#like democracy I also die in darkness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nevadancitizen · 1 month

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-> TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY (I KNOW I NEVER WILL)

synopsis: you've always known that you're a throwaway -- another friendly kill. but when you're brought to ghost's world, you discover that there's so much more to life than defending democracy.

word count: 5.1k

characters: player! simon "ghost" riley, self-aware helldiver! reader

trigger warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, reader is obsessed with and idolizes ghost, nudity (but not in a sexual/suggestive context)

notes: wanted to try my hand at a reverse version of the self-aware cod au. also if you're not aquantinced with helldivers 2, it's okay! it has easy-to-understand lore but i recommend watching this lore video (it's just under twelve minutes and gives a pretty good run-down on what's going on). also inspired by "to liberty and beyond" by jt music, which is inspired by helldivers 2 in turn (✿˵•́ ૩•̀˵)৴♡*

You always knew something was… off.

Numerous ads and training modules state that every Helldiver is valuable to the continued reign of Managed Democracy and Super Earth. And yes, you’ve seen more than enough shock soldiers die for the cause – mostly freshly eighteen-year-olds that didn’t read the fine print that states that the minimum enlistment for a Helldiver is ten years.

But that’s the thing. They died. You watched their bodies be ripped apart by bullets or torn to shreds by terminids.

You never… died. Not really, anyway.

It was always a split second of hot-white, searing pain, then a moment of darkness, then you were strapped into a hellpod, being sent down for another wave. Mentions of gods or other types of divine beings weren’t really heard of or taught about, so you didn’t know who to thank – or to blame – for this phenomenon.

(You tried to mention this to your assigned Democracy Officer, but she just dismissed it with a threat of being sent to a Reeducation Camp.)

So you kept it to yourself. You have a habit of taking your helmet off and bowing your head (In prayer? You’re not so sure) and just breathing, taking in the cool thrum of your heart. You never thought you’d relate to the fascism-fueled automatons, but you only feel the warmth of… your God? your savior? when in the heat of battle.

You always think like this in between being sent down – wandering thoughts while wandering the halls of the ship. There’s not a lot of this type of time, so you make sure to savor it.

You’re in this position right now, looking down at your helmet and thumbing over the imperfections picked up from battle. The void-black visor shows a reflection of you, warped and stretched-out. Above the visor is a skull etched into the titanium – the lines are all jagged edges and uneven depths. You don’t remember doing this, but it’s there anyway. You don’t remember a lot, actually, but you’re, once again, told by your Democracy Officer not to worry about that.

You pick yourself up from that train of thought before you go too far. Instead, you put your helmet back on and start to walk the halls of the ship.

Once you’re past the armory and terminal, you start down the steps to the sleeping quarters. (Because yes, despite being supersoldiers, Helldivers need their rest, too.)

But then, you snipe something out of the corner of your eye. There’s… a door. A door you don’t remember being there. Light seeps through the small gap where the bottom of the door and the floor don’t meet. The sight causes the ashes in your belly that have gone cold to stir once more.

Your boots clunk on the ground as you walk over to it. It creaks open, as if inviting you. Again, you never remember having wooden doors that creak on the ship – they’re all automatic sliding metal doors, and open with faint hisses.

You push it open the rest of the way and die.

It’s that all-consuming pain that feels worse than any other time you’ve died – like your skin is being torn off the same time you’re being tarred and feathered. The black isn’t just a flash this time, but a few seconds you can actually count – twelve seconds. Twelve whole seconds.

Twelve seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but for you, it was fucking terrifying.

You thought you actually died. It was almost laughable – you’ve survived automatons and terminids and being in cryo, but you couldn’t survive some mystery door? And all that effort without meeting your… you don’t even know what to call it. Guardian angel? Tormentor?

You wake up and, for the first time, aren’t in a hellpod – instead, you’re in a bed. You can move your arms and legs freely, but they feel… numb. Disconnected.

When you start to look around, you notice everything is white and sterile. There’s a distinct sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, contrasting the musky gun oil and sweat that you know well.

(You haven’t ever been in a real hospital – the closest is a small supply closet on-ship that was converted into a first aid station – but you’re pretty sure this is an actual hospital, like the ones back home on Super Earth.)

