#does this conflict with how force ghosts work?

[perfectharmonyloveschaos]

Something I feel like no one ever brings up but I feel like could be very important for Ezra’s character going forward is the fact that he is Mace Windu's great-grand-padawan. Mace Windu; the creator of Vaapad.

Because this never comes up in Rebels. We learn that, yes, Kanan’s master was Depa Billaba who was the former padawan of Mace Windu. But they never actually use it for anything. Why would Filoni make Kanan the grand-padawan of Mace Windu, and as a result make Ezra Windu's great-grand-padawan if not to use it for something. They could've made him any old Jedi's padawan, but Filoni choose Depa to be Kanan’s master.

What if this comes into play with Ezra’s character going forward and leads to him learning Vaapad? We don't know the state of the force and how it functions where Ezra has been trapped for the last decade, so what if they left Ezra in a place strong enough in the force that he could communicate to Depa Billaba and Mace Windu through the force?

Having Ezra go through so much with the dark side and learning to control it, while at the same time making him the heir to Mace Windu's lineage and the perfect candidate to carry on Vaapad which Windu himself choose who was taught it, is too much of a coincidence for nothing to be done with it. They've already tied Ezra to the World Between Worlds, why not give him some other way to interact with his grand-master and great-grand-master?

I would kill to see Ezra actively fight against Baylan and Shin using Vaapad and channelling their anger and power against them. Carrying on the legacy that Kanan never got to and carrying on Windu's knowledge, adapting the lessons from Windu, Depa, and Kanan and using them/potentially teaching them if he ever gets his own padawan.

#I know they won't but could you IMAGINE #look Vaapad is TOO COOL to be left to be forgotten okay #it suits Ezra so well #his entire character arc was about learning to handle his emotions and channeling it healthily #there are rumours of an Ezra show happening after Ahsoka and a part of me would love for Samuel L. Jackson to come back #like Liam Neeson did in Kenobi #does this conflict with how force ghosts work? #hey if Kanan can come back as a huge wolf through spite and love for his family then Mace can come back somehow #ezra bridger #ahsoka series #ahsoka show #ahsoka 2023 #sw ahsoka #sw ahsoka series #ahsoka spoilers #just in case cause may hint at rumours

[clairdelunelove]

badges of honor

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (sticker drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, protective!ghost

synopsis: ghost doesn't understand the appeal of receiving stickers, a tangible reward, after the completion of successful missions. never thought it was necessary for his efforts. however, his mindset changes when he finds out you're the one handing them out–

a.n. just a silly lil blurb that floated around in my mind for some time! decided I'd write it and I'm thinking about writing something similar for könig too! hope you're all well! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3

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holding onto the belief that ghost would stubbornly swallow his pride and allow you to decorate him in cutesy unnecessary stickers.

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it starts with price’s recommendation of implementing a routine of handing out stickers after successful missions. he insists it’s a great way to dial into intrinsic motivation. to keep the task force motivated to dedicate their best into every operation. a way to recognize positive behavior. a byproduct of hoping for the most favorable outcome in war where the only images are bloodshed, conflict, and hostility. it’s a stark difference. “who knows,” price’s shoulders lift into a casual shrug as he addresses the fierce group settled around him, “it might just help you lads.” it’s a harmless and cost-efficient idea to justify the boxes of tangible reinforcements that are shipped to the base. literal cartons of sticker books that range from the traditional ‘great work!’ to ‘prized soldier!’ and the notion seems childish (disguised to be more of a scheme, in all honesty). that is, until the pieces of sticky, illustrated adhesives start working– boosting the soldiers’ determination for the taste of victory– because you’re the one handing out the affordable versions of chest candy. they adore saccharine treats. and over time, so does ghost. 

ghost who initially loathes the new process that price endorses. he’s good at his job. knows he’s an expert in clandestine tradecraft. doesn’t need a miniature label tapped on his chest to recognize that no one does a better service in infiltrations or sabotages in risky environments than he does. he’s in and out like a gust of wind. well, more similar to a grim reaper that takes and punishes whoever he deems fit. a brutish force not to be reckoned with. and he reasons that this little sticker ceremony ultimately wastes time. precious alone time that ghost exploits to catch up on some well-deserved rest or exercise. because training after an intense mission totally makes sense to the lieutenant. yet, he’ll doggedly line up with the rest of the task force and await getting crowned with the bane of his existence. doesn’t wish to stir the pot with price and sit through being lectured. so he stays. and he’s a bit taken aback when he catches a glimpse of you handing out the stickers; a beaming smile on your lips while you press an overly exaggerated thumbs-up design onto the front of a soldier’s vest. 

ghost who rasps, “I’ll pass,” before your fingers can pin the sticker onto him. unaware that his voice would come out grainy from the weeklong mission and, involuntarily, blunt. brash. the complete opposite of how he wished to sound towards you. notices the surprise in your eyes due to the acidity of his voice and how you instinctively shrink from him. he shifts, straight away, and hastily tries to take back his tone of voice. to right his wrongs. to atone for his mistake. however, your nervous movement is swiftly replaced with your usual upbeat nature as you plaster on a grin and dramatically bring the back of your hand to your forehead to mimic a fall, “woe is me.” you exhale pointedly while mentioning, “whatever shall I do with all these stickers then?” and ghost understands that it’s so typical of you to hide your hurt with witticism. you’re too considerate. too bright. a touch of color to his monochrome soul. venturing a step closer to you, he lightly scoffs at your melodramatic behavior and remarks, “woe is most definitely not you. now get up, pup.” and before you can comprehend, his gloved hand wraps around your wrist to gently pry it away from your face. “changed my mind,” he murmurs while indicating to the book of stickers that you casted aside, “pick one f’ me, will ya.” 

ghost who refuses to comment on your shaky fingers to save you from embarrassment. it’s endearing that despite the layers of heavy clothing, you’re still hesitant to touch any part of him. “you’re all set,” you quickly chirp before stepping back to admire your handiwork. or so you tell yourself that excuse. in reality, you’re teetering on the edge of becoming distracted by the heat that he radiates. and he savors how your gaze dances across his masked face but evades his intense eyes. the most profound part of him that reduces you to stumbling on your words like a drunk. intoxicated by him. it’s like he’s drinking you in and allowing himself a selfish taste of your beauty. a thought that causes you to heavily gulp. to take your mind off of the blatant yearning, you teasingly raise the sticker book up to him, “how about I add another one? this one has glitter—” “that’ll do,” ghost interjects and turns to leave. his immediate answer and retreat brings about a genuine laugh from your lips. it’s music to his ears. wagering a glance to his chest, he notes the sticker you chose for him. cursive letters twisting into ‘you’re a star!’ followed by a smiling gold star draws his attention. you don’t spot it but as he leaves, his gloved fingers reach up to smooth the sticker over his vest. to pat it down so it stays a while longer. 

ghost who attempts to convince himself that his disinterest toward the small slips of adhesive paper is still the truth. they’re just for show, right? no one really pays attention to how some of the stickers varied in size. they’re all mature adults. and it was completely unrelated how there’s regular bickering amongst various recruits that compared their hard-earned rewards. doesn’t admit that his chest visibly swells with pride whenever the other soldiers point out that ghost always receives the biggest sticker. purposefully taunts them by stating, “get better then, yeah?” he also fails to acknowledge that you’ve coerced and conditioned him to accept them like a pavlov experiment. after all, your unwillingness to comment on how he noticeably leans over so you can put stickers wherever you wished must mean that it doesn’t happen. and in the scenario where it could perhaps occur, you shouldn’t blame him because ghost was certain no one else had the willpower to brush you away. you with gentle fingers and an angelic voice. singing him a siren song whenever you mutter, “for your excellent work, lieutenant,” as you smooth on another ridiculous sticker. his heart stutters in his chest when he feels how your hand tentatively flattens against his chest. the broad muscle causing you to hum appreciatively before gracing him with a coy smile. an interaction that replays in his mind whenever he’s awake and follows him to sleep. 

ghost who clenches his fist so tightly that his blunt nails bite into his own palm when he overhears a lowly recruit outrightly insult the implemented routine. hears them utter (when you’re out of earshot of course because goodness forbid that they have courage) ‘bullshit’ and how you were ‘off your rocker for putting up with this waste of time.’ and ghost isn’t usually responsive in situations like this. he’s got a covert operation to focus on in about 15 minutes. a level-headed person was far more intimidating and efficient during classified matters. now, however, his heavy boots thud against the floorboards when he stalks toward the recruit. an abrupt wave of darkness and unabridged horror before the recruit is face-to-face with ghost. “problem?” he asks challenges, voice dead and devoid of sympathy. his head slowly tilts and the action creates a dismal shadow over the eye sockets of his mask. ominous and menacing. everything that ghost is infamous for. knows he’s won when the recruit’s apology is nasally and on the verge of crying but their reaction isn’t his personal interest. what he does undertake as his responsibility, though, is when he’s called into price’s office for a debrief. he pockets some of the miscellaneous sticker books that sit on the superior’s desk. wordlessly hands them to you when you’re both briefly passing each other in the hallway. and while you profusely thank him for the additional sets (vaguely wondering what caused the change in his behavior), you playfully press a sticker above the lower portion of his mask– right where his lips are. somewhere new. you leave him rooted to the spot, the sweet gesture sending him into a stupor, and call over your shoulder, “compensation for the stickers!” he watches as you hurriedly dart away before he can react but there’s no need. he unabashedly smuggles more stickers from price’s office in hopes of reaping a similar repayment again.

ghost who reasons that stickers aren’t that bad if you’re the one giving them out. he organizes himself with the rest of the force, a brooding figure that patiently waits in the back of the line. favors being the last one because you’re able to utter more than a few words of encouragement to him. if he’s lucky then you converse and excitedly share your day with him– like you currently are. “want me all to yourself, do you?” you heartily tease him upon noticing that he’s consistently been last in line for the third time in a row. he shifts on his feet, makes a show of looking around at his fellow team members that are filtering out of the room, and deliberately concedes, “‘suppose so.” his frank answer is followed by a flustered roll of your eyes but it’s the genuineness that causes your heart to flip. you force yourself to concentrate on the task at hand– giving out prizes. unsteady fingers lifting at the sticker page, you skim the options before spotting a perfect one. your teeth catch the edge of your bottom lip as you can’t help but question, “you say that to everyone, simon?” his real name on your glossy lips. a prayer that he desires to hear being chanted over and over as he holds you in his arms. the gaze he wraps you in is burning. tempting. exhilarating. you push yourself up on your toes to reach out and place a sticker on his cheek. on the hard shell of his skull mask that you’ve learned will ultimately end in halfhearted chiding because the adhesive is difficult to remove off of it. ghost catches a glimpse of the sticker that you’ve picked. the bolded words of ‘#1 lieutenant’ flashes at him. and the sticker is like a brand you’ve adorned him in. an embellishment that he proudly displays and wears because it’s what you’ve given him. he hums, dark and inquiring, when he leans to graze his masked lips against your inner wrist. his eyes are heady and half-lidded. clouded with a violent craving for you– always you. visibly strains to make contact with your exposed skin by tilting his head to place another chaste kiss on your hand while murmuring, “just to the sweet ‘n pretty ones that I fancy.” 

