chapters ahead cause BOI this was fun to get back into dljfkjk x33)

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staranon95 · 3 years

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dincobb blade runner au

okay i got some nice likes on my post from last night, and i finally have some time to draw out my thoughts.

this is going to be heavily inspired by Blade Runner 2049 so yes i will be taking multiple elements from that movie, its story, its themes and characters but with my own special twist.

Din

he is a nexus-9 replicant (styled after Officer K) and works for the LAPD as a blade runner, tasked with hunting down older replicant models (nexus-8 units)

he reports to Lieutenant Bo-Katan; their relationship is a very tense one to say the least. the big part of nexux-9 models is that obedience is hardwired into their genetic makeup, so Din is Bo-Katan's obedient little blade runner, dispatched to the harder jobs that humans can't do because replicants don't matter right?

as part of the replicant build, replicants are given false memories upon their conception since they're formed as fully adult, fully human, you need to have something rattling around in there to kickstart their brain

Din has a named. Din Djarin, but this sets himself apart from other replicants the LAPD has employed in the past. because none of them previously asserted that they had a name. but it's almost automatic for when people introduce themselves to him that he responds with Officer Djarin. it's like a reflex.

as part of Din's memories, he knows they're false. but some of them are so starkly vivid like the image of a child calling him 'papa' reaching up with their arms at him, smiling wide which is weird isn't it? replicants can't reproduce but why does Din always feel struck with the desire that he lost something? that he had to say goodbye to a child? he never mentions this to anyone, not even Bo-Katan, because they don't matter right? they're false. right?

one of the big memories Din has is of this Child. he's slipping a necklace around their neck and saying 'i'll come find you' and he doesn't know why but he's so driven by the urge to find this Child. but he doesn't know where to begin and he can't go against Bo-Katan. he can't disobey

Cobb

Cobb is a nexus-8 model, but he's an aberrant variant of the line in that he's an outlier from the model. he's not as big, not as strong, but still as deadly, and when originally created, he was used for infiltration and surveillance against rebels, uprisings and so on. it's easy for him to blend into the situation at hand. he's highly charismatic which makes him so dangerous. eventually he broke free of those who controlled him and became a rebel figure among the underground replicant freedom movement

as an aberrant nexus-8, Cobb is wanted by a lot of people, the most important person being Moff Gideon, CEO of Gideon Corporation. the GC revived the replicant production after the nexus-8 models rebelled in a bloody war that led to many governments declaring replicants illegal. Gideon wants Cobb because he shouldn't technically exist. it's like he's a mutation, so Gideon pulls his strings with the LAPD to have their blade runner Din sent to find Cobb

now Cobb established himself as a rebellious figure back in the day during the Blackout (canon for the time when all digital devices just stopped working. good times!). one time, however, he did get caught by a human militia. the militia wanted money from his capture, so while they were negotiating with the authorities, they had him stashed away in one of the many bleak recycling operations, chained down and forced to work while his fate was decided.

(2049 is a bleak world and includes child labour. bad times all around)

so while Cobb is chained in place, he comes to know this Child, this special Child with a unique necklace, and he talks to the child (he always talks. he's Cobb) and they build a relationship and Cobb realizes how special this Child is

eventually Cobb is broken out of his interim prison, but before he goes, he makes sure the Child is taken with him, and he makes sure the necklace is left behind so that people assume the Child died here

The Child (it's grogu lol)

The Child is seemingly human, but actually born of a replicant. they are an impossibility and the symbol of a replicant revolution. they can control themselves. they can be free from the human worlds because they were built to survive.

rumors of a replicant child break out and of course Gideon also wants this child for his own purposes. to study. to understand.

later on in the story, we learn that the Child's father (idk who this is yet) had their memories taken and implanted in a nexus-9 model, and that this nexus-9 would become the Child's sworn guardian, but he needs to recognize that drive on his own. he needs to break from the rules that keep him rooted to the humans he works for. that's a journey he needs to take

The Story

Din learns of the Child's potential existence when he happens upon a crime scene. a human possibly killed by a replicant. he's sent to investigate and finds a shallow grave on the property. the bones belonged to a replicant, but it's clear they had been pregnant based on old marks on the bones.