Your uniform is set on a chair nearby, your black-and-yellow cape draped over the back of it. Your helmet is on the cushion of the seat, facing you. Every piece is… oddly clean. There’s no dark brown dried bloodstains or sickly green bug oil.

With shaky hands (which have never trembled before – at least, not to this degree) you rip out the IV and brace yourself on the railing of the bed before standing. Your legs wobble a bit, but straighten themselves out after a moment.

You take off the paper hospital gown and dress yourself in proper clothing. All the metal parts of your uniform click into place, and your under-armor fits like it always does – perfectly flush to your skin.

Just as you’re about to push open the door, a man opens it. You’re stunned for a second before taking him in. He’s tall with a beard that looks like walrus tusks, and is wearing military fatigues you’ve seen in history modules.

Looking at him causes a dull thrum in your chest, like your heart is picking up again. But it’s not him – he’s not your savior.

“Civilian,” you greet before pushing past him. You wave over your shoulder politely. “Praise be Democracy.”

The man makes a stunned noise before grabbing your shoulder and spinning you to face him. He opens his mouth to talk, but you interrupt him by holding a hand up.

“Please, no touching the armor, civilian,” you say. “This is the property of the Ministry of Defense, as am I. If you wish to enlist, don’t talk to me, but the nearest Democracy Officer available.”

The man pauses for a moment before barking, “What in the bloody fuck are you on about, muppet?”

You huff out a laugh and lean closer to him. He’s tall, but with your armor, you’re taller.

“Okay, civilian.” You smile underneath your helmet and speak in a lower tone. “I understand that you don’t see a lot of us, so if you want a signature, just ask, okay? I can make it out to your kid who wants to be a Helldiver, or whatever. Tell them to put that M2016 Constitution bolt-action rifle to good use.”

The man stares at you as if you’ve just admitted to secretly being an automaton and are planning to undermine Democracy to institute socialism. He slowly brings his hand away from your shoulder and walks past you.

“Come with me,” he says simply.

You follow him after a moment of contemplation. He causes a faint mimic of the warmth, so that’s good, right? And he can’t be dangerous. Maybe a danger to others, but not to you – not with all the armor you’ve got. You keep your hands clasped behind your back to keep from fidgeting as you walk.

“Firstly.” The man holds up a hand, his index finger raised. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to look at you. “I am not a civilian. I’m a captain – Captain John Price of the SAS.”

“Nonsense,” you scoff. “A captain should always be wearing their armor. A Helldiver is always ready to fight for Democracy.”

You walk a little faster so that you’re not walking behind him, but next to him instead. “And besides, what is the SAS? I’ve never heard of that division, or that ship – whatever it is. I reside on the Dawn of Destruction.”

Price looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his thick brows furrowing. “It’s the Special Air Service. And I’ve never heard of these… Helldivers you’ve been going on about.”

“Good Liberty, that’s nonsense again!” You look over at Price, your eyes trained on him instead of in front of you. “Helldivers are all over the news, the radio sets, the televisions… surely you’re not that shut off? Every colony has some way to communicate with Super Earth.”

“Super Earth?” Price repeats back to you. He then holds up his hand and stops walking. “Nevermind. I don’t want to hear it.”

He gestures to the door he’s stopped in front of. “Go on.”

You glance at Price before opening the door. It’s an interrogation room, like the ones you’ve seen in old-timey movies.

“Oh, I get it.” You look over your shoulder at Price. “This is like one of those war reenactments, right? You’ve recreated a military base from the original Earth… very impressive!”

Price shoves you into the room (with a surprising amount of strength), leaving you stumbling. You quickly correct yourself and spin around to confront him, but by the time you’re able to do that, he’s closed and locked the door.

“Ah…” you sigh as you look around the room. It’s all concrete grey with a steel table and two steel chairs in the middle. There’s a mirror taking up the majority of one wall, one which you know is double-sided.

You walk up to it and try to talk to the people on the other side – you know there’s got to be someone there. “This is fun! Which training module is this? I thought I completed every one… is it new? Because I’ve never heard of something like this.”

After half a minute, there’s no response. You wander over to one of the chairs at the table and sit in it. You laugh a little as you rest your hands in the handcuffs chained to the steel.