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley drabble #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

[fandomhcs]

dating frank castle would include:

frank castle doesn’t do anything half assed. that includes a relationship. you may have a hell of a time actually getting him into one, but once he is he’ll never waver.

he would struggle between being the punisher and being frank, the man who loves you. though he fully understands that you can that care of yourself, he wants to keep his life as the punisher far away from you. of course its not always possible, but he wants to keep you as safe he can. rest assured, as long as he’s there nothing can touch you. he’d stop anything, give up anything, to keep you safe. 

losing maria and the kids changed him, broke him apart and forced him to scramble to gather any pieces he could. losing you now, after facing all of that loss and all that pain? no way he could handle that. 

and so he’s overprotective, he’s paranoid, he’ll check and double check the locks on your windows and doors until you drag him to bed. while the two of you don’t leave the house together too often, when you do he makes sure to keep you no more than an arm’s length away at all times.

his paranoia is the biggest source of fights in your relationship. he isn’t one for conflict, despite being the punsiher and all. fighting with you is different, and he doesn’t like it when it happens. often times you’ll have it out with each other only for him to go quiet, swallow his pride and take some time to calm down before he can come talk out the problem with you.

but outside of the danger, when things are quiet and peaceful between the two of you there is no sweeter man than frank castle. he’s head over heels for you, it’s easy to see. in his eyes you are everything he never thought he’d have again. sure, he may not have the whole wife, kids, white fence type of life with you. he may never be ready for that, but being with you feels like coming home. it scares him how good it feels to have a place, a person, he can call home again.

movies nights and television marathons are a must. the second you are both home for the night he’ll wrap you up in his arms and drag you to the couch for cuddles. though he isn’t too big on pda, in the privacy of your home he just can’t help himself. 

he lives for the small touches. holding your hand, forehead kisses, fingers grazing your shoulders as he passes by you. its a reminder, every time he feels your skin under his fingertips. a reminder that you are there, with him, safe and sound and alive.

you make him smile. force him to watch stupid comedies or over dramatic soap operas that you both get waaayy too invested in. he makes you try your coffee black, does the dishes for you before you get up in the mornings, keeps you trapped in his arms whenever you try to get up for food. 

he cooks for you sometimes. a lovely surprise that comes out of nowhere. the big bad punisher? popping out with restaurant quality meals all because you’d had a shitty day at work and needed a pick-me-up? that’s art. he doesn’t cook often, but when he does it is magical.

though as far as your cooking, he’ll eat literally anything. you could burn it to coal and he’ll eat it with a smile. he might make fun of you for it, but you’ll see him finish his plate no matter what. he’s a dork like that.

you both whisper your secrets underneath warm sheets with one of his hands tapping a chaotic rhythm on your shoulder and the other gripping your fingers tight. he tells you their names. maria. lisa. frank jr. he tells you of their laughter, their toys, their lives. and he tells you of their deaths, tears spilling from his eyes as he breaks into your arms. your heart breaks with him, but being able to share them with someone who loves him, and by extension loves and respects them too, is such a weight off his shoulders.

they’re ghosts, but not the kind that haunt. the kind that leave your chest aching but also a soft smile on your face. they don’t plague him anymore, he is finally able to think of them without his world going dark. they’ll always be in his heart, he’ll never allow himself to forget them, but you help him realize that he can have happiness once again. 

life is perfectly boring with frank, something he forgot just how much he’d missed. you bring peace into his life, even though he never wanted you to. but he’ll be forever grateful that you did. this man will love you with a passion and an intensity that you’ll find nowhere else.

that is, if you can handle his snoring.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader #frank castle reader insert #hcs #dwi

[thegnomelord]

(Hihi!! First ever ask so I’m a little worried :,) but you’re super cool so I’m giving it a shot 🫶)

About the hound fic, it briefly mentions Makarov ordering Hound to kill a member of their previous task force/141 and they don’t hesitate to do so, and it got me thinking;

Who did Hound kill? Unnamed Replacement Solider™? Roach? Or someone close to the 141 like Nikolai or Laswell?

And how does this affect the 141’s views on Hound after rescuing them?

Like Price who is fighting the exhausting battle with his superiors to let him try to help Hound instead of putting them down like a dog. The battle drains him, and he becomes snappier than usual, irritated by the fact that a small voice of doubt is telling him to give up.

Soap who would love his old comrade back but can’t let go of the fact Hound had killed a teammate he was close with. He wants to forgive and forget but one can’t just do that about the murder of a friend by another. He’s especially bothered by the fact that Hound didn’t seem to feel any guilt for their actions, at least not until they begin to return to their normal self.

Ghost who can’t let his guard down around Hound, fully believing he’d lost the old soldier he once knew. Always lurking nearby Hound, keeping his eyes on them, almost paranoid he’d lose another family team member. But deep down he hopes, and the internal conflict is tearing at him.

And Gaz who worries there’s no hope for Hound, conflicted between seeing them as the monster they’d been turned into or the person he once called a friend. He both pities Hound for what has become of them yet resents them for the harm they’d done to the task force and his friends. Gaz struggles to keep both those opposite emotions under wraps as whenever Hound is brought up.

O R have I completely misunderstood this one line? If I did I’m sorry for the ask :,)

That’s all I’ve got… wishing you a wonderful day/night and keep up the good work!!!

Honestly idk, I still don't know how I want the timeline to go. Current idea is that only Ghost and Price knew Hound before Makarov got them, so Johnny and Gaz wouldn't have known him. When I wrote the one shot it was definitely just gonna be some random soldier, but now you're giving me IDEAS

Also I swear you took the blurb about Price STRAIGHT out of my head. You are reading my mind lol

What if Hound did kill Roach n it was filmed and sent to Price and Ghost and Johnny (who let's say was friends with Roach but didn't know Hound before, Gaz comes later so he wouldn't know any of this) and either Hound was masked or just so worn down from the 1-1.5 years of Makarov's care that they just didn't recognize him?

That little extra twist of the knife when Price and Ghost find out that makarov's right hand is not only the man they thought was dead, but that he killed their sargent in cold blood? UGHSDHF

#gnome's tea break #gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #good dog fic #Hound-reader

[ailendolin]

Since the announcement that two or three new versions of Ghosts are in the works, I've been thinking about what sort of ghosts we might get to see / I'd like to see in a German adaptation and put together a list of my ideas. You will see some similarities with our beloved original ghosts as well as completely new characters, and I did my best to find a balance between male and female characters and include a variety of historical eras.

This is obviously just a very basic list with some notes but I do have thoughts about these characters (how they died, what powers they might have, their inner conflict etc.) so if you'd like to know more, please ask (also German producers, I hereby officially volunteer as tribute writer)!

German Ghosts

Female Neanderthal (40,000 BC)

Neanderthals were named after the German Neander valley so I think it's only fair to include a Neanderthal in the show. Since no one needs a Robin 2.0, I'd make the character female and give her a dog because ghost animals are fun and we need more of them.

Roman & German (9 AD)

Two guys - let's call them Marcus and Alber - who fought on opposite sides died in the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest, became ghosts and eventually best friends. They'd rather die again than admit that to anyone, though.

Bog Girl (600 AD)

A little girl who haunts the marshlands around the house but not the property itself. Most of the ghosts avoid her until the Naturalist gets curious and starts to befriend her.

Plague Ghosts (Mid-1600s)

A group of victims of the 30 Years' War whose deaths were caused by famine and disease and not the war directly (though they insist they died 'in the war').

Naturalist (Late 1700s)

A scientist like Alexander von Humboldt and Charles Darwin who embraces becoming a ghost from the get go and does various experiments (on himself and the others) to figure out how ghost rules work and what is and isn't possible.

Composer (Early 1800s)

A young composer who has a (perceived) rivalry with Beethoven because he's lost part of his hearing. Think German equivalent of Thomas Thorne.

Female Soldier (Early 1800s)

Based on stories like that of Friederike Krüger, this woman posed as a man and joined the army during the Napoleonic Wars.

Woman in White (Late 1800s)

The lady of the house at the time. After she died in childbirth, she was forced to watch her husband's mistress raise her daughter. She died wearing her white nightgown (something she is quite embarrassed about) and can be seen in pictures.

WW1 Surgeon (1930s)

Another former owner of the house, this man was a surgeon in WW1 and still carries the trauma of that time with him (think Siegfried from All Creatures Great and Small).

Luftwaffe Pilot (1940s)

Remember the two German pilots from BBC Ghosts? This guy was their friend and has always wondered what happened to them. He crash-landed on the grounds during a training exercise.

Estate Agent (early 2020s)

A woman who took over the house after the last owner passed away. While assessing the property, she had a heart attack and died there, leading to rumours about the house being cursed and haunted increasing.

The House

While the house will probably be a manor house like in the original series, I think it would be fun if this version of the show shook things up a little and had the German Coopers inherit an old mill, or perhaps even an actual (small) castle.

#this has honestly been so much fun to think about #I don't know how many German fans there are in this fandom but I'd love to know what sort of characters you guys would want to see #bbc ghosts #mp bbc ghosts #german ghosts

[ludoka]

So.... What would happen if SOMEONE decided to rewrite Freaky Fusion but eliminated the fusions, left the plot of the hybrids and the time travel plot?

Long text after the cut:

The fic would begin by introducing the hybrids and the students' reaction to them. Cleo and (I think it was her?) Draculaura would give the same comments as in the movie. But here the hybrids already established in the series would not be ignored. Lagoona would talk about how she herself is a hybrid. What's more, we could even add that she is the fruit of a freshwater Nymph and a sea monster.(I just made this up while writing. I have no idea if it's canon or not but I like it.) Your intervention in the conversation could leave the atmosphere a little tense. Frankie tries to lighten the mood by insisting her friends go to class.

In another part of the school, Deuce and Jackson are in the former's locker talking about the same topic. Or rather, Deuce is nervous and frustrated by how everyone is reacting to the hybrids. While Jackson doesn't care too much. He has already had his conflict with the students regarding what he is. You already know this is temporary until the novelty of the matter cools down. This resolution does not reassure the gorgon at all. In fact, it frustrates him enough to vocalize his concerns. The whole topic was really making him very uncomfortable. On a good day, he's already having trouble coping with the fact that he's a hybrid. This only makes you feel worse. To the point of being terrified that other monsters will know what he really is. Jackson tries to console him but the bell at the beginning of his first class forces them to cut the conversation short.

What they didn't know is that a certain gossiping ghost, who was collecting information for his blog, was listening to them.

The first class is Dead Languages ​​with Professor Rotter. Class is pretty boring today. Which causes some students to become distracted and murmur among themselves. Cleo is one of them and tries to talk to Deuce (who is more in the clouds than on earth)One of the topics he brings up is about hybrids, which he immediately realizes is the wrong topic to talk about. Since she sees how her boyfriend tenses very visibly. Which makes her remember that she's been on thin ice ever since she almost got her boyfriend's best friend killed just because of her pride. Said friends... It is also a hybrid. Cleo is seriously thinking about asking Frankie to sew her mouth shut so she doesn't screw up again. (I'm thinking about placing this after my own version of Ghoul Rules. I feel it is appropriate. It seems like he's been building up these nerves since before this day. It's more ✨ dramatic ✨)

The rest of the class passes without pain or glory. Only at the end does Rotter remind his students that in the last period of school they have to present their family tree work. (because I don't remember how the homework they were given in the movie was written)And he points out that Frankie will be the first to speak.

A stressed Deuce is the first to leave the classroom, closely followed by a worried Cleo. She is a couple of steps behind him. Thinking about how to talk about whatever is bothering the gorgon. Just when you think you've finally found the words, a mass notification from Spectra's blog catches your attention. She is about to ignore it but when she saw how the students began to stare in her direction, she decided to quickly check just in case. The title leaves her baffled. "Deuce Gorgon, the most handsome cool boy in school, is a hybrid?" That was the huge title that headed the blog. Cleo looks up with the mission of searching for answers but notices how terribly pale Deuce is while looking at his cell phone. She catches his attention. He looks at her scared. In fact, Deuce becomes hyper aware of his surroundings. He notices how everyone is looking at him and starting to whisper around him. This sends him into a spiral of panic and he ends up escaping the scene. It ends somewhere in the school, near the indoor pool. That's where Lagoona finds him. Deuce realizes that she is not alone. She is accompanied by Sirena von Boo and Neighthan Rot. When he asks about them, Lagoona tells him that she became friends with Sirena in their previous class. They saw him run out of the hallway and read the blog. Lagoona and Sirena went to look for him, they ran into Neightan and he joined the search. (mainly because Avea and Bonita were still in class)

This is where I cut the explanatory text and give the concise points of this particular plot:

The plot itself has the hybrids talking about feelings and experiences. Trying to help each other in all this sea of ​​rumors and staring. Mainly by comforting Deuce and letting him open up to them.

There would be some scene with Draculaura and Clawd talking about their relationship. The topic of vampire biology would be touched upon a little. How they age and mature slower than other deadly monsters.

I would also have Deuce and Cleo talking about this matter.

Also the reaction of the students, encouraged in a negative way by Toralei, towards Deuce and his "deception".

In general: Lots of feelings, heavy conversations and ✨drama✨

Now you will ask yourself: Where is the time travel plot in all this? Good. Let's go back to the moment of Rotter pointing at Frankie.

After watching the teacher leave the classroom, Frankie lies down on his table and writhes in his misery. Robecca and Ghoulia who were by her side comfort her and ask her what's wrong. She explains that she has nothing useful to expose. His parents avoided the topic of family too much and gave him nothing to work with. So you're probably going to fail the class. Invisibilly appears (because he is another gossiper) and comments that he also goes through the same thing. His father isn't the most talkative when it comes to whatever turned him into a monster. Billy has a suspicion that it was an experiment gone wrong but he has no idea. He believes his father is looking to take the secret to the grave. Here Jackson Jekyll joins the conversation. (because in this school the concept of "private conversation" does not exist) Jackson comments that if there is a family that loves to keep secrets, it is the Jekyll family. It was easier for him to help Heath by putting together the family tree of his elemental family, than it was for Holt to find SOMETHING about his mother's family. They know that their great-grandfather is the one who started the whole Hyde thing but they don't know anything else. Not even what year his grandfather was born or how his great-grandfather Henry Jekyll and his great-grandmother met. It all seems like a big secret that no one should know about.