He learns form the crime scene that this human was in contact with known rebel Cobb Vanth based on a photo he finds stashed away along with the body, so the LAPD figure Cobb returned to tie up some loose ends, that he's essentially reemerged and Din is being tasked to bring him in

Din is contacted by Gideon to speak about Cobb's whereabouts, what Gideon knows about Cobb's history, and that Gideon knows about the rumour. that a replicant child lives and that Din will be well compensated if he manages to bring the Child to Gideon

Din follows Cobb's past, learns of who he is, how he broke free of his intended purpose, and Din wonders quietly to himself what that's like? what is it like to be free of human control? to be his own person?

he comes to the recycling plant where Cobb was once held and does some digging on the premises, coming to know the story of how Cobb escaped. he finds the necklace from his memories and realizes his memories can't be fake. otherwise why would this be here? so he digs through the plant's records of all the children who've worked here and finds his name in the ledger. Djarin.

following a series of cryptic clues, Din realizes that Cobb is hiding in the wasteland of Las Vegas, a place that's inhabitable by human standard, but not to replicants. so he goes there. Cobb and Din meet for the first time and duke it out until Din says he knows about the Child and that stops Cobb from nearly killing him.

they talk. Cobb feels sympathetic for Din because he knows how hard nexus-9s have it. to be obedient on that level? how hard must it be for him to be here? but then he realizes that someone must've planted those false memories in Din for a reason. this is where Cobb and Din really connect to each other. how much Cobb wants to show Din he's worthy of a life outside of his purpose. and how much Din realizes he wants to follow Cobb wherever he goes.

surprise attack! Gideon's forces locate the both of them. Din is incapacitated and Cobb is captured. Din is left for dead.

Din is later found by Boba and Fennec, replicant leaders of the underground movement. they patch him up and ask him where his loyalties lie i imagine at this point Cobb has told them of Din's emergence and that he has implanted memories, that he's meant to be the Child's guardian. and Din has to make a choice here. he has to choose to be his own person and fully go rogue. so he swears that he'll rescue Cobb since Cobb actually knows where the Child is hidden

Din goes after Cobb and rescues him from Gideon's clutches. they run and Din realizes how much he actually cares for Cobb. and he doesn't know if he's built to feel love, but he imagines this is what it must feel like. that rush of relief when he sees Cobb is okay, touching him and pulling him along.

Cobb takes Din to the location where the Child is, and Din is struck with all these memories. holding the Child when they were just born. seeing the Child take their first steps, their first words. calling him 'papa'. having to say goodbye to the Child. leaving them forever. and he knows they're not technically his. but they real and they feel like they're his.

so that's how Din and Cobb become parents to their replicant son

#dincobb #cobb vanth #din djarin #mandalorian #star song #blade runner au #i could go on about this #but i think i've said enough lol

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em-exceeds-change-zearu · 3 years

Photo

original post - gameplay post - full sized yuma + astral art

PREVIOUSLY: yusei info

this panel was sitting unfinished for two whole-ass years. but since december is apparently “kick gale in the nads with old au feels” month, here’s paper au yuma and astral!

(”gale this isn’t one of the aus that people asked for” yes? and?)

Yuma Tsukumo: A young, energetic boy with a zeal for life and an apparently infinite supply of willpower. One of the first people the party meets in the XYZ World, he immediately gives them a seemingly random clue in the form of a pendant given to him by his late father. According to the boy, it unlocks a mysterious door he’s been recently seeing in his dreams, so perhaps it holds a clue to their search. With nothing better to go on, the group opts to let him lead them. Little do they know, this abrupt encounter will take them on yet another strange journey...

Astral: A mysterious being that was released when Yuma opened the mysterious door using the Emperor’s Key. The shock of releasing his seal seems to have displaced his memories in the form of various “Numbers” cards, but he does seem to remember that at least one of them may be the Legendary Card that they are seeking. Which Number it is, however, eludes him. Despite his amnesia, he appears to be widely knowledgeable in a great number of things, and often spouts trivia at the oddest occurrences.

After Yusei manages to get the shrine to spit out a viable portal, the gateway leads them to the XYZ World. A bustling, colorful city, Heartland proves to be very disorienting at first to the party, and Yuma’s accidental crash-into-hello certainly doesn’t help matters. Despite the rocky start, however, Yuma proves to at least be very earnestly empathetic, and while the group doubts that the dreams of a random fourteen year old they met on the street would be of any help, it’s not like they have any other leads. Yuma himself doesn’t seem to be very helpful - despite his almost manic zeal in pursuing various “hints,” they don’t seem to actually lead anywhere. It’s almost to the point that the party considers blowing off his help, despite him being the only one in the XYZ World who’s actually been willing to listen to their strange story so far.

Then Shark, the local bully, snaps Yuma’s key in half; and the party is immediately, personally invested in his well-being, ineptitude be damned.

It’s during Yuma’s ensuing fight with Shark that the Key suddenly activates, releasing Astral and the Numbers. Thanks to Astral’s help in pointing out Shark’s weaknesses, Yuma’s able to turn the tides of his battle and win. Astral’s arrival brings a brand new clue to the table as to the whereabouts of the XYZ Legendary Card - it’s apparently one of the Numbers that was released, and they have to find the components to rebuild it scattered around the world. Since Astral can apparently only move around the world when Yuma carries his key, Yuma’s officially inducted into the party at this point - not that they would have had the heart to refuse him, after all that happened!