“I am ready for interrogation!” you announce. “I sure hope no filthy fascist comes in and tries to cleanse me of the beauty of freedom! Because I surely won’t give them a cup of Liber-tea, and I of course won’t deliver it with my fist…!”

You tap your fingers on the table for a minute before slumping back in the chair. This is boring. Most training modules are the type where you’re run-and-gun-ing throughout the whole thing, but interrogation is boring.

You’re sat like that for a good half hour before you hear the lock click. Your eyes dart to the door as it opens, revealing a man.

He’s dressed in all black, with a balaclava covering his face. His russet-brown eyes meet yours through your helmet and it’s like you’ve died all over again.

Heat explodes your chest like you’ve just got a shotgun slug blasted through your belly. The ashes have been blown away, and in its place, a raging bonfire! It roars like a dragon, and it reeks of reverence and prayer.

The man closes the door behind him and someone locks it from the outside. He barely makes it two steps before you stand from the chair, the legs shrieking against the floor.

“My God,” you say softly.

“Helldiver,” the man greets.

“No, I…” You make your way around the table and stand as close as you can be without feeling like you’re about to catch fire. “Are you…?”

The man nods. “Ghost.”

“That’s it, that’s what you are!” you exclaim. You take a step forward and feel sweat drip down your back. “You’re the… the Ghost. The…”

The one who kept you from experiencing a permanent death? The one who kept you alive just to torment you? The guardian angel who watches your every move? The devil who prods at your ass with a pitchfork? You’re not sure what to say.

You settle on reaching out to him and saying, “You’re my savior.”

Ghost takes a step back. “Savior? I’m not so sure about that.”

“No, but – you are!” You breathe out a laugh and step forward, mirroring his actions. You bend at the knee and the back to make yourself shorter, as if trying to be smaller than him. “I am… I’m a throwaway. Another friendly kill. But you kept me alive! You brought me back after death, I remember dying so many times – y-you don’t get it, you’re my God!”

You strike, quick as a viper, and take his hand. Even though both your gloves and his act as barriers, it feels like your entire arm is engulfed in flame. Still, you keep holding on.

“You chose me, right? You chose me to fight!” You clutch his hand tighter. “You chose me to spread Democracy, to smite the fascists and… I – I was taught that we are Democracy, not individuals, but you proved me wrong, because you chose me.

“God chose me.”

A silence engulfs the interrogation room. You’re both frozen in time, living, breathing statues. It’s too hot. Every bone in your hand, wrist, and arm are turning to charcoal. It’s burning. It’s euphoric.

Ghost starts to pull his hand away, but you bring your free hand to hold it in place, holding yours. “No, please.”

Ghost forcefully yanks his hand away. He drags you forward with the force, and you fall to your knees. The metal kneepads on your legs clang loudly against the concrete floor.

You can do nothing but look up at Ghost from where you’re kneeling. There’s nothing sexual about it – it’s more like a believer kneeling at the feet of a statue of Christ. Ghost is your God, after all.

There’s another minute of silence before you bow your head and reach up with shaky hands to remove your helmet. It clanks loudly against the floor as you drop it.

You can feel Ghost staring at you. The fire burns hotter – the bonfire caught wind and is reaching up into the trees. The branches above are catching, aching to burn.

Tears rim your eyes as you bring your head up to look at him. His stare hardens.

It’s a sight you’ve seen in the mirror many times before. Your face is a mess of unloaded textures, a checkerboard of black and bright purple, with the exception of your eyes and the surrounding skin. But seeing yourself through Ghost’s eyes…

It’s Rapture. It’s only you and him. A God and his only believer.

“Ghost, please.” A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t think you’ve ever cried before. It’s cool against your too-hot, burning skin. “Let me stay. I want to stay in Heaven, stay with you.”

“This isn’t Heaven,” Ghost says coldly. “And I’m not God.”

“But you are!” you snap. “This is peace and this is comfort and this is you. Don’t send me back to Malevelon Creek, don’t send me back to those godforsaken ion storms and automatons.”

Your voice grows quieter as tears run down your face and drip off your chin. “Don’t send me back to Hell.”

Ghost sighs and casts his gaze to the side. He’s thinking, and it’s plain on the parts of his face you can see.