As he listens to them complain, Robecca has an idea. His father, before he disappeared, was a lover of science in general. He lived many years collecting information, meeting other scientists and doing his own experiments. She suggests they look for something in her father's workshop. Hopefully, they can find something regarding the Stein or Jekyll family. (Robecca apologizes to Billy for not being able to find a solution to his problem but he rejects her. He doesn't care much) Ghoulia was going to say something regarding work but after watching Deuce and Cleo leave the room, she decided that it was easier to help this group with their homework.

This is how Robecca, Frankie, Ghoulia, Billy and Jackson go to the Hexiciah Steam workshop.

While there, they don't find much. At least until Billy stumbles upon plans for a time machine. This draws the attention of the rest. Robecca takes a look at the plans and searches the workshop if there is something similar there. And, indeed, it was a large machine that was in the middle of the room. As they examine the machine, Billy comments that it would be great to test if the thing works and use it to do his homework. That makes them pause and contemplate the idea. The first to be against it is Ghoulia. She doesn't think it's very smart to mess with the timeline just for a school project. Frankie and Jackson support her. But Jackson also comments on how MAYBE if they didn't interact with anyone and were just there to watch, they wouldn't actually be doing anything. It also suggests it could be a good thing for Robecca. After all, it's the most direct way he can find clues to his father's whereabouts. This raises the robot's hopes. Ghoulia is still against it but after seeing her friends' hopeful looks, she decides that MAYBE it's not such a bad idea. As long as the necessary measures are taken. The girls and boys celebrate this beforehand and look for anything about the operation of the machine. They discover that for the machine to work and there to be a way to return, someone needs to be in the current era. Monitoring travelers through bracelets that serve as trackers and controls that allow them to travel by time and place. Ghoulia and Jackson note that there is a very specific way these bracelets work but decide to find out later. Since this was just a round trip to see if the machine worked in the first place. So with everything prepared Robecca, Frankie, Jackson and Billy get ready for the test trip. Ghoulia gives them the go-ahead and turns on the machine. The quartet enters the machine and goes to a year not too distant, just to try it out. More specifically 1950's New Salem.

In fact, the machine works! After watching a bit, the four try to go back to their time to tell the zombie. But can not. No matter how hard they try, the bracelets don't send them back to their time. In reality, it sends them randomly to other places and times. They panic a little (A LOT).

Currently, Ghoulia is worse. The disused machine was broken enough that it had imperfections that none of them noticed. So now the machine was causing fluctuations in time itself. Making time go slower or faster randomly. This is also causing beasts and animals from different places and times to appear today. Not to mention that, for some reason, his friends can't come back. So it's up to Ghoulia Yelps to fix the time machine, prevent the timeline from being destroyed, send the beasts and animals where they belong, and bring his friends back. It's... A pretty normal Monday, if Ghoulia is allowed to comment.

So this subplot has:

Jackson, Robecca, Billy and Frankie traveling through time. Uncovering family secrets and finding clues to the whereabouts of Hexiciah Steam.

To them trying to survive times that they only read about in books, saw in movies or paintings.

And Ghoulia saving the day behind the scenes.

Yes... A standard Monday.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I hope you have a happy new year and I wish you the best of luck in meeting your new year goals. 🎆❤️✨🎆

#I wish someone other than me would write this. #But I am aware that that person is not going to write it the way I want. #So I guess it's up to me to organize my time to write this once and for all. #I'm not going to let go of this fandom until I have at least half of this story #monster high #Ah! #Nobody is having a very good time in this story. #There is a bit of crisis and panic everywhere 😂 #jackson jekyll #holt hyde #This could fit into: #This is part of: Jackson and Holt's Wild Year #frankie stein #robecca steam #Invisibilly #ghoulia yelps #deuce gorgon #cleo de nile #lagoona blue #sirena von boo #bonita femur #Avea Trotter #neighthan rot #draculaura #clawd wolf #Freaky Fusion #Mh #mh g1

[donteattheappleshook]

(not so) young, drunk and alone 1/1

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else. Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

(We'll give this a light M)

Oh hey, it's me, neglecting all the WIPs for something new.

This fic is a little birthday present to myself. It's completely ferral and I had very little control over it but I listened to Dial Drunk on repeat for 3 days and then this happened. This fic is unbetaed but thank you @the-darkdragonfly for answering all my texts and rambling calls while I was writing it!

A Silver hook story because apparently everything I write is now...

Read it on Ao3 (where my italics work)

******

(not so) young, drunk and alone

She shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that. Not with a smirk caught between her teeth in a way that makes his throat dry and his pulse race. Not with the barely restrained promise of a laugh he’s sure would come out in different company that makes his face burn and and his eyes unable to meet hers. He can’t look at her when she looks like that, and she’s looking at him like that, and he looks - he assumes not great. 

So he focuses on the floor instead. The floor is safe. The floor doesn’t stir up conflicting and confusing feelings he’s managed to ignore for the better part of a year. The floor doesn’t make him question every terrible decision he’s made in his life that led him to this exact moment. The floor is… moving. It’s not supposed to do that. Although that’s likely the booze, he rationalizes. But the floor isn’t interested in being rational so Killian lets his forehead fall against the bars he’s already holding onto in an attempt to stay upright. The bars are nice, they’re cool and solid and it slows the spinning in his head a fraction.

“Big night?”

He takes a full ten seconds, counted slowly, and a few deep breaths before raising his head again and facing that smirk. It doesn’t help. The absolute delight in her eyes delivers the same gut-punch it always does - even if it’s at his expense - and the soft blonde curls that have fallen from her probably hastily pulled up bun make him ache to reach out and brush them away from her face just so he can feel the strands between his fingers. 

He shouldn’t have called her. He knew it was a mistake when he did it. He should have just let the sheriff keep him in this bloody cell. It’s not as if he hadn’t slept it off a night or two in another cell in another town throughout his youth. But he’s not so youthful now and the sight of the cold, hard bench, the thought of his aching back and the copious amounts of rum still coursing through his blood had been enough to send him over the edge into madness apparently. So he’d pressed the blurry little “absolutely not” in his contacts and called the only person he knew in this whole bloody city.

“Swaann.” He attempts a smile but it turns into a wince as he manages to slur the single word. When he works up to meeting her eyes again - so green, like the sea glass he used to collect on the beach when he was a boy and that takes his breath away every time - there’s a bit of pity mixed in with the amusement. 

He feels pretty pitiful. Forty-five and so stumbling drunk that he’d been tossed out of the pub and into a police car, only to be forced to face the one person he’d hoped the rum would chase from his mind. He’s too old to be acting like this. Even with his wits sloshing around in the drink he’d tried to drown them with he knows he’s too old to be acting like this. When you’re young, it’s funny, an anecdote for another time - spending the night in the drunk tank. When you’re his age, it’s just pathetic. 

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Her voice is sweet, with a laugh still hiding somewhere behind it, and it’s the first sound since he was brought here that hasn’t made his head feel like it was being scratched at from the inside. 

“You shouldn’t’ve come here. S’the middle of the night,” he tells her. She doesn’t belong in this sad little room in this sad little jail with the lightbulb that keeps flickering in and out. Still, he can’t stop the stupid smile that finds residence on his face whenever she’s near - because she is here. She came to get him. 

Emma raises a brow in a way he thinks she may have picked up from him. “You called me three times.”

He blinks. Fuck. He doesn’t remember that. He looks at the sheriff waiting a little ways back who nods in confirmation, giving Killian his own pitying wince like he tried to stop him. Killian sighs. “‘Mm usually much more charming.” 

She rolls her eyes but smirks again as the sheriff slides a key into the ancient looking lock. “Yeah, I know. Come on, Graham’s going to let you off with a warning -” 

He nearly falls flat on his face when the door he’d been leaning against swings open. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay with him, Em?” 

Oh great, they know each other. He’d be more annoyed at her cozy relationship with the unreasonably attractive sheriff if he wasn’t a little bit grateful to the man who caught him and is still holding him up now. If he can just get his legs to go back under him where they belong… 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

Killian feels himself being passed from the man who smells strikingly of the forest, to the woman with the irreplicable scent of honey and drugstore soap that overwhelms him with the memory of every time he’s had his mouth or his hand on her skin. The fingers of his one remaining hand burn with the urge to feel her under them again so he balls them into a fist as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. “What about you?” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s who the question is directed at. “You going to be okay to walk out of here?”

Sheer determination not to make an even greater fool of himself than he already has in front of Emma Swan is the only thing he can attribute to both not falling right over with the nod of his head, and the steadiness of his first step as she leads him out the door. 

He stumbles three times between the building and her car. She catches him every time with a hand on his chest, her head turning so that her hair brushes his cheek and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t do it on purpose after the first time - though he can’t really trust his own thoughts at this point since they have to be yelled at him through an ocean of rum. 

“It’s your bug!” he beams at the old, yellow car. “I love your bug.”

“You hate my bug.” 

Oh, right. He does hate the car that broke down every other time they drove to his hotel in the middle of the night, the one that had broken down the night they met. ‘I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just my car is literally on the side of the road right now and the tow won’t come for another hour at least and there’s… smoke.’ 

It had been an interesting night, getting an Uber in a strange city to go pick up a stranded woman from a dating app who'd been on her way to his hotel for anonymous sex - a woman he found out had lied about her age when she pointed out that the 1993 beetle was older than she was. ‘I didn’t think you’d swipe right if you knew there was a whole high school senior between us.’ ‘Anything else I should know about?’ he’d teased when they were back at his hotel room where she’d managed to get him out of his shirt with impressive speed. ‘Is Anna even your real name?’ ‘Uhhh, about that…’

She leans him up against the aggressive yellow of the door as she fishes in her pockets for her key. Her cheeks have gone red from the cold and it reminds him of the flush that would sometimes come over her skin if he found the right words or the right touch. 

“You’re so lovely.” His thumb is tracing over her cheek though he doesn’t remember raising his hand or reaching for her. 

She snorts. “Yeah, okay, Jones. So not gonna happen tonight, but nice try.” This time her smirk is wicked and if he had any real control over his body or his brain he would kiss it right off her smug mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything!” he swears, prosthetic on his heart as she unlocks the passenger side door. “I’m just grateful you came all the way out here to rescue me. My knight in awful yellow armour.” He gasps. She rescued him from a dungeon. “Bloody hell, Swan -” He speaks slowly, managing to get almost every word out coherently. “I’m the princess.”

He’s waiting for her to come to the same mind-blowing realization as he has, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Get in the car, your highness.” 

It takes an impressive amount of self-control for him to sit still and keep his hand to himself despite his racing heart and thoughts as she leans over to help him secure his seatbelt. Because he’s not supposed to have those thoughts. And his idiot heart can keep its cruel reminders to itself. He shouldn’t have called her. He hasn’t called her - not in months. Not since he realized his mistake and knew this thing between them had to come to an end. 

He’s missed her so bloody much. 

“Killian.” She’s beside him now in the driver’s seat and saying his name like it’s not the first time she’s asked him this question. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I…” Shit. He knows this. He’s got this. Think. There was a hotel. A big hotel with really good room service. Maybe they could go there and he could buy her room service. She always liked that. ‘Listen, I know I came over here for sex and that was great and everything, but there’s a freaking lobster grilled cheese on this menu so do you think I could be here for sex and room service tonight?’ She’d looked at him with that same wicked, eager smile and he was already reaching across her for the phone. ‘I feel like I should be concerned that you seem more turned on by this sandwich than you did by anything else tonight.’ ‘Well, it’ll probably take them a little while to deliver it if you want another go at out-seducing bread and cheese.’

“A hotel,” he tells her finally. 

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which hotel, Killian? Which hotel am I driving you to?”

“Oh.” He knows this one! “Mine.” 

She sighs, forehead falling against the steering wheel for a long moment. He waits, not sure what he did wrong but positive that he did something. “Okay,” she says, sitting up and starting the car. “It’s late. You can sleep it off on my couch for tonight and I’ll drive you back in the morning when you’re less… wasted.” 

She sounds frustrated and he thinks it might be his fault. He looks at her carefully as she turns out of the parking lot, really looks at her for the first time since she walked back into his life a moment ago. Holding his breath against the eyes and hair and skin that always try to steal it away, he takes note of her messy hair, the lack of any makeup, the grey sweats he knows she likes to sleep in. He looks at the clock next, the late - or rather early - hour shining angry, bright and orange. He can figure this out. 

“I’m sorry.” He’s an idiot. She glances at him before turning back to the dark highway ahead of them.” “I shouldn’t have called you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not.” He hangs his head, hoping he looks sincere and not just as pathetically pissed as he is. “I woke you up.” 