Gameplay

Yuma is the party’s dragoon - his attacks largely focus around jumping and dealing piercing or counter damage; evading or enduring attacks and retaliating all the harder for it. The polar opposite of Yusei, who is oddly squishy health-wise for his age, Yuma has far more endurance and can make his short health bar last a long, long way for a kid so young, and lends himself to more risky, breakneck styles of fighting. Yuma’s monsters all tend to congregate around a certain level, so while he does use more DP per attack compared to most characters, he’s still easy to manage in terms of calculating or estimating your DP usage. He’s the first character whose stats lean heavily towards attacking, so he’ll likely be a great damage dealer if used correctly - but if not he can go down just as quickly.

XYZ Summoning is the first special summoning method to really start playing with the cooldown mechanics beyond simple addition and subtraction, and starts adding layers to the system. Like the methods before it, it does require using two or more monsters as materials, this time around using monsters that are the same level/DP cost. However, instead of immediately going into cooldown, the monsters are instead locked to the XYZ monster, and the XYZ monster itself is added to Yuma’s available monster list. This means that the monsters used as materials can still be used, however their effects themselves will be weakened. The XYZ monster itself, when Yuma chooses to invoke its attack, will put one of the locked monsters into cooldown instead of using DP, and when all of its locked monsters are used up, the XYZ monster will disappear from Yuma’s list for the rest of the battle. This summoning method essentially gives Yuma an extra summoning slot compared to other characters, and can make him incredibly useful for quickly taking down enemies or setting up defensive plays - but due to this easily exploitable method, Yuma is only allowed to have one XYZ monster out at a time, and cannot summon any other XYZ monsters until that monster slot is used up, so choose carefully!

Astral is a non-combatant - he doesn’t fight at all in battles and doesn’t have a weapon! Instead, he acts as the party’s Tattler - analyzing opponents and giving information about their stats, strengths and weaknesses. Because of this, using his Tattle ability does not use up the partner’s move for the turn, so he can easily be swapped in for a quick note before switching back to the partner you want to use for that turn.

High Five the Sky! is basically that - Yuma can perform a “Long Jump” to leap higher than other characters, reaching ledges and other hidden areas that they wouldn’t be able to get to. This unlocks many hidden areas around the game, and lends itself well to exploration.

Shoes are Yuma’s primary weapon - he doesn’t actually have a second attacking command like the other characters (instead reserving that for Astral’s Tattle) and only has the standard jumping command. However, because of his absurd determination to power through literally every single crisis that comes through him, his jumping isn’t affected by paltry things like spikes or other mechanisms that would render other characters’ jumping impossible. His jumps also ignore defense buffs, which means no matter what he’ll deal consistent damage even to the hardiest of tanks. It makes him a useful guy to have around if you’re finding yourself needing to save DP, at least.

Numbers 39: Aspiring Emperor Hope matches Yuma’s battling style to a tee, and its easy monster cost is only balanced out by its high DP cost, making it a fun and interesting Legendary Card to use under certain circumstances. Although...when initially acquired by Astral near the end of the XYZ storyline, it only apparently has attack blocking properties. It’s Yuma’s own innovation in the final battle that leads to it also acquiring the counterattacking ability - which is pretty strange, when one thinks about it. After all, all evidence points to the XYZ Legendary Duelist being Astral, so how could Yuma influence it at all? Odd.

Ah well, that probably doesn’t mean anything. Time to move on to the next world!

(will i ever make the writeup? who knows.)

#super paper ygo au #ygo #zexal #yuma tsukumo #yugioh #gale shitposting #fanart #tsukomo yuuma #god i've been telling myself to finish this for literal actual years #does anyone even remember this au anymore? i sure didn't.#spent days talking it over with pyra and pinch and refreshing myself and everything

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pearlsephoni · 4 years

Text

When Immortal Meets Ineffable

Can also be read on AO3

Rating: G

Fandoms: Good Omens, The Old Guard

Pairings: Joe/Nicky, Aziraphale/Crowley (ofc)

Summary: Nicky's love for books has introduced him to many wonders, but he never anticipated meeting a pair of men whose existence seems just as impossible as his own. Or: a gay, immortal couple walks into an old bookshop owned by a gay, angel/demon couple.

A/N: The sign on Aziraphale's bookshop door is real, I copied the text from here lol And I owe my life to this 3D recreation of the shop Also this is my first time attempting to publish a fic on here, so pardon any formatting weirdness. More author’s notes can be found on the AO3 page!

Immortality was exhausting. It was impossible to build a normal life and settle down without sparking suspicion, so no single place could be “home” for very long. They couldn’t build a family, or climb the ladder of a career, or even build many friendships outside of their core group.