You bow your head and wipe your tears away to give him some semblance of privacy.

“Fine,” he finally decides. “But stop calling me God. You’re starting to seriously piss me off.”

Your head snaps up and you fight back a fresh wave of tears as you nod. “Yes! I’ll – I’ll call you Ghost. No more God-talk, I promise.”

You huff out a wet laugh as you pick up your helmet and fasten it back on your head. “I mean, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.”

And so it’s like that for a month. Ghost explains the concept of video games (and how you’re from one – but you figured out that much already), introduces you to his team (and forces you to apologize to Price for calling him a civvy), and gives you his blessing to be his guard (even though he doesn’t need one).

He allows you to tail him around when he’s in a good mood. When he’s not up for it, you sit outside his door like the good soldier you are.

You’re not allowed to have weapons, on account of being… well. Your entire being. The flying spark that could cause a wildfire. The free radical that could split an atom. It’s just better to give you the bare minimum and keep you there.

And you’re more than happy with the bare minimum. You survive on scraps from the mess hall and the moments when Ghost can tolerate you being a little too close.

But the week-long missions are nothing but pain for you. And yet, every time you meet him on the tarmac, he greets you with a pat on the side of your bicep and asks how you were while he was gone. Maybe he’s doing it to be polite, maybe he actually cares – you don’t know, and you’re willing to keep it that way.

(In this instance, you’re blissful with your ignorance. Revel in it, actually.)

There’s a faint part of you that thinks that he views you as an abandoned puppy he found on the side of the road that just followed him home. You’re okay with that if it means you can keep being close to him and keep getting away with everything you’ve done so far.

So you wait, ever so patient, outside his door. You don’t lean against the wall next to it – you’re always standing at attention, even when your back starts to ache from standing so rigid. You don’t know what to do with your hands (on account of having no rifle to hold) so you let them idly hang at your sides, fighting the reflex to fidget.

There’s a knock from the other side of the door. A sign from Ghost, telling you that you’re welcome to come in.

You knock back with a soft, “Ghost?”

After a few seconds, there’s no response, but you can hear the lock click and unlock.

You wait for a minute before you open the door and make sure to duck as you enter. (These doors are shorter than the ones back on your ship – they’re not built to accommodate someone wearing Helldiver armor.)

You shut the door behind you and take in Ghost’s room. It’s bare, like yours. Just a desk with a chair, a bed with military-issued bedding, and a closet with a dresser and clothes rod.

As if on instinct, you take your helmet off, leaving yourself vulnerable yet safe. As your time passed here, your skin has become less black-and-purple and more like a normal skin tone – like the color around your eyes has started to seep into the surrounding area. So far, it’s taken over your face and the column of your throat, just barely brushing past your collarbone.

Ghost moves away from where he’s facing his desk in his swivel chair. He takes you in. Takes your new skin in.

You’ve kept your armor clean, just how you both like it. But the upkeep of yourself, as a person, your new hair and new skin, your new nose and lips and beauty marks and imperfections…

Ghost points at you. “Your hair is greasy as hell.”

You comb a hand through your hair and your glove comes away with a bit of grease, just like he mentioned.

“It is.” You look up from your glove to meet his gaze. “What should I do about it?”

“Fucking hell.” Ghost rolls his eyes. “You’re asking me what you should do about it? Take a shower, knobhead.”

“Ah.” You look down at your boots.

“Have you seriously not been bathing?” Ghost asks.

“It, um…” You glance up at him, then back down at the floor. “It never occurred to me. Usually I don’t have to.”

“You’ve been here for a bloody month and you haven’t showered once?” he scoffs.

You shrink into yourself, an embarrassed blush creeping across your face.

“Christ…” Ghost mumbles. He stands from his chair and points you up-and-down. “Get out of your armor.”

“Excuse me?” A hand flies to the middle of your breastplate, as if cradling it to you like it’s the only thing keeping you decent.

“You heard me.” Ghost moves over to the door to his bathroom and opens it, then glances over his shoulder at you. “I’m drawing a bath. And you’re going in it.”

You look down at your glove, at the thin sheen of grease covering it. “I… okay.”