“Really, Killian, it’s fine. I was just going to bed.” He looks at the clock again and he envies her youth not for the first time since meeting her. He supposes he’s up this late as well, but that wasn’t by choice. That was the rum’s decision. The rum always makes bad decisions. 

“But it’s cold.” She must be cold. She’s always cold and he made her go outside. She hates outside. She probably hates him now. ‘Listen, I’m all for this whole hooking up when you’re in town no strings thing.’ She waved a hand in his general direction. ‘Big fan of everything you’ve got going on here. But it’s cold as balls outside, so from now on you can come to mine and I can stay inside where it’s warm, or I’ll see you in the spring.’ 

The smirking curl of her mouth tugs at her cheek but he doesn’t reach for it again. “Yeah, it’s November.” 

November. The last time he saw her it had been the dead of summer, both of them hot and sticky and barely dressed, stretched out in front of the single standing fan by the bed in her little apartment with no bloody air conditioning. 

He misses that apartment. Misses being there with her and letting her make him boxed mac and cheese while he complained about her eating habits. Misses the ridiculous sheets with little Millennium Falcons on them that she’d found when he was running late to meet her that one time. He’d made her wash them before putting them on her bed - ‘fine, mom’ - and then listened to her make Star Wars puns from between her thighs until they tightened so hard against his ears he couldn’t hear anything at all. 

And he misses the way she would smile at him when she opened the door, just before she dragged him inside, asking about his flight between heated kisses and frustrated hands. ‘I hate your stupid ties’. 

He’s a bloody idiot and he should have never stopped calling. Or he should have stopped calling a long time ago, before there was anything to miss. They had a good thing going, an understanding, no strings. He’d reach out when he was in town for work and they would meet for one or however many nights he was staying. No expectations or dates or sleepovers, none of the complicated stuff. And he’d screwed it up.

His feet slip dangerously against the icy ground - at least he’s pretty sure there’s ice, or the ground isn’t staying still again - as Emma practically hoists him out of the car. “You remember the stairs right?” she asks, ducking under his arm again to steady him. She fits well there with her arm wrapped around his waist. 

He hadn’t remembered the stairs. Though he should have, he’d complained about them enough times. ‘What’s so wrong with an apartment with an elevator?’ ‘Aw, can your old knees not handle it?’ He’d caught her as she bolted up the last few flights at his glare, laughing the whole way, and he’d spent enough time on his ‘old knees’ to make her take it back. This time, he’s not so sure he can handle it as he looks up at the rotating stairs that seem unable to settle on a height. 

“It’s either that or you’re sleeping in the lobby, Jones.” 

He considers it. “Is that David guy still your landlord?” The one who was particularly hostile to the man in his forties coming over at random hours of the night to visit his twenty-eight year old tenant. ‘Give him a break, he still thinks I’m the sixteen year old kid he illegally rented to when I first moved here.’ 

In fairness, Killian would probably judge himself too if he were in the landlord's shoes. He has judged himself many times for becoming a stereotype of Dicaprio-sized proportions. But the alternative would have been resisting Emma Swan, something he’s incapable of doing - or at least had been until that morning he ruined everything. 

“Okay.” The stairs are still moving.

“Hold on.” She takes out her phones - there’s definitely two of them - and holds them in front of his face. “I just want to get you on camera saying that I’m not liable if you fall down these stairs and break your neck.” 

“Is that really necessary?” He got that whole sentence out in one try. 

“I know you have a lawyer.” ‘You have a what? Wow, I knew you were older but I didn’t know you were like, old old.’ ‘I don’t think it counts if you’ve stolen from parent’s liquor cabinet.’ 

“Fine. Don’t sue Emma if I die. She’s very nice and doesn’t have any money anyway.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’ll never hold up in court.” 

“That would be way more convincing if you could pronounce all your consonants.” 

The climb takes twice as long as it should and he’s forced to stop once when he makes the mistake of looking down and his stomach rolls violently. ‘I swear to god if you puke in my hallway I’ll leave you here to sleep in it.’

“I don’t remember there being this many floors.”

“It’s four floors. You’ve done two.” 

He might die.

He doesn’t die, but just barely, and when Emma leads him through the door and into the studio, she practically drops him onto the old couch. It’s not her fault; he’d made himself very droppable in the last few minutes. At least he landed on the couch and not the collection of wooden crates she’s glued together next to it. ‘That’s not a coffee table, Swan.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that or is that not your coffee cup on it right now?’

He doesn’t see her for a few minutes, his head too heavy to lift, but he can hear her moving around the apartment and he can picture her, walking through the kitchen on her toes. ‘It’s not weird, shut up.’ ‘I just thought you’d like to know that most people use their whole foot.’ 

When she finally comes back, he forces his eyes open, unsure who exactly glued them shut or how they did it without him noticing. Fuck she’s beautiful. Even through the boozy marinade he’s made of his head he can see that, and he wants to tell her. He could. He could blame it on the rum. But that would be a bad idea. Complicating things between them would be a bad idea. They’d already gotten complicated enough. God, he’s such a fuck up. Things were good, they could have stayed good. He just had to go and ruin a good thing with his stupid, greedy heart. 

“Here.” Two little pills and a frighteningly large bottle of water are set down in front of him. He’s not sure what the pills are but he’s also pretty sure she wouldn’t try to poison him even if he is an asshole who called her in the middle of the night after ghosting her for months. Pretty sure. The water sounds like a good idea. 

“Have you eaten anything or did you have rum for dinner?” 

“There were peanuts at the bar,” he tells her after guzzling down enough water to drown himself with. She shakes her head and walks out of his line of sight again. This time she comes back with a bag of crisps and he thinks maybe she doesn’t hate him as much as he thought because they’re the kind he likes most. 

“Eat that, drink that, and take those,” she orders, pointing to each with a stern look. “And then lie down on your side so I know you won’t choke to death in the night, and get some sleep.” 

“Yes ‘mam,” he salutes.

“Don’t get cute with me.” He wasn’t trying to be cute. But it makes him unreasonably happy that she thinks he is. She rolls her eyes at his probably once again dumb smile and repeats, “eat,” before disappearing where he can’t see her again. 

When she comes back this time her hair is down, falling over the shoulders of her oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt she’s apparently had since she was twelve, and he wants to whine or cry at how desperately he wishes he could reach for her and what an idiot he is for being the reason he can’t. She’s carrying an empty garbage can, a blanket draped over one arm. 

“Do not puke on my rug. It’s the only new thing in this whole apartment and I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” 

Killian leans over from where he’s stretched out on the couch that’s too small for him, running his fingers over the blue and white pattern and nods. “It’s lovely, very soft.” 

She’s silent for long enough that he looks up again, only to find her with her lips pressed so hard together against a laugh that he can see her chest lurch with the force of containing it. He frowns, looking from her to the rug and back again before realizing that he’s been stroking the rug with his prosthetic hand. 

“Emma… I might be drunker than I thought.” 

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and horrible and obnoxious and it’s the best sound he’s heard in a long time. He’s missed that sound, the one that had shocked him so completely the first time he heard it that they’d both ended up on the floor, stomachs hurting and eyes tearing, neither able to remember what had set her off in the first place and unable to stop giggling like teenagers. 

“Aw, babe,” Emma crouches down in front of him with a pitying look before beginning to work the straps of his false hand loose. Her hand settles soft against his cheek once it’s free, smirk still lingering on the corner of her lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been as drunk as you are right now.” 

Her face is so close to his that his heart forgets how it’s meant to work, stopping and racing of its own accord. He wishes she would close the distance, that he could feel her mouth against his for the first time in months, or that she’d simply stay here with him for the rest of the night because the distance and the silence between them has been more than he can take. He doesn't know how he ever convinced himself that staying away would eventually make the ache for her fade. 

She smiles at him again, giving his cheek an affectionate pat before draping the blanket over him, the soft one he knows had been her prized possession before the rug. “Get some sleep, Killian. I don’t think anyone’s ever been as hungover as you’re going to be tomorrow either.” 

He’s not sure whether or not the way his fingers close around hers before she can pull away was his idea or the rum’s, but she’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something and he doesn’t know what he was going to say or what he was thinking. He just knows that he missed her and he screwed it up - and then he screwed it up again, possibly beyond repair the second time. 

Being in this city that he managed to avoid for months in the hopes that he could forget about her has been one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. To think he really believed that he could live here, that he could take the job that was offered and not be haunted by her every waking moment, not dread and hope to see her around every corner. 

Being naive enough to think he could ignore the draw of her is how he ended up in that bar tonight. He’d tried to figure out how many shots of rum it would take to make him forget that he loves Emma Swan, but it seems there isn’t enough rum in the world for that - or at least not enough in that bar. 

She’s still looking at him and he wishes she wasn’t watching him with a hesitation and a carefulness that hadn’t been there before. It had always been so easy between them; he’d never felt less self-conscious with another person in his life and now it’s all consuming. She’s lost the carefree warmth he used to see in her eyes, like he took it with him when he left that morning and didn’t come back. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment in her sigh. “I already told you, it’s fine.”

He shakes his head. “Not for calling you tonight. For not calling you. Every other night. I’ve been an ass and I’ve been a coward. You didn’t deserve that.” By the grace of whatever gods might be listening to his poor apology, he doesn’t slur a single word.

Her pause is long enough that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he can’t read her expression through the haze of booze and exhaustion swimming around in his head. He should let go of her hand, but he’s painfully aware that this could be the last time he gets to touch her and she’s not pulling away. 

She sighs again. “Why don’t we talk about this when you’re feeling better?” 

He lets go. “Aye, Swan, whatever you want.” 

She walks away. Beyond repair then. 

***

“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else.”

Killian jumps, heart pounding. He feels like he’s woken from a coma, body so heavy with sleep that parts of it aren't responding to him and never having been more confused than he is in these first few moments. It’s daytime, but it’s not morning, the light is too dim, and he’s asleep but not in his bed or in his hotel room, on a couch he recognizes but can’t really place. He has a vague recollection of things that may or may not have happened while he lay here; the sound of someone moving around the room, someone saying his name, a door shutting, an angry car somewhere far off and the bark of a dog somewhere close, the sound of keys and the strange sensation someone poking him in the face - hard. 

All of it feels like a fever dream now as he looks towards the tinny sound of the belligerent man’s voice coming from the phone in her hand.Oh no. Oh god what the hell had he done last night? He recognizes the room, the soft blanket he’s under, the long legs clad in grey sweatpants perched on the table in front of him. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to look at her.

“Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.” 

If you’d like to save this message, press - there's a loud beep before another message begins to play. Bloody hell. He remembers the pub, and the cop - sort of - and he remembers that little line on his phone screen. ‘Absolutely not’. From the looks of it, he absolutely did. 

“Heey, isme again. I don’t think I told you where I am. Is’not great, Swan. They put me in the jail.”

He winces, sitting up carefully, head still light and disoriented. “Did I…”

“Mhm.” 

Another wince. “Are they all-”

“Oh yeah.”

“‘M not even that drunk. The sherfs just got a commpelex or something.”

“Swan, we really don’t have to -”

“Shh, this is my favourite part.” 

Killian hangs his head. “I - Oy, I’m on the phone, sherirff! Don’ they teach you manners at cop school? The cops in your city are rude, Swan. Hey! No - iss my phone. I can call whoever I want.” There’s a shuffling sound that stirs up a faint memory of trying to back deeper into the cell, then a small shout and he remembers why his ass hurts and that he’s probably got a bruise on his hip the size of the one on his ego. Emma has her lip caught between her teeth again, flashing him the same look she had when she arrived at the station. 

“Hello? Swan? Oh, right. Yur prolly asleep. You should be asleep, that’s good. I jus’ called ‘cus I…” For a blissful minute he thinks he might have had the sense to hang up, the silence on the other end dragging on and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then the message rings out again. “I can't remember why I called you. I think somethin’ made me think of you.” His voice gets softer and so does her expression for just a moment. 

“That happens a lot. I been thinking ‘bout you a lot, all the time, really. And not just in a sexy way and not just yer face.” Killian hangs his head. “Even though I’m a fan of your face. And all your other parts too.” 

He wishes he could just perish right here and now, wishes the dull ache in his head would become an aneurysm and take him out without a fuss. 

“I been thinking about those ridic’lus tiktoks you used to send me and when I was in meetings ‘n I jus’ wanted to be with you. I don’t know anything about Taylor Swift anymore, Swan - I don’t know how to find those myself.” There’s another pause but he knows better than to hope this is over, much of this coming back to him now in mortifying waves. 