Without the more…“standard” goals available to them, each member of the Old Guard ended up setting their own personal quests. Andy learned every language and style of martial arts she could. Booker challenged himself to try a new whiskey at every bar they visited. Joe was close to completing his goal of visiting every possible art museum in Eurasia, and would soon be expanding his scope to the world. And Nicky was determined to read as many of the world’s books as possible.

But that wasn’t the only reason why he and Joe ended up seemingly visiting every bookshop in Europe. Living forever meant you had an infinite amount of time to lose and find things, and unfortunately for Nicky, his list of lost items included a near-first edition copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Books didn’t hold the same appeal for Joe, but he was still always willing to join his life partner in his visits to bookshops. What caused him chagrin wasn’t the visits, but the seemingly futile quest to find such a rare copy of a classic book. So when Nicky immediately tugged his jacket back on to head into London, Joe was a bit more reluctant than usual.

“Hayati, wouldn’t we have better luck looking in museums for something so rare?”

“I’m not just looking for La Commedia, my heart,” Nicky reminded him with a small smile. “I need a new book to read, too.”

“Of course, and that’s why you are going to Waterstones and not another small, old bookshop?” That small smile turned guilty, and Joe couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “Do you have a destination in mind, or will you be wandering again?”

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?”

It wasn’t fair of Nicky to use his rare, broad smiles to win their smaller bickers, he knew it. But even a relationship with the love of his life wouldn’t have lasted almost a millennium without the occasional cheap trick. And it was so hard to feel guilty when his little tricks resulted in Joe’s hand warmly wrapped around his as they walked through London.

As it so happened, he did have a destination in mind: A.Z. Fell & Co., an old bookshop that he remembered seeing on a random street corner in London. It had been closed the first (and last) time he tried to pay it a visit, all those years ago, and the sign on the door detailing the store hours simply raised more questions than answers for Nicky:

Bookshop Opening Hours:

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.)

-A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

“It’s a miracle this place is still running,” Joe muttered now, squinting at the wordy sign. Nicky was more interested in the sign hanging next to it, blissfully simpler and blessedly flipped to read, “Open.” The door was unlocked, and rang with a cheerful jingle as the immortals pushed it open.

“Hello there! Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co!”

Nicky had barely been able to fully take in the warm, crowded space of the bookshop before his attention was pulled to a small, pale man dressed in a white suit. He seemingly appeared out of thin air from behind a small desk next to a bookshelf to the left. He had a bright, welcoming smile, and looked positively cherubic with his light blonde curls and rosy cheeks. “How may I help you today?”

“Oh, I-”

“We’re just looking,” Joe cut in, giving Nicky a gentle nudge. It was a reminder enough not to draw attention with their unusual search. “Wanted to see what we could find in such a unique shop.”

“Lovely! Well, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to ask!”

“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a smile, before wandering over to the cluster of bookshelves on their right, pulling Joe with him.

He always lost track of time in bookshops. Even Joe, for all he insisted that Nicky was the reader, could get lost in the trinkets and random findings to be seen in an old shop. Maybe that was why, for all their battle-honed instincts and attention to detail, they didn’t realize someone else had entered the store until a new voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Angel!”

“Ah, Crowley! What a pleasant surprise! What’re you doing here?”

“Just wanted to see what you’ve got in stock.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not, I was going to ask you to lunch.”

“Oh! Well...that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just close my shop in the middle of the day!”

“Yes you can, it’s your shop, if anyone can, it’s you.”

“But I have customers! Like...like these young men!”

Nicky, with a thousand years of life behind him, never thought of himself nor Joe as “young.” No matter how ageless they were, every year weighed on them, a burden that was only bearable because they didn’t have to weather it alone. So it didn’t occur to him that they were the “young men” the shop owner referred to, until the small, pale man suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Hello there! May I help you with anything?”

A Genovese curse flew from his lips, followed by a grunt after Joe gently pinched him. Nicky smiled apologetically at the owner. “Sorry, ah...we’re alright, just looking.”

“Yes, well…” The shop owner had a confused tilt to his eyebrows, at odds with his kind smile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but...was that Old Genovese you were speaking?”

“You recognize it?” Nicky blurted out before he could stop himself. It had been centuries since either of the immortals had met someone else who knew the language.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” A pink tint had risen to the small blonde’s cheeks, and his eyes now had a proud glint to them. “That’s very impressive, I didn’t think anyone spoke it anymore!”

“No...neither did we.” He glanced at Joe, and was met with eyes that looked as disconcerted as he felt.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you need help with anything!” The shop owner cheerfully strolled back to the counter, where his friend - Crowley, Nicky remembered - was staring at him and Joe with what felt like suspicion, even through his sunglasses. The redhead murmured something to the blonde that made the latter glance back at them with another smile, one that Nicky returned before he quietly urged Joe behind another bookshelf.