Ghost goes into the bathroom to give you some semblance of privacy. You take a breath to calm yourself and exhale with a soft “Sweet Liberty…”

You carefully lay out your metal armor on Ghost’s bed, leaving yourself in just your under-armor. It’s durable but thin, causing you to shiver as the air conditioning kicks on.

With light steps, you make your way over to the bathroom. Ghost is hunched over the side of the tub, his hands ungloved and sleeves bunched up to his elbows. One of his hands is under the running water, checking the temperature.

You lean into the doorway and call his name softly. You only lean in a bit, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Ghost glances over his shoulder at you, then nods at the tub. “Come on. Haven’t got all day.”

You slowly make your way in the bathroom and close the door behind you. It’s a small space, and it just makes everything all the more awkward.

“Well?” Ghost prompts. “Will you be good by yourself?”

“I mean…” You look down at the tile. “I guess.”

Ghost shuts off the faucet, then stands and wipes his hand off on a towel hanging by the bathtub. “I’m off, then.”

“But – wait,” you say softly. “How am I supposed to bathe? It’s not full yet.”

“It’s not meant to be full up,” Ghost says. “You’re acting like you’ve never taken a bath before.”

You shift on your feet, your almost-bare soles making a soft sound against the tile. Your silence tells Ghost all he needs to know.

“Come on then.” He sighs and leans back against the counter, his hands on the lip of the sink. “Strip.”

You shuffle out of your under-armor, fold it neatly, and put it on the counter. You’re nearly shaking from embarrassment, but at least it isn’t as awkward as it would be if your body wasn’t just unloaded textures. Your body below your collarbone is built well, but it’s more like a jacked doll that a kid scribbled a black and purple checkerboard on than an actual human soldier.

Your eyes meet Ghost’s before you duck your head away in shame.

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let’s get you washed up, yeah?”

You keep your gaze low as you tentatively dip a few fingers in the water. It’s warm, but not too hot. You slowly hook a leg over the edge of the tub and step in. It feels good – not that you have any prior bathing experiences to compare it to.

Your knees practically buckle as you lower yourself into the water. You sit with your knees pressed up against your chest, not wanting to take up too much space even though the tub isn’t all that small.

“Good?” Ghost asks.

“Good,” you parrot back.

Ghost kneels by the side of the tub. “How’s it feel? Too hot?”

“Okay.” You raise your eyes to meet his. “Feels like… when I’m near you.”

He just hums, monotone, in response. He shifts to sit more comfortably, then pats the surface of the water, sending ripples. “Lean forward.”

You do as he asks, bowing your head so that your face is close to the water. “This good?”

“Yes. I’m gonna get some water on you now.”

You nod. Ghost cups his hand and dips it in the water before running it down your back. You gasp softly at the feeling – it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It’s like Ghost’s molten touch is seeping into your skin, but instead of fire, it’s a pleasant version of sunburn.

Maybe it feels duller and better because you’ve been so exposed to Ghost over the past month that you’ve gotten used to it, like exposure therapy? And the feeling when you first touched him was just too much, too fast…

You quickly divert your thoughts away from the theoretical and into the now. Because right now, Ghost is doting on you unlike any other.

Water runs through your hair, and Ghost threads his fingers through the strands to make sure it gets properly wet. Droplets run down your forehead and drip off your nose.

You turn your head just a little and look up at Ghost sideways. “Is this it?”

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “There’s shampoo, then conditioner. Then you gotta wash your actual body.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment where the only sound is Ghost gathering a bit of shampoo in his hands and rubbing them together to create a lather. He scrubs it into your hair for about a half minute before washing it out.

You break the silence as he starts to work the conditioner into your hair. “I never got to ask – the engraving on my helmet… what’s that about? I don’t remember doing it.”

“Hm?” Ghost hums. “The skull? Dead daft, ain’t you?”

“I’m… I could only parse parts of that sentence,” you say softly. “But I can tell you’re calling me an idiot.”

“Yes. I am. You’re learning.” Ghost huffs out another laugh. “Go on, guess.”

“If I have to…” You close your eyes and lean into Ghost’s touch. “It’s a representation of your control over me? As a player, I mean. Not in… anything else.”