“I’ve too many shirts in my closet now - It’s so many shirts. I always brought extra ‘cause I knew you’d steal ‘em an’ then you’d walk ‘round your kitchen in ‘em with no pants like yur a sexy Winnie the Pooh or somethn’ and I had to watch you climb yur counters while I had a heartattack  ‘cuz you wouldn’ jus’ let me get things off the top shelf for you. Bloody stubborn.” There’s a sigh over the machine. “I don’t want this many shirts, Swan…

‘Anyway I - What? Who does? Sorry, Swan the sherf is being rude again. He wants to know if yur picking me up. Are you picking me up?” There’s so much hope in his past self’s voice that he almost feels bad for him. But he also knows what a bloody idiot that man is and it’s hard to feel anything but the overwhelming urge to disappear into this couch and not have to listen to any more of his drunken rambling. “That would be nice. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. Gnight, love.”

To delete this message press - She hits a button. Message saved.

Killian braces himself for the next one. Gods, how many of them are there? But this time it’s not his voice that comes out over the speakerphone, it’s another man, Irish and vaguely familiar through the sleep and the unfortunately returning memories. 

“Hey, Emma, it’s Graham.” Killian’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of another man calling her in the middle of the night. Of course she wouldn’t have sat around pining like he did, not for a man who treated her as carelessly as he had. Of course - “Listen, I don’t know who this guy is but he says he knows you. I thought maybe he was one of your clients but when I asked him how he knows you he just asked me if I’ve ever been in love...”

The brow Emma raises at him is equal parts question, challenge and amusement and he feels the blood rush from his face. Fuck. He wonders whether four floors would be high enough for him to end this misery if he just went out the window. 

“Anyway, just let me know if this is another Walsh situation and I’ll make sure he stays in here, alright? Goodnight, love.” Killian can’t even begrudge the man or the endearment he adds to the end of his message when he’s only looking out for her. Probably a good thing she has someone to keep old, drunk dickheads away from her. 

He hears another beep of her mailbox and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “Hi, love, ‘m sorry for calling so much. I know I made too many ms’takes to be ‘loud to say this, but… I miss you, Swan… And I’d jus’ really like to see you again.”

End of messages. To - 

Emma shuts the phone off, setting it down next to her on the coffee table. She tilts her head to see his face which he’s currently trying to bury in his hands. “Sounds like you had quite the night.” 

“I thought I’d be more hungover.” His head hurts and he’s tired and his mouth is dry but he expected to be near death after the way he threw them back last night.

“It’s four in the afternoon.” Oh. He does the math of how long she’d let him sleep in her apartment after everything he’s done - after she picked him up. 

“At one point I had to make sure you were alive. But I figured if you were able to leave such eloquent voicemails last night that you probably weren’t in danger of alcohol poisoning.”

“Swan, I…” He’s fully aware that he deserves her mocking but he’s too humiliated to even begin to try and explain his behaviour last night. How can he without explaining everything right down to that morning in July where he messed up the best thing in his life.

She takes pity on him, giving a small shrug. “Forget about it. Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re hammered. Everyone calls people they know they shouldn’t.”

“No, Emma -” He finally lifts his head to look at her. “That wasn’t…” He needs her to know that wasn’t what this was, she wasn’t just some drunk dial in the middle of the night. He thinks of how many times in the last three three months he’s looked at that contact in his phone, her name replaced with a reminder that he should not and absolutely could not go there. She mistakes his hesitation. 

“You okay?”

“No.” He needs to talk to her, to apologize and beg her forgiveness. But he can’t find the words in his tired, muddled head to tell her without telling her everything. “I’m a bloody idiot.” 

Emma smirks. “Yeah, we established that last night - a bunch of times.” 

“I mean it. It wasn’t -” He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and avoid looking at her. “I didn’t just call you because I was drunk. I’ve wanted to call you. For months. Last night just gave me an excuse.”

“You needed an excuse to call me?” 

He sighs. “I was coward enough to convince myself I did.” 

When he finally forces himself to face her, he finds her watching her phone, fingers wrung in her lap and lips pressed together tightly the way they always are before she asks something that’s answer matters to her. 

“How much of last night do you actually remember?” 

“Most of it, I think.” It’s been coming back to him in increasingly horrifying details since she played that first voicemail.

“You said a lot of stupid stuff.” 

“I know.” 

“How much of all of that was true?”

“All of it.”

She raises a brow. “All of it?”

“Aye.”

“Sexy Winnie the Pooh?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I stand by what I said.”

He wonders which parts of what he said she’s focusing on as her silence stretches between them, heartbroken when he sees a little wall go up. This is why he stopped calling. He knew this would happen. 

“It’s fine. It’s not like you owed me anything. We weren’t -”

“Don’t do that.” His hand reaches out for her, fingers playing carefully with the fabric of her too-big sweatpants. “We may not have been in a relationship but we weren’t nothing.” He won’t let her excuse his behaviour, not after they spent over a year in each others’ lives only for him to disappear from hers. “I shouldn’t have acted like we were.” 

“So then why did you stop calling?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever heard her sound even though she hides it well and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “I liked what we had going. I liked spending time with you.”

“Aye, so did I.” Too much. 

“I guess I thought - I guess I thought we were friends at least.” 

“We were.” His fingers dance along her calf through the fabric he can’t stop fiddling with and he feels the muscle tense but she doesn’t pull away from him. 

“So then what gives?” The anger in her voice makes his gaze snap up to hers. Finally. He’s been waiting for her to be angry with him, she deserves to be angry and he deserves it too. It gives him that small flicker of hope he’d been unable to find until now, a hope that if she’s angry, it’s because she cared enough to be hurt. “Why did you just…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. Disappear. 

“Because I couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“Do what? Hook up? Jesus, Killian, I’m a big girl. You didn’t have to run away because you were over the benefits part of this friendship.” 

“I wasn’t. I left because I broke our rules.” 

“What rules?” 

The ones they’d so carefully established when they decided to continue this arrangement beyond the first and second time he saw her. The ones that were meant to keep either of them from getting hurt like they both were now. 

“The last time I was here, we fell asleep and woke up in the morning still in your bed and I…”

“That’s why you freaked out? Because you accidentally slept over? That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?” He can hear the disbelief in her voice and also the relief but he’s not done. “It wasn’t like a hard and fast rule -”

His fingers curl around the back of her knee, squeezing as he draws her attention. “That’s not why.” He traces his thumb over the fabric covering her shin and he knows he has to tell her because he can’t do this anymore without telling her and he can’t go back to how things were. 

And he thinks that just maybe, she’ll want to hear it. Because as small and insignificant as it may seem, those aren’t her sweatpants, they’re his, lent - stolen - after a rather frantic afternoon in his hotel room six months ago where he may have torn her skirt in his haste to get it off. ‘You need better quality clothes, love.’ ‘Is this you finally offering to be my sugar daddy?’ They have his bloody initials on them - a strange gift from his lawyer friend. And she hasn’t gotten rid of them, didn’t toss them away when he did the same to her. She still sleeps in them. 

“I freaked out because I liked waking up with you, and I started thinking that I’d like to wake up with you every morning.” He’d been hot and sweaty and sore from sleeping on her old mattress but he’d looked down at the woman wrapped around him despite the stifling heat, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hair in his mouth and he knew that he wanted this, wanted her, maybe forever. He hears her small intake of breath, his thumb still stroking her skin though the fabric as though it’ll give him the strength he needs. “And I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since…” He can’t finish and so she does for him. 

“Milah?” 

“Aye.” His reason for never wanting anything more, love lost in the same instant that cost him a piece of himself. He’d told Emma about her, one night when they’d lingered a little too long entangled in the aftermath. He didn’t know the details of her reason, only that she’d been far too young and that he’d hurt her deeply enough to make her wary of anyone who claimed love or devotion. 

“I hoped that if I stayed away for a little while that it would fade away and that we could go back to how things were because I knew that if I told you I would lose you. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed you and the more I wanted you and I realized it wasn’t going to go away - because I loved you.” 

Killian watches her for a reaction as he tells her the truth he’d been hiding from her for months and from himself for far longer, but she remains unreadable, fingers still wringing nervously in her lap, breathing a little shaky. But there’s no abject terror in her gaze as she waits for him to finish.

“And by then I’d avoided you for too long and it was too late to tell you or try to go back to how things were and I lost you anyway. Then I managed to convince myself that it was for the best because this wasn’t what you wanted and you deserved better anyway.” Better than an old widower with a used up heart who’d run the moment things became real. “But I thought you had the right to know that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you. I left because I cared too much.” 

Fabric slips from his hand as she stands, circling the coffee table and leaving him feeling untethered without her and with a barrier set between them. He focuses on the rug, her reaction expected but no less painful, as she paces the length of her glued together crates a few times. 

“Okay two things.” Her tone snaps his gaze up to where she moves anxiously and restlessly in the small space. “First of all, that’s the last time you make a decision for me.” He hadn’t expected this reaction. “I don’t need anyone to decide what I do or don’t deserve or what I can or can’t handle. If you want to know what I want, you ask me. You talk to me like the grownup you keep pretending that you are.” That one hurts but he nods. It’s all rightly earned. 

“You’re right.” 

“Good.” She stops, shoulders squared as she faces him from across the table. “Second.” He waits, the anger from before no longer sustaining her as he sees the wall she hides behind slip just a little. “You said you loved me.”

He’s not sure what answer she wants, but he gives her the truth. “I love you, Swan.” Try as hard as he did not to, he knows it’s not going away. And he’s not willing to attempt another eight shots of rum a second time to make sure. 

She nods. He waits, or she waits, he’s not sure who’s supposed to speak here only that he needs to know how she feels and he’ll wait as long as he needs to. 

“Well? Are you going to ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” He’d give her whatever she asked for at this point as he watches her bite her lip and definitely doesn’t wish he was the one biting it.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Fair enough. 

“Look, I get running away from feelings - I’m very familiar with the concept. But the way you did it was really shitty and -” Her voice goes quiet, arms wrapping around herself in a move so full of self-preservation that it breaks his heart a little. “It hurt, okay?”

Her words, thick with betrayal and rejection, pierce sharp through his chest, painful and deserved as she avoids his gaze as determinantly as he’d avoided hers. God, he’s an ass. He’d pieced together enough about her past from the small glimpses she’d given him late on those nights where they were still tangled naked in her sheets and the dark lent them the boldness to be vulnerable to know that she’d been left before. 

He joins her on her side of the table, reaching to touch the soft, golden waves that he’s spent months wishing he could tangle his fingers in again. “I’m sorry.” He pushes them behind her ear, thumb stroking over her cheek like her skin could break beneath his touch. 

When she looks up at him her eyes are red and wet he pulls her to him without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, Emma feeling fragile in his arms for the first time since he met her. She’s a force, his Swan, a tempest that could devour a thousand ships and it hurts to see her storms wane. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, pressing a kiss to her temple as he brings a hand to stroke the hair at the base of her neck, feels her lean into him. “I’m sorry,” he speaks against her brow. “I’m so sorry, love.” His lips brush over the crown of her head and he feels her arms slip around his waist, holding tight to the back of his shirt. He holds her just as tightly, nose settling in the crook of her neck where he presses another kiss and whispers a thousand more apologies. “I’m an ass.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Her voice comes muffled from where her face is pressed against his collarbone and he laughs in relief to hear her tease him. He pulls back enough that she can lift her head to face him, eyes still red as he wipes at the dampness left on her cheeks. All he wants is to kiss her and spend the night and the next day and every day after that making this up to her, but he knows better than to push her.

Her hands slide from his back to his chest as she meets his gaze and takes a steadying breath. “I still don’t know what I want. You’re not the only one who’s bad at dealing with feelings and you just put some pretty big ones out there.”

“I know.” He doesn’t expect to hear the words back, not after three months of silence. But if she gives him the chance to stay and try to win her heart then he’ll spend forever earning back her trust. 

“But maybe, if you’re still in town for a bit, you could stay for dinner.” 

It takes everything he has to contain the ecstatic smile that wells up from his chest, afraid he’ll scare her off. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” He’s not leaving her again. Not unless she sends him away. 

***

“When do you go back?” she asks when they’re sat at the kitchen island. ‘What, exactly, do you have against real furniture? Especially tables. They seem particularly discriminated against.’ ‘Do you see any room in here for a twelve-piece dining set?’ He swallows the bite of the boxed mac and cheese she’d made him cook ‘Because I’m still pissed at you and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer through this.’ ‘Sadist. Can I at least add -’ ‘No.’  

Killian looks at his watch. “My flight was an hour ago.”

“What? You should have said -”

“And miss all the delicacies that Maine has to offer?” he asks, lifting his mismatched bowl. “It’s fine, Swan,” he adds when she looks genuinely concerned. “I’d rather be here.” He can get another flight at the last minute before he’s due back in New York on Monday. Getting his things back from the hotel, however, may be a tad more difficult. 

“That’s sweet and all but I think you’d also rather be employed.”

“Aye, well, I may not be employed there much longer anyhow.” 