“What the hell?” Joe hissed as soon as they were out of eyeline of the shop owner.

“Language, tesoro mio.”

Joe’s words switched to old Maghrebi, but remained just as confused and indignant. “Nico, we haven’t met anyone else who speaks Genovese in decades, maybe even centuries, if we don’t count linguists.”

“I know.”

“So how does an owner of an old bookshop recognize it?”

“We’ve seen some books that are much older than what we usually see in a shop like this. Maybe he recognized it from a book?” Even as he uttered the words, Nicky knew the explanation was pathetic. The look of disbelief he received from his lover let him know he wasn’t alone in thinking that.

“He said it’s been a while since he’s heard it,” Joe reminded him. “And he recognized it as it was spoken, not written down somewhere.”

“What are you trying to say? That he’s another immortal? One we somehow haven’t dreamed of in all this time?”

“No, of course not...but…” Joe peered at the shop owner and his friend through a gap in the books. “Maybe there’s something different about him. Maybe immortals aren’t the only strange people in the world.”

“Even if that were true, Yusuf, don’t you think we would have run into one before? Our abilities have been noticed before, by people who didn’t know what to look for. We of all people would have noticed if there were other powers out there.”

“Unless they do as much as we do to stay out of notice.”

It was Nicky’s turn to peer at the odd couple through the books, except this time, the redhead, Crowley, was looking right at him. Or at least, in their direction. He jerked away from the bookshelf and immediately moved deeper into the shop, tugging Joe with him. “We can talk with the others about it later. For now, let’s buy something and leave.”

“Still determined to find your book?”

Nicky offered a sweet smile to Joe, but didn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes. “Of course, my heart.”

He didn’t end up finding the book he was looking for, much to his disappointment and Joe’s quiet amusement. But he did find an old, old Italian Bible that stirred distant memories of a classroom reciting verses, and that was enough to justify the visit.

Satisfied in his choice, he moved towards the cashier register, only to be pulled up short by Joe. Nicky furrowed his brows in confusion - for someone who had been so reluctant to come, Joe suddenly seemed very keen on staying. He glanced back at him to find those dark eyes trained on the men behind the counter, one finger to his lips. Battle instincts kicked in, and he obediently trained his hearing to the low muttering coming from the other men.

“Now really, Crowley, it’s simply not possible! Even if the Almighty really did send spies after us, I would at least recognize them. I’ve never seen those men in my life!”

“Then maybe they’re demons. We’ve always had better corporeal disguises anyway. Would explain why we don’t recognize them.”

“Have you ever seen demons behave like that with each other?”

“Like what?”

“Oh come now, you must have felt it. The energy around them is downright bursting with love! It’s just like…”

“...Angel, like what?”

“W-well...like two people in love. Nothing at all like you demons behave.”

“‘You demons’? Might I remind you of who saved the most valuable books here, Aziraphale?”

It could’ve been just another argument between an old couple, especially an old married couple. There was no mistaking the love and pure affection that drenched every bickering phrase between them. But where Nicky had thought “Angel” was a sweet nickname, the casual use of terms like “demons” and “the Almighty” stirred a deeper sense of suspicion awake in him...and a rush of exhilaration. The sensible majority of his mind told him there was no earthly way he was staring at an angel and a demon. Even if angels and demons were real, they wouldn’t own an old bookshop, or walk around dressed like a dandy or an aged member of a rock band.

But a small part of him, the part of him that had him wandering to a church on calm Sundays and uttering panicked prayers over Joe’s body in the middle of battle, felt a thrill at the idea that he was staring at proof. Proof that his centuries of faith, his short-lived livelihood in the church, wasn’t in vain. When he finally tore his eyes away from the odd couple to look at Joe, he was met with a small smile of understanding under an unsure gaze. Of course his love understood what was running through his mind, even without a single word uttered between them.

Nicky took a steadying breath before he finally nodded at Joe, giving his hand a light squeeze. The shop owner and his...friend (partner?) were still bickering when they approached the cashier, and Nicky caught snippets of something about a church, a bomb, a satchel of books, before the argument was cut short by their arrival at the counter.

“Ah, gentlemen, hello again! Did you find everything alright?” the small blonde man - Azira...phale..? - greeted them with a wide smile, while Crowley simply stared at them with an unnervingly straight face. His gaze prickled at Nicky’s awareness, despite his best attempts to ignore him and return Aziraphale’s smile.

“I didn’t find the book I was looking for, but you have many rare gems here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you couldn’t find it!”

“Don’t be. We have visited almost every bookshop in Europe in search of it,” Joe snorted with a grin. “At this point it’ll take a miracle to find it.”