You let out a nervous laugh and hope Ghost doesn’t pick up on your double meaning. But of course he does – you can tell in the way his hands pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. He’s too observant for his own good.

With an awkward ahem, you continue. “But that’s the same reason my callsign is Deathshead, right? Because you’re Ghost. You – you gave me your insignia.”

(You had to stop yourself from saying ‘Blessed me with your insignia’, because you promised you’d stop with the God-talk.)

“Dead on.” Ghost turns and rubs a bar of soap on a sponge, then hands it to you. “Scrub yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Where?” you ask. “Like, all over?”

Ghost washes the conditioner from his hands in the bathwater and nods. “Mhm.”

You carefully scrub yourself from top to bottom. The sponge is a bit abrasive, but nice.

(You’d much rather have Ghost wash you up, to cause the fire you’ve contained in a little wooden stove to flare out of the firebox and through the grill… but you keep that to yourself.)

Once you’re done, you wring the sponge out under the bathwater, then above water. You set it on the side of the tub and look up at Ghost, waiting for instructions.

He meets your gaze and shifts where he’s sitting on the toilet lid. “Just relax, Helldiver.”

“Not used to this.” You pull your knees up to your chest. “Not used to having… downtime. I was always being sent down, or preparing to be sent down. Democracy was always my guide, but…”

You tilt your head towards Ghost, and he understands.

“You are, now,” you voice the unsaid thought.

“That’s concerning.” Ghost rests his hands on his knees and leans back against the tank.

“I know.” You look down at the bathwater and the bubbles floating on the surface. “It’s just… I’ve never felt the peace that we preach. I’ve only known fighting, only violence and blood.”

You look up and meet his eyes. “Have you ever had your legs blown apart by an Eagle Cluster Bomb? Ever been burned alive by friendly napalm? Because I have. I’ve felt my spine split because of an Orbital Railcannon Strike. I’ve been mowed down by friendly Gatling Sentries.

“But the worst thing I’ve experienced here is name-calling and weird looks,” you say. “I’ve been sick to my stomach with worry once or twice, but then I remember you’re a soldier, just like me. You’re trained, and you’re okay, and you’ll return fine.

“I am…” You lean your head back against the tile wall and close your eyes. “I’m at peace here.”

“I get that,” Ghost says. His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it. “How long were you deployed?”

“As long as I can remember,” you say.

“Bloody long time, then, yeah?” Ghost says.

“Yes.” You bring your hand up and rub your collarbone, where skin meets undefined polygons. “But you’re making me human. Less Helldiver, less of an expendable piece of resurrected meat. You’re making me softer. More civilian.”

You open your eyes and look up at Ghost. The expression on his face is… conflicted. Like he didn’t know he could bring this out in someone.

“They always said that when united under the beautiful Liberty flag of Super Earth, nothing will be able to stop or split its glorious peoples,” you say. “But you showed me that it’s better out here. That it’s… fascism, is what it is. But that’s a secret we keep from ourselves.”

You reach your hand out and lay it over where his lays on his knee. You just barely brush your fingertips over the back of his hand before grabbing it.

(Another log has been added to the fire, and it’s covered in lichen and dried mosses. It crackles and pops, but you make sure to keep it still contained.)

“Would you believe me if I said that I hate Managed Democracy?” You laugh breathlessly. Even saying it causes a sick feeling in your stomach, like you’ll be found out and promptly dismissed. (Read: put up against a wall and executed via firing squad.)

“Yes.” Ghost glances down at where your hand lays on top of his. “A lot of people hate the government, all ‘cross the world. Don’t you know that?”

“And they’re… allowed to?” You bite the inside of your bottom lip to subdue a smile. “Like, openly?”

Ghost laughs. “Yes.”

“This really is Heaven.” You sigh out the words, an unbelieving smile crossing your face.

“Not Heaven,” Ghost says. “Just Earth.”

He moves his hand slightly, and you take it as a cue to move away. You bring your hand back, dipping it back in the bathwater.

“Well,” you say softly. “I think I like just Earth.”

“On just Earth, we bathe regularly.” Ghost dips a hand in the water and splashes your knees. “Now, come on. Let’s get you rinsed off.”