Her eyes widen. “Oh god, don’t tell me you left them voicemails too.”

Killian snorts. “No, I’ve just… had another offer.” 

His heart pounds frantically as she asks, “where?” terrified that he’ll scare her off. 

“Here.” 

“Here?”

He nods. “I wasn’t going to take it, not after realizing how much I’d miss you if I was here. But, well, that was before I drank a full bar. And this town does have its benefits.” 

She gapes at him and he can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. “You’re not moving for me, right? You want the job? Because I told you I don’t know what I want or if I can even do… whatever this maybe is and I -” 

He reaches for her hand, calming the rambling that had started. “I do want the job, but of course I’m moving for you, Swan. And I know you’re not ready to decide anything, and I’m not asking you to. But whether you do or don’t decide that what you want is me, I’m going to be right here while you figure it out. I’m not going to leave you twice, Emma. I don’t want to miss you like that again.”

Emma just stares at him, mouth opening and then shutting with questions that don’t find voice and he sits, stewing in the worry that he said too much, asked for too much. He swallows as she jumps out of her seat, his turn to ramble now as she rounds the island.

“I mean, I will have to go home and get my things and resign but I -” 

“Shut up,” she tells him, hands sliding into his hair and mouth colliding with his. 

He’s more than happy to do exactly that, wasting no time in gathering her up in his arms and pulling her close, returning the kiss he’d missed so damn much all these months, missed the feel of her soft and warm against him like this, for the little sound she makes when his own hand tangles in her hair just hard enough that he can keep he there a little longer.  

“Wait,” he breathes and her hands pause where they’d been working the buttons of his shirt free. “Maybe we should slow down.” There’s a part of him screaming at his stupid mouth right now for the words falling out of it. “You said you don’t know if this is what you want. So maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”

She barks out a small laugh. “You’re moving to another city for a ‘maybe’ and you don’t want to rush things?” He doesn’t really have an answer for that. 

Her brow and mouth quirk up in one devastatingly attractive motion that has him ready to go back on everything he just said. “This was never our problem,” she reminds him, fingers tugging the buckle of his belt loose. “We’re good at this part. Everything else is where we get messy.” She works the button of his jeans open next. “So just try not to make any more big confessions while you’re inside me…” She runs her teeth over the skin below his ear as she slides her hand into his jeans and he nearly chokes. “And we should be fine.” 

“Bloody hell.” His rational self may judge him later, but his current self has Emma Swan with her hand around his cock trying to get him out of his clothes and he’s already established that he’s not a very smart man. “I promise.” 

***

It’s a strange feeling to be laying here, wrapped up in an old duvet and Star Wars sheets with Emma’s head on his shoulder and her fingers drawing patterns over his chest. They’ve never done this part, never lingered beyond the time it took them both to catch their breaths before untangling themselves from one another and going about their day - or tangling themselves again. He likes it, but it’s strange, new, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Not with anyone. 

“This is kind of weird right?” she asks, breath warm against his neck. 

Killian laughs. Bloody mind reader. 

“Aye, a bit. I think I’m out of practice.”

“I never practised in the first place.” 

He presses a kiss to her hair. “But, it’s not bad, right?” She can probably hear his stupid heart racing as he waits for her answer. 

“No,” she shakes her head, sliding her arm around his waist and fitting herself more snugly against his side. “It’s not bad.” He can feel her smile against his skin, glad she can’t see the absolutely ridiculous one stretched across his own. They lay there a little longer, the room darkening with the earlier and earlier nights as he begins to dread the fast approaching hour where he’ll have to leave, until Emma shifts. “My neck hurts.” 

“My arm’s asleep.” 

She sits up and his arm is flooded with the sudden relief of no longer being squished, but he misses the warmth and the closeness of her immediately. He has two arms. Who really needs both? He’s done fine with one hand. “Where are you going?” he asks when she rises from the bed, reaching for his shirt that she tossed on the floor and he made himself leave there. ‘Do not fold your clothes while we’re in the middle of having sex or I swear I’ll put mine back on you fucking weirdo.’

“Thirsty,” she says as she finishes buttoning it. “You?”

“Aye, thanks.”

“Water? Or would you prefer rum?”

“Hilarious.” His stomach rolls, not finding her so funny. She certainly seems to think she is, smirking as she fetches two water bottles from the fridge. “You know you’re going to have to give me my shirt back this time. It’s the only one I’ve got.” At least until he finds out if the hotel hung onto his suitcase when he missed his checkout. “Unless you have the others squirrelled away here somewhere.” 

“I thought you had ‘too many shirts, Swan,’” she reminds him in a poor imitation of his accent and he rolls his eyes. She hops back onto the bed, climbing into his lap to sit astride his hips. His hand and wrist settle on her waist, the shirt in question riding up and making him groan at the feel of her pressed against him. 

“Aye well I’ve only got the one to wear out of here tonight and while you look infinitely better in it than I do -” 

“Like a sexy Winnie the Pooh, would you say?”

He sighs. “I’m never living that one down am I?”

“You want to show me your hundred acre wood?” Killian lets his head fall back against the headboard as she laughs herself silly. “I have another solution,” she tells him, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of his shirt. “I was thinking, maybe, since you’ve already missed your flight, and you probably don’t have a hotel room anymore, that you could stay here tonight. And maybe we could give that whole waking up together thing a shot.” 

Her cheeks are flushed, freckles bright against the soft pink as she looks up from her hands to catch his eye. He kisses her hard enough that she’d have fallen right off his lap were it not for his arms holding her steady and close to him. 

“That a yes?” she asks, mouth curling against his and he catches that smirking bottom lip between his teeth like he’s wanted to since she showed up at the station. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She nods and it’s him smiling against her mouth now. “For tonight at least. But I think there’s still a lot of grovelling in your future before it becomes a regular thing.”

He kisses her again, rolls her onto her back beneath him. “Then I’d better get started right away,” he says, lips finding the length of her neck as he begins to work free the buttons of his stolen shirt. 

“Well, you did promise you would write poetry about my boobs.” 

“I what?” He looks up only to see her wearing the same confused frown as himself before her eyes widen with laughter and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Oh my god. You haven’t seen your texts have you?”

Fuck. 

*******

Tagging the usual people but let me know if you want to be removed or added!

@kmomof4​​ @elizabeethan​​ @the-darkdragonfly​  @undercaffinatednightmare​ @jennjenn615​ @dramioneswan​ @gingerchangeling​ @gingerpolyglot​ @kazoo5480​ @lfh1226-linda​ @csalltheway​ @xsajx​ @xarandomdreamx​ @onceratheart18​ @ownedbycaptainswan @teamhook​ @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway​ @zaharadessert​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @spartanguard​ @jonesfandomfanatic @deckerstarblanche​ @jrob64​ @klynn-stormz​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @tiganasummertree​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian @snowbellewells​ @xellewoods​ @sals86​ @karlyfr13s​  @ouatpost @skairipakomtrikru​ @lonelyspectator12​   @anmylica​   @alexa-fangirl-forever @inspiredbystardust​ @marcella2727 @paradiselady19​​ @koryandr​ @killiansprincss​ @goforlaunchcee​​ @motherkatereloyshipper

#captain swan #cs fanfic #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #cs angst #but also just a lot of funny drunk Killian #killian jones #captain hook #emma swan #this thing is ferral guys #I don't even know what this is but I hope you like it #silver hook #silver killian

[elephant-in-the-pride-parade]

Rewatching Star Trek Prodigy and knowing what we find out later about Hologram Janeway is putting so much of what she does in a brand new light.

When I first watched Ghost in the Machine I thought the ghost was the living construct - the sinister force lurking below the deck. But now I think it must more accurately refer to HJ - out of control of her own actions, a powerless entity trapped in the ship's computer, while her own program was used against her. Being manipulated by the construct for the whole first half of the season and then in the second half being robbed of her control, unable to warn the crew that it's not her they're interacting with until it's too late.

I'm on the episode with the Borg Cube and it strikes me that it is the first full episode that Hologram Janeway and the Living Construct are in knowing conflict with each other's goals. For most of the first half of the show HJ is unaware of it's existence, and their goals are aligned: get back to the Federation. But by the time they find the Borg cube, HJ knows about her hidden memories of her first crew, and she knows the construct has been put on board without her knowledge (and that going to the Federation will destroy Starfleet)....

She does something really interesting when the kids encounter the Borg. First trying hard to scare them off (is this all her or the construct influencing her to make this warning as harsh as possible?) And then they decide to go onto the Borg ship for the express purpose of seeking knowledge to disarm the construct. HJ disapproves of their plan... but then she is able to do a 180, drawing on her knowledge of the Borg to fully prep them for their mission. She wants them to succeed. If HJ and the construct were not entwined, would she have approved of their idea to go? how much more might she have been able to help them if she were acting fully under her own power? And does the construct have full control of her program here? or does it take it until Ghost in the Machine to fully work it's way in (after all, she's no simple piece of code).

For how much of the series is HJ resisting the living construct's influence? How much of the show is her own self speaking? And how much is the living construct speaking through her image?

#star trek prodigy #prodigy #hologram janeway #janeway #living construct

[ghcstao3]

feeling evil today. cw MCD

angst but it’s a soulmate au where everyone is born without the ability to see colour, but upon meeting your soulmate you can see everything. the only thing is, if you’ve met your soulmate, gained all that colour—if they die after that, you slowly lose it, as well as your vision entirely.

>:)

Soulmates were common enough, sure, but it wasn’t something so common that someone would feel left out if they went their entire lives seeing in only black and white.

That’s Soap’s philosophy about it, anyway. If one never knows colour, then how can it be mourned? If it can’t ever really be imagined with the naturally-imposed state of being human, then why should Soap ever go to bed at night wishing, praying he could find whoever fate had assigned to him, if he ever so happened to encounter them.

It’s his philosophy, at least, until he meets Ghost.

Until he meets Ghost like they aren’t moments from heading toward a possible death, like they aren’t in the midst of soldiers and weapons and nighttime where colours would hardly ever be as vibrant as they could be. Until he meets Ghost and foolishly reaches out to touch him in greeting, and ends up stumbling as his eyes and brain and everything else are forced to adapt to new sights.

Ghost hides it better than he does, but the look he throws Soap’s way is entirely too telling.

They don’t talk about it until they’re finally home safe, after weeks of gruelling work and near-death, after they’ve had the chance to adjust to this new change in their life. They don’t talk about it until they’ve both come to the conclusion that they’re more than willing to try and follow what the universe had given them.

And it works. It works so well. Soap’s thrown aside his old mentality entirely for this new, incredible, wonderful thing, because he’s not sure how he’d feel, if he ever had to go back. If he ever had to lose this new liveliness to the world and return to grey, grey, grey.

But for men like them, men like him, he should’ve known such a good thing would have to come to an end. It’s a natural cycle.

It’s still upsetting, however, when Ghost dies in the field despite his insistence, his promise to make it out of all this alive. To escape the military one day, when they’ve both seen enough conflict and blood, once their souls have truly been tainted beyond repair.

Soap was supposed to retire with him, only a few months later when their contracts reached their ends, but instead finds himself renewing his own for however many years while Ghost’s body lies cremated, interred, dead and gone.

When colours suddenly begin to look less vibrant, Soap just attributes it to his general mood, as of late. To the numbness and anger and everything else he’s been surviving off of since Ghost’s death.

But then colours are sapped from his life entirely, suddenly and gradually all at once, and he realizes it’s just because his soulmate is dead. His soulmate is dead, and the universe has since realized that he is no longer deserving of its colours, its life.

He strains so hard to remember the colour of Ghost’s—Simon’s eyes in those moments it hits him hardest. Strains and fails to remember the pink of his lips, the colour of the freckles and beauty marks that littered his face. Soap can’t even remember the colour of the ink pen he uses to sketch.

Then his vision itself starts to decline. He doesn’t know why, is just suddenly terrified, losing the last of his eyes. The blur becomes too much, he has to be discharged from his career, all he’s ever truly known, and then Soap is at home with his parents and their eternally-grey hair until he can’t even see black and white anymore, and his life is over.

He’s blind. Years after Ghost’s death and he’s lost the love of his life and the colour it gave to him, he’s list his career over something he can’t control, something doctors call unfortunate but irreparable, incurable. Fated to go completely blind, they tell him, since losing his soulmate.

It happens, son. We’re sorry. You’re not alone.

But how could he know that? How could Soap believe that, when his entire world has been stolen from him?

He wishes he could return to his younger, naive self. Return to a world prior to Ghost, and everything that came with him.

Because he’d been right. He wouldn’t have ever felt left out, if he knew this was all his future would ever hold for him.