Aziraphale perked up at Joe’s response, and glanced eagerly at Crowley...who returned the blonde’s hopeful smile with a stony stare. A moment of silence passed before the redhead finally muttered, “Sounds like you won’t be finding it any time soon.”

“No, but that’s alright. Seeing all these wonderful little shops offers a special kind of joy,” Nicky murmured with a reassuring smile to Aziraphale. “You should be proud of this shop. It’s a lovely refuge in this city.”

The owner looked a bit crestfallen, but brightened at Nicky’s smile and words. “That’s very kind of you to say! I’ve had it for quite a while, so it’s turned into a home of sorts for me. I’m so glad it feels that way to my patrons as well!”

Crowley’s attention was back on Nicky, and even though he couldn’t see the redhead’s eyes, he didn’t feel as burdened by the scrutiny anymore. It felt somehow softer now, more of a mild annoyance as the transaction was carried out. Crowley had been so quiet throughout their visit that when he suddenly spoke up, the surprise nearly made Nicky drop the small paper bag containing his book. “Just out of curiosity...what book were you looking for?”

“Ah...an early edition of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian. First edition, if possible.”

“...Dante’s Divine Comedy?” Crowley repeated, skepticism practically dripping off his words. “You’re looking for a first edition from the late Middle Ages?”

Nicky could hear the rustle of Joe straightening just behind him, ready to defend his admittedly-futile quest. He shifted just enough to hook their pinkies together in reassurance while he shot a small smile at Crowley. “More just seeing if it’s possible to find outside of a museum.”

Crowley nodded, but he still had a small frown of disbelief on his lips as he wandered towards the bookshelves at the very back of the shop. Aziraphale watched him meander away with wariness and hope lining his eyes, a combination of emotions that made Nicky wonder what kind of history the odd couple shared to prompt that kind of response.

“Nicolo,” Joe murmured, pulling him out of his idle curiosity. “We should be going. Andy will wonder what happened to us.”

“Right...yes, of course.” Nicky smiled again at Aziraphale, who suddenly looked panicked at their impending departure. “Thank you again.”

“Oh, are you leaving so soon? A-are you sure I can’t help you find anything else? I have other first editions that might interest you!”

“Really, it’s alright-”

“Here we are.” Crowley was suddenly back at Aziraphale’s side, tossing a book onto the countertop with a carelessness that became alarming when Nicky realized what he was staring at: an old, worn volume, the cover made of what used to be red leather, but was now faded into a dull brown. Pressed into the leather, and traced with gold flakes, were the words “La Commedia.” Nicky reached out to brush the worn cover, gingerly lifting it to reveal the title page, where he could read the publication date: 1438. “This...this is…”

“Not quite first edition, but about as good as you’re gonna get outside of a museum.” Crowley’s voice was casual, as if he had simply found any old book. But his smirk was smug, the gravity of his achievement definitely not lost on him, especially when Aziraphale was staring at him in what could only be described as adoration.

“How...how did you find this?”

“Call it a little miracle. How much does a little miracle cost, angel?”

“Oh, ah...well, the best miracles are priceless, wouldn’t you say?”

Nicky’s gaze jerked away from the book to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “No, I’m sorry, I cannot in good faith take this without paying you.”

“No, really-”

“Please, I insist-”

The shopowner was strangely reluctant to give Nicky a price, but with Joe’s help, they were able to settle on an amount. By the time they left the bookshop, it was even later than they had planned on leaving, but Nicky was in such a daze of disbelief over his luck, Joe ended up being the one to call Andy.

“Boss, we know, we’re sorry, but you’ll never believe- no, trust me, even Booker will get excited over this. We’ll be there soon, it will be worth the wait, I promise.” He laughed as he tucked his phone away, shaking his head fondly at Nicky. “Well, my heart, I hope this find is worth Andy’s wrath. She is not happy with us.”

“Yusuf...who were those men?” Nicky was staring numbly into the bag, still not believing the impossibly old book he held in his hands.

“What do you mean?”

He finally looked away from his new treasure to meet Joe’s eyes. “Do you think...that maybe…”

“What? That an angel and demon helped us find a book?”

“Stranger things have been true.”

“Perhaps…” Joe’s arm wrapped around Nicky’s waist, tucking him against his body to drop a kiss to his temple. “Whatever those men were, they were kind. I hope the bookshop continues to do well.”

“Mm...thank you for coming with me.” Nicky’s smile was full of adoration, and earned him another kiss, this time on his lips.

“Of course, hayati. Anything for you.”

“Anything? Well, there’s another book I’ve been looking for-”

“Buuuuut Andy and Booker might not approve.”

After almost 1000 years, he should have been able to better resist the effect of Joe’s cheeky smile. But after almost 1000 years, Nicky wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the little joys to be found in life, especially when they came from this impossible man.