#oopsie daisies #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x soap #soapghost #ghoap #ghostsoap #soulmates au #writing

[difeisheng]

right then, i know i've already discussed this with several people in bits and pieces, but i'm going to attempt to organize my thoughts about the intersection of di feisheng and li lianhua's endings in one post.

i've already touched before on how i think li lianhua moves through the story as a restless ghost. his aim is to tie up the loose ends of the life li xiangyi exited, before his time runs out, and that's why so many interactions with characters from his old life are about either mending relationships or ensuring they've both moved on with finality. by the end of the show, there's just one person who knew li xiangyi who hasn't gotten either of those, and that's di feisheng, waiting by the sea. he's still fixated on the duel, fixated on the competition between himself and li xiangyi, whether it's as foes or friends.

di feisheng's arc throughout the show sees him as someone who goes back and breaks cycles of his past. but li xiangyi is the part he can't shake off, the part he's still obsessed with. he's still insistent on defining himself and his worth by where he stands in relation to a man li lianhua has told him is dead.

the point where we don't see him do this is when his memory is lost, and that's why di feisheng's time as a-fei is so important to the story. we see him begin to define himself as a person in a world where the name of li xiangyi means nothing to him. we watch him start to figure out who he is free of ten years of agonizing over winning/losing to this man, and all the baggage of the past carried with him. it's something di feisheng didn't get a chance at before, and as it stands, maybe it's not too late for him to continue on that path. li lianhua, at least, doesn't think it's too late.

and so this is what li lianhua has to do to attain this last bit of closure, end this last relationship: he has to force di feisheng to let him go.

this is why it stands out so much to me that the goodbye letter li lianhua signs as li xiangyi is addressed to di feisheng. li lianhua is concerned with resolving li xiangyi's troubles, and so with the goodbye to di feisheng, his work is done. the fact that we watch di feisheng accept li xiangyi's death in the epilogue with "the bright moon has already sunk into the western sea, to where does the grieving wind urge the eight directions" is an important follow-up to this last action, because it means that it worked. di feisheng is mourning, yes, but with more certainty than he was at the beginning of the show, frozen in place emotionally for a full decade. his explicit acknowledgment that li xiangyi is dead now must push him forward in some direction to search for meaning in this world, and his life, outside of li xiangyi, rather than standing still. this way, their story truly comes to a close.

all this is also why it makes sense in my opinion that whatever image of li xiangyi is standing by the sea in the end isn't really there. he might be a ghost, or imagined by di feisheng and/or fang duobing, but that's not the real, living li xiangyi. because if he hasn't died or fully, completely exited the narrative, then it means that none of this effort succeeded. "it's hard to be a dead person", li lianhua said. for him to settle everything between li xiangyi and di feisheng— the conflict this story begins and ends with— and to free these two people of each other, li xiangyi must be dead to di feisheng. in the story this show chose to tell, when it came these characters, this is how it had to end.

#AND MY HEART ACHES FOR FANG DUOBING TOO #BECAUSE LI LIANHUA WAS SO WRAPPED UP IN GIVING AN EPILOGUE TO THE MOURNING OF LI XIANGYI #THAT HE DIDN'T THINK ABOUT HOW THIS BOY WOULD MOURN LI LIANHUA #LI LIANHUA WAS A MASK TO EVERYONE INCLUDING HIMSELF. TO FANG DUOBING HE WAS A PERSON. #ahem anyways. im so fucking sad #mysterious lotus casebook #mysterious lotus casebook spoilers #feihua #li xiangyi #di feisheng #mlc meta #ashton originals #li lianhua

[flower-boi16]

"I Wanna Dance With Some Ollie" Is a Good Episode, Actually (A Response to The Alphajay Show)

Before I start this post I want to say that I am a fan of The Alphajay show, I really like watching his content and I think he makes good videos. That being said, however, the TGAMM segment in his "Ranking The WORST Episodes Of 2023" video is awful and just gets a lot of shit wrong to the point I especially have the motivation to debunk what he says in the video. So... let's just begin.

He starts off the segment by saying this:

"I Wanna Dance With Some Ollie is one of the worst episodes I've seen this year. And it's one of the most disappointing episodes I've ever seen since making this channel. And to basically summarize my video on it, the first season of Molly Mcgee builds up her character perfectly. You have the girl who moves from town to town. Wanting to build strong memories in her now forever home. Even if she was cursed by a ghost. Her positive aura radiated the otherwise miserable town and her ambition combined with her amazing musical sequences and solid comedy that took her do gooder attitude, and gave her a very much welcome edge for an amazing character who I rooted for to save the town and was ready to watch season after season of it....she threw all of that away for a boy named Ollie"

....what? No she didn't. I really don't know what Jay's talking about here? Molly didn't throw away her goal of enhappifying the town for Ollie, all she ever did was just get a crush on him. Saying that she threw all of that away for a boy seems kinda disingenuous to me. It just looks like he's mad because...Molly got a crush on a boy. Like, is she not allowed to have crushes or something? After this he says this:

"However this isn't just romance shifting a person into doing things that they otherwise wouldn't do because that's natural that's understandable. This is about a show, brut forcing a romance that otherwise wouldn't have made sense without understanding why people clammer over the ones done right. I brought up Spider-Verse earlier and that's a great example of romance done right. Gwen has her own life own motivations and her own cool aspects that are not connected to Miles. Likewise, as said in my video about Molly Mcgee, Luz and Amity from the first season of The Owl House worked because Amity had a life, motivations and cool aspects before liking and meeting Luz. Also the Grom episode wasn't the like the 5th episode that they went to. They actually built up the tension of wanting to see them get together."

Wait...does Ollie not have his own aspects that aren't connected to Molly too? Like, he's a kid who was taught to hate ghosts and became a ghost hunter, and he got a whole episode where he went through character development over his guilt about hunting ghosts, not to mention the whole conflict of his parents finding out he's friends with a ghost. Ollie also does have aspects about him that are not related to Molly, are the ones I just mentioned somehow not enough?

Alphajay is saying this as if Ollie's entire character is just about his romance with Molly and that his whole character revolves around her, but that's just objectively false. After that he complains about the episode "Beats you over the head about how much it wants to you spread the ship" which really isn't worth talking about so lets talk about the thing he says after that:

"You'd think the girl who went to the ghost world and defeated the chairman to free all ghosts would be a little bit more quick to explain why Ollie shouldn't be discriminatory towards all ghosts, especially Molly's best friend who is a ghost who gets caught and trapped at that very same concern"

Ummmm...

Alpha. Didn't she literally try to do that in Book Marks the Sprite? Ya know, the last episode these two interacted in before this? She did try to explain to Ollie that ghosts may not be evil but she wasn't able to convince him.

So after that he ends the segment and moves on to talk about an episode that I am assuming is from modern Spongebob. Again, I do like Alphajay's content but a lot of the stuff he said in this segment was just straight up objectively wrong. 

#tgamm #the ghost and molly mcgee #molly mcgee #ollie chen #alphajay

[thefirstknife]

Do we know if a Guardian's previous life does affect their personality post-res, or do u think it differs from person to person?

Crow is a very good example. If I'm remembering right, he woke up with a residual feeling of his past life but is otherwise a very different person. Uldren was, for multiple reasons, fully capable of murder with no remorse afterwards. Crow, by contrast, especially after getting Uldren's memories, seems much more reluctant.

Then I seem to remember another example that's very different. A lore page from the view of a Ghost who's Guardian hated his immortality, who went around killing other Ghosts. I don't remember whether he thought it was a mercy to the dead, or just a hatred of the idea. I remember the Ghost saying that he should have thought about it longer, that he could have sense how tired of conflict this man was, indicating that a Guardian's previous life very much affects who they are afterwards

Definitely case by case basis, but yeah, overall certain aspects of Guardians' past lives can sort of "bleed through" into their new life. Most won't ever know because they can't remember it, but sometimes those that knew them before can tell that there's still something there.

Crow is absolutely the best example, not only for what you mentioned, but other little details. For example, Crow ended up being really fond of Eliksni and had a thing for telling stories, exploration and experimentation. Uldren was the same in that way. It's one of the reasons why it was so hard for those that knew Uldren to come to terms with Crow; so similar and yet fundamentally different. Mara and Jolyon took it the hardest since they knew him best. They could see a person that looks the same and has certain behaviours and interests that completely match the person they knew, but that person doesn't know them anymore and isn't going in the same direction in life anymore. It's an incredibly difficult thing to deal with.

The lore tab you're thinking of is this one. Because of how tired he was and hated being flung into this "second life," the Guardian (Cyrell) believed that nobody should suffer that fate, therefore he should just end Ghosts so that no one else is rezed to experience what he does:

He confessed he could not bear another battle nor fight in the name of something no one could possibly understand. Though he could not remember his past, he knew deep down that he had already fought his last war. He couldn't kill me. I was his friend. He doesn't kill friends. He wouldn't kill himself, either; that was cowardly, weak. And if the Ghosts' sole purpose was to raise the dead to kill in the name of unexplainable forces, he could no longer let that happen. He would end the cycle. He would spare his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. He would let the dead rest.

He also seems to be looking for an answer from the Awoken about something, but the question he has is unknown. Really interesting and quite upsetting view into how some Guardians view being Guardians and how that works with their relationship of what they feel about their previous lives.

#destiny 2 #crow #guardian #ghost #ask

[notbecauseofvictories]

Halloween Week of Horror (Games)

It’s that most horrible time of year, and I've decided to explore the spooky world of text-based games. My list of games is cribbed from this post and this post.

GAMEIFY HORROR // DAY 1

DAY 2: 13 laurel road, unbecoming, what girls do in the dark, the open house, return

13 laurel road 

an interactive fiction game about the relationships we have with places and reconciling with trauma. You play as a young man named Noah who has been tasked with picking up some things from his cousin’s old house.

This one was surprisingly affective, given that there is no objective horror—no jumpscares, no mysterious noises, no ghosts beyond the perfectly ordinary ones that plague all of us.

Still, the set up (a young man, tasked with grabbing some things from the old family house) and the conclusion (coming to terms with the intergenerational cycles we fall into, giving you the chance to break free from them) worked wonderfully for me. In particular, I liked the way the game conveyed Noah's internal conflict---the refrain of "I won't think about that," and the way that you as a player aren't quite clear who is still alive as you move through the abandoned family home.

...I am a little disappointed that there weren't ghosts though.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 1/10, mostly for ambient horror and decay

OVERALL GRADE: B-

unbecoming

a sonically-textured interactive horror fiction exploring cycles of trauma and unspeakable forces of nature in a mythic rural American landscape.

Well, damn. I think that’s the second time I’ve put that in my notes, but also—damn. Damn does this game deserve it. Despite the lack of images (just text, white and sharp except when bleeding into red) it felt extremely well-realized, lived in. Maybe it's just because I know these places, have been to these farms, have looked at Dust Bowl photographs of children on buckling front porches, but the scenery was its own character---which is amazing when there's no actual scenery.

Not to mention that the story gets into one of my soft places and digs---the fraught ritual and cycles of repeated harm; the kind of blurry boundaries that make such effective horror. Family as obligation and a horror story you can't always escape. Not to mention how the gameplay makes you complicit in continuing that horror...

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, not necessarily overtly, but uh. There is a giant hungering pit, and corpses in beds.

OVERALL GRADE: A-

what girls do in the dark

This little game is based off one of the greatest fears they had as a teenage girl: showing up late to a stranger’s slumber party.

Of all the games on this list, this was the first one that—as soon as the credits rolled—I immediately wanted to play again. I wanted to see if I could get a different ending, if I could somehow "win." There’s just something about those haunting scraps of “maybe you could have saved yourself...” that tantalize you, and make you want to try for a happier ending.

....not to mention that I have a well-documented weakness for deals with the devil.

I'll also add that the almost MS DOS style prompts ("TAKE [ITEM]" "OPEN DOOR") were devastatingly effective; a way of narrowing your choices while also giving you the illusion of choice.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 3/10, given the blood and the creeping horror

OVERALL GRADE: A-

the open house

We at Northtree Real Estate (in partnership with Optix Dynamix Labs) are proud to present our new, state-of-the-art, open house simulator!  Come and take a quick tour of 15615 Hollow Oak Lane, a familiar and comfortable showcase home in one of our premier developments!

This particular game is just cool as hell. As someone who (like many millennials) has been addicted to Zillow and other house-hunting websites, this landed with immediate effect. What if scrolling through virtual walkthroughs on your local house hunting website opened up a portal to the unknown? What if it showed murders immediately after they were committed? What if, as you go further and further into this virtual house, you were going out---into something vast, unknown, and chilling?

Amazing, clever, wonderful.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, largely for unreality and a couple creepy images that still linger with me.