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cinephiles-delight · 5 years

Text

The Killing Joke: What Arthur Fleck Finds So Funny

Just as any other film, television series, animation, or comic book produced after The Dark Knight, Joker (and specifically Joaquin Phoenix’s performance) will necessarily be held up against what has come to be accepted as the gold standard of Heath Ledger’s unsettling and timeless portrayal of the clown prince of crime. While I could argue the merits of both legendary actor’s turns filling the shoes of Mister J in terms of performance, technique, etc., what I find infinitely more interesting is to examine the shift in the philosophical stance of the character between the two screen incarnations.

The general consensus amongst fans and critics alike is that Ledger’s Joker was a searing satire of and critique on the orderly, structured world he saw around him: people behaving in manners that conformed to paper-thin ethical standards that would degrade in the face of overwhelming pressure. He claims–as the Killing Joke Joker did–that “all it takes is a little push” for people to abandon their moral sentiments and revert to sheer self-interest and chaos. Ledger’s Joker was essentially fulfilling the archetype of the trickster god, reminiscent of Bugs Bunny or Loki, who wants to demonstrate the absurdity of the rules to those who consider themselves beholden to them by trapping said people in logical and moral puzzles that are a direct result of the contradictions inherent in the system: loopholes, if you will. His fulfillment of the archetype is demonstrated by the final ferry sequence, the money burning, the Rachel/Harvey choice, etc.

Phoenix’s Joker, on the other hand, comes across as rather motiveless and random, denying us even an albeit twisted logic by which to understand his actions and thought processes: he kills for sport, for vengeance, in retribution for real or imagined slights, or quite simply because he thinks it’s funny. He rejects the idea that society even functions on a set of shared rules, and takes the absurdity of the system as grounds for refuting it’s existence entirely. In this Phoenix becomes the pure nihilist Joker: the archetypal drifter-killer with no agenda and no reason to explain his madness and violence–just rage, insanity, and a freedom from ties to any sense of morality at all. The degree to which this philosophy was brought to the character even on the level of acting cues can be seen in Phoenix’s tendency as Arthur Fleck to break into spontaneous and chaotic pseudo-dances at seemingly inappropriate or even random times–here, both the cause of the action and the action itself lack an internal logic by which to understand them.

While claiming to be the ultimate embodiment of chaos, Ledger’s Joker could never truly live up to that epithet, because in attempting to use the contradictions of humanity’s purported civilization and societal rules to prove their own absurdity, he reifies their existence. We see Ledger’s Joker engage in such behavior several times in The Dark Knight, for example in the scene where Ledger kidnaps the characters of Rachel and Harvey Dent, demanding that Batman make the terrible decision to save one and let the other die. Ledger’s Joker believes that he has constructed an impossible situation in order to demonstrate to Batman that making value judgements of one human life against another are ultimately arbitrary, and that no matter the outcome the agent’s choice cannot, by human standards, be a moral action. However in doing so he both acknowledges the role of the value of human life in public consciousness and seems to, by utilizing the contradictions of utilitarianism, reaffirm its salience. On the opposite side of the equation, Phoenix’s Joker simply denies the existence of rules or governing moral principles altogether, and quite simply doesn’t care what anyone else thinks.

Ledger’s Joker fails in his own nihilistic agenda by adopting an agenda in the first place. By striving to win over others (namely Batman) to his point of view, he implicitly acknowledges that there exists a superior and objectively correct point of view: his. Whereas in Joker, we see Arthur completely forgo any intentionally malicious scheming designed to manipulate humans into defying their own moral codes; he instead simply chooses to ignore their existence altogether, operating as he wishes when he wishes with no thought as to the decency or civility of his actions (though paradoxically he does blame the lack of civility in society for contributing to his crumbling psyche). Arthur doesn’t try to convince anybody of anything, because ultimately he doesn’t think it matters. The only person he ever even appears to “lecture” to, Murray, he kills at the conclusion of his speech! This suggests that his entire ostensibly “rhetorical” outburst on the show was more of a twisted confession in search of or as a completion of his process of personal catharsis than any attempt to demonstrate to others the depravity of society.

For these reasons I–personally–think that Joaquin Phoenix and Todd Phillips delivered a much scarier and much more existentially horrifying Joker than Ledger and Nolan ever did. Ledger defied our understanding of right and wrong, but did so within a conventional framework, playing by the rules. Arthur Fleck simply refuses to even admit the existence of a system in the first place, playing a game unbeholden to a rule system of any kind, lacking even the slightest veneer of an internal logic. It is that which makes our blood run cold.