OVERALL GRADE: A

return

a text-based horror game about coming home

The more of these games I play, the more it becomes clear that what I like is horror that verges on the inexplicable—dream logic and images that refuse to resolve into reasonableness. I loved that here: the static, the mycelium, the pier with its strange dead-already fish, the self that guides you through the next cycle. What does it say about our horror stories if there is no going home? If it's just cycles of returning and rebirth and horror we can't escape?

(Sidenote, I am in love with Carver, and the little bit woven in about cybernetic/android assistive devices was tantalizing.)

Again, it's amazing how these text-based games manage to convey so much, so richly, with just words. Or maybe I just have an overactive imagination.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 7/10, just because the sense of unreality is so strong, I wouldn't recommend it for anyone who doesn't enjoy that

OVERALL GRADE: B

#gameify horror #the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind

[phoenixyfriend]

I have endless thoughts about not-actually-puppet ruler Korkie and his network of escape routes for refugees. Given everything Satine did and went through herself, I can't imagine Korkie just rolling over for the Empire, but I can't imagine him being stupid about it, either.

Pacifists are often insanely dedicated to making things better for the people who need it, even if they can't or won't fight.

Satine relied on refugee escape routes as a teenager to survive.

The Jedi need help. So. So like. If Jedi are fleeing the Purge...

Korkie can easily, if subtly, hold up the actions of Ahsoka and Obi-Wan as We Owe Them.

Korkie has the wealth and influence to quietly have the clans and Houses give sanctuary to the odd Force Sensitive...

He can't say anything, not publicly. But people know by the look on his face and by the history of his family that he does not believe a word of the speech the Empire is having him give.

There's a delicious irony in Mandalorians being there to save Jedi when the chips are down. How many of the children that Quinlan helped ferry to safety in the Kenobi show ended up housed with Mandalorian clans, do you think?

And like. Obviously. Obviously. Due to Ahsoka and all her work. Korkie is in contact with his aunt Bo, who does her own part in ferrying FS younglings, because Friendship With Tano.

(I want Bo-Katan to continue her whole "I am definitely winning, shut up about the fact that I got my ass kicked, I am the BEST" energy while ferrying babies.)

Mandalorians can get away with "I have a small child on a heavily armed ship with heavily armed people"

"What are you planning to fight?" "Fuck you." "Yeah, that tracks."

"That child is four years old." "Perfect age to observe the hunt." "…why do I ever expect anything different from you people."

From @calika on discord:

jango fett's ghost that haunts mandalore frothing at the mouth as he watches the Young Duke ferry another baby jedi through his secret palace, tucking a completed Mandalorian birth certificate and adoption paperwork into their coat pocket, and into the arms of one of his staff's families

Bo Katan giving the lil kiddos the Grump Aunt roadtrip experience gives them those hardboiled sweets as rewards its a Strategy TM because if theyre stopped by imperial customs officers, the kiddos cant answer any questions because theyve got a mouthful of sticky mess

grizzled old mandalorian placing their helmet gently over the kid's head. way too big but very adorable they need some form of Protection also i know that canon is very sketchy about jedi-mandalorian conflict history etc. but i imagine that the mandalorians might still have some old jedi artefacts that were war trophies/from battlefields and that even though the Jedi Archives were destroyed, some parts of the jedi's history was preserved

she has three babs in a sling, front-back-and-side babs. whose the real winner huh? what do you have that makes YOU the winner huh? victory in battle, political power as asthmatic attack dog? pppfffsh i have chubby-cheeked toddlers and a million crayon drawings on my fridge armoury door

I bet she has baby sized leather armor Korkie pretends to believe her "I hate kids" act but all her deliveries are rosy-cheeked and cared for and not crying as hard as they could be about being separated from their families.

bo, deadpan: never make me do this again. kid holding her hand with a stuffed mythosaur in hand: uhm

"Bo, are you sure you don't just want to adopt a kid." "Shut."

something something cast of The Mandalorian find a random refugee Force Sensitive that lights up at seeing Bo-Katan and insistently calls her Auntie.

I know Mandalorians no longer control Mandalore by then but I need. I need Duke Korkarius* Kryze.

* Stolen from Dead Peanut Gallery

#phoenix talks #star wars #the clone wars #korkie kryze #bo katan kryze #ahsoka tano #satine kryze

[rainofaugustsith]

Bad SWTOR choices

I accidentally reblogged and replied on a post I didn't mean to, but I did want to talk about this - how many times the LS/DS choices in SWTOR and particularly KOTFE and KOTET seem completely off base. Top four: The reactor in KOTFE chapter 3. 

Okay, to recap: the Outlander has just been freed from carbonite, where they were slowly being poisoned to death. They are doing so poorly that Lana has to help them walk at some points. They are on a planet they know nothing about. There's a nuclear reactor Vaylin has ripped from its moorings, and the actual nuclear physicists who tend to the thing have given up on it. So of course it's perfectly reasonable to expect the half-dead Outlander to fix it, and to treat them like a monster if they make the sound decision to not try to learn nuclear physics in two seconds. 

Better decision: give the Outlander a choice to try to help people evacuate and make that LS/DS. That would still fit with Koth's desire to help people and could still be used to influence his opinion of the Outlander, but would be more realistically and logically in line with what could be done. Since nobody knows what the Outlander looks like at this point it could also be used to create more conflict/nuance for Zakuulans. They've been told the Outlander is a monster but - this person who looks just like the Outlander saved them. Could Arcann be lying to them?

Senya in KOTET chapter 1. 

So the planet of Voss is being bombed to pieces, and Senya doesn't give a single fuck about that. She just wants you to save her son, the dictator. Who has shown zero remorse and has literally run the Outlander through with a lightsaber. Your two choices: let Genocidal Dictator Boy join the Alliance and work right alongside the people he's actively tried to murder, or refuse and be considered a monster. Choices, choices. 

Better decision: Refuse to save, imprison for war crimes, save, save without joining Alliance. All of which should be neutral. They could have even branched this off further - does Arcann go off to atone through his actions of trying to help rebuild? Do you just let him flee and become a ghost? Is he turned over to the factions and put in jail? Or do you execute him?

SCORPIO in KOTET chapter 5.  HOW many times has SCORPIO lied to you, tried to do away with you and otherwise caused extensive trouble? Bonus for Imperial Agents, how many times in the class story did she casually mention she eventually wants to murder you? Of course, by all means, let her merge her consciousness with the homicidal cyberplanet who has just tried to murder you and has horrific weapons at its disposal. I'm sure no harm could come from that. After all she promised she won't bother you. It's not personal. 

Better choices: - Let SCORPIO merge with the promise of helping you destroy the faction of your choice later (DS - hey, I SAID it's a dark side choice so let's go for the goalpost with it) - Kill SCORPIO (neutral), - oho, what's this? You've been able to completely neutralize SCORPIO and contain her in the Gravestone with the super special top secret program Doctor Oggurobb has been working tirelessly on for months since you learned SCORPIO wasn't dead?? Whoohoo! Victory without death! (LS). 

Dramath in KOTET chapter 7. 

Because you haven't been subjected to Valkorion's family enough, here comes Daddy Dramath. Who is imprisoned in a holocron in a max-security basement crypt and swears, up and down, that he will go away and not bother you if he's set free. I mean, you have so many reasons to take Family Valkorion/Tenebrae at their word, right? It's not like this could be a malicious Force ghost. You've never run into any of those, nope. And it's not like you're on a planet that has been corrupted into something terrible in the Force (or lack thereof) which might make it even more dangerous to release ghosties you meet. 

Better decision: - Free (LS), - Keep - but swear to release after you've defeated Valkorion and keep that promise(LS), - Imprison and tell Dramath he's your servant forever, mwahahaha (DS). Let that be the differentiating factor in whether he helps you or not in KOTET 9. 

#swtor #anti Arcann #rain talks swtor #kotet spoilers #kotfe spoilers

[gamesception]

Sception Reads Cass Cain #21

Ghost / Batgirl #1-4 Words: Mike Kennedy Pictures: Ryan Benjamin Additional Work: Randy Emberlin, Howard Shun

One impression I used to have that going back to look at ~all~ of Cass's early appearances has forced me to reconsider is the idea that she didn't appear outside of her own books very much. While later on that is more the case, early on she does have a fair few guest appearances and cross overs, including in this bit of non-canon dual publisher cross promotion with Elisa Cameron, aka Ghost, a Dark Horse character with a solo that had been running since 1995.

The miniseries pits long time Batman villain Harvey Dent against brand new Ghost antagonist Malcolm Greymater - a (fictional) confederate general turned zombie libertarian corpse reanimator - in a conflict over Greymater poaching some of Dent's employees (ie reanimating goons that Dent killed). Babs, Cass, and Elisa get caught in the middle and are forced to work together after following separate threads of a bombing by Two Face and bodies stolen by Greymater only to be sold off into unsavory employment after failed reanimation experiments.

I don't want to go through the whole thing with a plot summary - it's four issues of non-canon stuff after all. But as a stand alone story it works fairly well, worth a read if you're a fan of early Cass. In particular there's solid characterization of Harvey Dent and what it's like to work for him - pretty bad actually. You can see why he'd get upset at someone trying to poach his guys, working conditions for goons in Gotham are terrible, if word got around of better conditions in Arcadia (Ghost's hometown) or wherever else then Batman's villains could easily find themselves suffering a labor shortage. The mere idea of that is funny enough to me that I can't help but like this little mini series, and it's an idea I'd love to see brought back. Goons On Strike - now there's a solid idea for an ongoing Gotham event crossover.

Anyway, Ghost/Batgirl is definitely a higher fantasy story than we usually see from Cass, at least back in the early days, but there's a focus on the individual lives and humanity of the underlings working for the villains that's very grounded and down to earth. That fits in really well next to the "street level" focus of Cass's early solo title. As for the book's cross-promotional function, it does make me curious about Ghost, though probably not enough so to go back and look at her solo title. I like her villain here, but Malcolm Greymater and his crew seem to be more or less exclusive to this crossover? Comicvine is telling me he maybe appears in a single issue outside of this, so that's kind of disappointing.

So setting aside the story, how's our girl in this? Well, first of all, she's being drawn by new hands. In costume she's mostly fine.

Sleek and spooky, glossy black. The details of her form are sometimes lost in the darkness, which loses some specificity in the action panels, but in a way that mostly works aesthetically. My only real complaint here is that her facial expression doesn't really show through the mask. You don't get a sense of what she's thinking or feeling in costume, she's just this dark angry spooky form, not so much a person or a character. As I've said in the past, though, that's as much or more a criticism of her costume design as it is of how any particular artist draws her in it.

It's also worth noting that, as with Cass's early pairing with Azrael, her costume contrasts very nicely with Ghost's. White with round hood and billowing cape vs. Cass all black and pointy. Aesthetically it's a great fit.

Out of costume, though...

I don't know. Just doesn't quite look like Cass to me? I know, I know, comic character facial features don't have the same specific canon as their costumes do, different artists have different styles so characters will look different, and there's definitely a stylistic element here that isn't gelling with me. The overall shape of the head is too thin, maybe, making her look a bit older than she should, where I'm used to Scott's more rounded face, stronger jaw, bushier eyebrows, shorter, poofier hair.

Scott's style, at least at the time, also just packs in more emotional expression, which is absolutely critical for a silent protagonist.

By contrast Benjamin's Cass, when she's not in costume, is often just standing a bit behind Babs with a sort of blank, neutral expression while Babs interacts with other characters or the audience for her.

...

Which also kind of brings us to the writing for Cass here. Ghost / Batgirl is probably the best example yet that silent Cass was a mistake, because yeah, the creators of this book just do not know how to convey her character to the reader without words. The first image starts with Cass looking out over the wreckage of a bombing, and of course there's pseudo noir internal monologue all over it, because how else do you start a bat-book, only Cass can't narrate so Babs provides the narration even though she isn't even in that scene.

Babs goes along on the adventure mostly so the writers have someone who can talk for Cass, or even in some panels quite literally talk over Cass.

Cass is an intimidating physical presence in costume, but in this book she functions more as an extension of Babs than as a person in her own right.

...

It's not all bad, though. In particular there's this one bit introducing an additional ability for Cass that makes perfect sense with her backstory and yet sadly I don't think is ever mentioned again in a canon Batgirl story:

Cass gets poisoned, but she survives, and recovers remarkably quickly, because she has a natural resistance to many poisons and venoms built up from repeat exposure to tiny amounts when she was a child, because of course that's something David would do. You could just imagine little Cass and David having drinking contests to see who could take the most poison before passing out, or even sneakily poisoning each other as a little game of escalating pranks.

...

So yeah, overall a nice little stand alone series with maybe not the best depiction of Cass, but one that is illustrative of why the major change to have her start speaking, while I still don't like how it was done, was probably for the best.

#cassandra cain #batgirl #elisa cameron #ghost #sception reads cassandra cain