Now there are those who would claim that Arthur Fleck isn’t a proper nihilist, and that he’s actually just a depraved psychopath with an ill-formed mind and the means to kill. They would cite, for example, that almost all of his killings stem from personal slights against him: the boys who mocked him on the subway, his mother who did nothing to stop his father’s abusing him, Murray who mocked him on the show, Randall who tried to get him fired, etc. I think the answer to this protest boils down to the fact that while those may be the primary “motives” for his violent acts, this logic fails to comment on how Arthur perceives the morality of his actions.

While you could argue that Arthur feels “justified” in his killings because of the wrongs these people have inflicted against him, the more correct answer lies elsewhere. The impetus for his killing may very well be the instinctual feelings of indignation, rage, and hurt pride that accompany the pernicious acts of those around him, but he doesn’t view his killings as morally good. He doesn’t even view them as justified: he just thinks they’re funny. Consider the example of the drunk yuppie Wayne Enterprises boys that Arthur guns down on the subway. In his interview with Murray, Arthur admits that he finds the boys’ deaths to be incredibly funny, and as a principle reason for the humor he cites this: the boys were mourned and wept over because they were affluent, because they were Wayne employees, because Thomas Wayne mourned them on the news. But if it were Arthur that was gunned down on the sidewalk, he asks us to consider how many of us would simply walk right over him (a line written down in his journal right above the “cents” joke). What he seems to find so overwhelmingly funny about this is that it’s a crystallization of the fact that humanity is all tied up in a grand, cosmic joke that, because he is removed from it, Arthur can find humor in. The “joke”, in his eyes, is humanity’s use of moral codes as a way to define proper and improper manners of living. He posits that if such moral codes did, in fact, exist then they would command those obedient to them to answer Arthur’s question by stating that they would mourn his death just the same as that of the rich boys. But of course… this isn’t what happens. And so Arthur laughs. The parable of the drunk subway boys reveals humanity’s willingness to bend, break, and ignore morality when it is convenient for them to do so. The irony here is that the inescapable conclusion to be drawn from this malleability of right and wrong is that there is no such thing. But Arthur is the only one who can see this. So in his final line of the film, he very simply responds to the psychiatrist’s request to hear his joke with the only answer he can give: “you wouldn’t get it”.

Many critics have bashed Joker for coming off as meandering or even aimless, which I think is really a pointless criticism of a movie fundamentally about pointlessness. If we judge a film as “good” only by its slavish narrative devotion to character-driven causality, then a character piece about a fundamental moral nihilist with no reasoning or motivation to define his actions by must necessarily appear to be a slow, meaningless, or even boring movie. They claim that because Arthur seems to have an incoherent or rambling view of society which he is impotent to express–save for in the sad, impish ramblings of a madman masking profundity in a child’s vocabulary–the film lacks purpose and fails to take a definite stance on contemporary issues/state of affairs. This argument is nonsensical, like trying to use a ruler to measure the passage of time: it’s a faulty metric. The film, barring a few instances (everything with regards to the pharmaceutical industry and treatment of mental illness), on the whole isn’t trying to say anything about modern Western society: it’s a micro-level examination of how a man could come to completely abandon every moral tenet we hold dear, including belief in the existence of moral tenets at all.

Finally, I’d like to make an interesting observation with regards to the motif of that one particular staircase that Arthur must climb to reach his apartment building. At the opening of the film Arthur trudges his way up the staircase: it’s nighttime and the scene is lit with various cool, blue hues reflecting the depths of his depression and feelings of hopelessness. As he struggles to reach the top of the stairs he clutches in his hand a bag of prescriptions, literally weighing him down. What we’re presented with via this striking mise en scene is the portrait of a mentally ill man trying desperately to conform to the behavioral and emotional expectations of a society that was not designed for the mentally ill. His medications, representative of his struggle to maintain a normal life, become the literal and emotional baggage that he must carry through his days. As he writes in his journal: “the worst part about having a mental illness is that people expect you to behave as if you don’t”. However, when Arthur finally completes his transformation and adopts the persona of the Joker, letting go of his desire to fit into a world that never had a place for him, opting to remove himself from its laws completely, we see him return to this very same staircase and his demeanor is completely changed. This time it’s in the middle of the day: the sun is shining down brightly and warmly on Arthur–himself dressed in resplendent red, yellow, and orange hues–as he literally dances down the stairs, letting gravity do the work for him. A literal, visual interpretation of Heath Ledger’s Joker’s claim that “madness is like gravity”. This representation of insanity as a journey of mental emancipation is reflected in both The Dark Knight and the comic The Killing Joke, where in the latter the Joker specifically refers to insanity as: “the emergency exit on life… You can just step outside and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened”. The Killing Joke Joker frames insanity as a letting go, as a liberation from the difficulties of life and an induction into a new, unrestricted way of living. This is exactly the transformation that Arthur undergoes throughout the course of Joker–living is no longer a chore… it’s a dance.

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