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unhelpfulfemme · 8 months

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This may be a Bad Take but I think a lot less people would have issues with Padmé Amidala's RotS characterization if they realized that her role in that movie is largely symbolic and that Anakin's attitude towards her is meant to represent the inherent tension between liberty and security (which is clearly one of the main themes in a movie that has Anakin quote George W Bush as he falls to the Dark Side).

Padmé represents the best of democratic values: the capability to perceive everyone's inherent worth, the trust in state institutions, the morality, the benefits and drawbacks of resolving issues in a democratic manner and within the system (she often finds herself helpless in the face of corruption, for example). Padmé's ideals are the core of her character, to the point that she basically is her ideals. Basically, Padmé is to the Galactic Republic what Marianne is to the French Republic.

Now, you may have issues with a female character being used as a personification of a state or a political system, but not only is this a millennia-old narrative tradition, I also feel like you're probably barking up the wrong tree, because George Lucas LOVES using characters as symbols for abstract concepts: Luke as the Hero with a Thousand Faces, the Good vs. Bad Father dynamic with Obi-Wan and Vader, etc. This is completely on brand for the way George Lucas in particular constructs characters.

Even Padmé's most famous line, "So this is how Liberty dies," is indicative of this (and I love the concept of a former slave boy falling in love with Liberty herself).

Padmé dies because Liberty dies, not because she's a weak useless woman.

And Anakin's relationship to her potential death is very much... an indictment of reactionary politics and the War on Terror?

Anakin loves Padmé because she is fair-minded and understanding even when he doesn't deserve it, because she is tolerant, because she is kind, because she fights for justice, because she uplifts people. This is what he is in love with and what he is trying to preserve.

But in the face of nebulous threats, some real and some manufactured, he tries to save her by trampling all over what she stands for. And what she stands for is her. Therefore the very act of trying to save her is what ends up killing her, just like trying to keep your democracy safe by increasingly cruel and authoritarian measures inevitably kills it. Anakin claims that he loves her, that he's protecting her, but he is unwilling to listen to anything she has to say about it, just like plenty of people whose mouths are full of freedom but don't want to think about or apply the values that they are supposedly defending. What she believes no longer matters as long as she loves and comforts and uplifts him (and when she doesn't he goes into a rage).

Everything Padmé stands for, her very way of life and her very way of doing things, no longer exist at the end of RotS. She was becoming increasingly static and helpless during the movie because her way of doing things no longer works as the Republic becomes mired in cruelty and corruption, she cannot do anything but set foundations for an eventual rebellion and hope that a spark of hope survives. She can no longer survive in this new system, and it is in her nature to rather die than compromise herself in order to work within it. In a symbolic way, she quite literally cannot survive if she has to exist within it. She IS Liberty, and it would be a paradox if she survived. She dies and their children - another thing Anakin is fighting to protect, like many people who are "defending freedom" "for the children!!1!" - are made orphans, left to their own devices, forced to fight and rebuild things from scratch because she can no longer nurture them or protect them. This is a political metaphor y'all.

And in this reading, even Shmi's death ends up working better if you squint? Because even though Anakin's anger over her death stems from clear injustice and is fundamentally righteous, the fear and rage that this creates in him, and his inability to cope with it, is what directly causes him to both fear for Padmé's safety and to eventually smother her due to that fear. And to eventually become what he fears, killing Liberty, depriving himself of liberty in the process by becoming Sidious's blind slave, and literally destroying the future of an entire generation of (Jedi) children.

Now, I'm not saying that this makes a more psychological analysis of Padmé's character invalid or that this is the only role that she plays (for example, while Obi-Wan is the "good father figure" in ANH, he's clearly many different things across all the movies and clearly has an established characterization beyond that, and so does Padmé), but I think looking at it through this particular lens does make the choices made for her character less baffling and more indicative of the larger themes of the prequels.

#star wars #star wars prequels #padme amidala

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phoenixyfriend · 1 year

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Slaves of the Senate AU

Do you ever come up with a premise for a Star Wars fic that is just so fucked up--

Okay so if you've ever read the Bleach fic New Order, it's a little bit inspired by that, but also by Jedi Indentured AU, Boundless, and a couple of others. Warnings will be just under the cut and in the tags, so please scroll past if you're not in the mood for That Stuff.

This is not a happy AU and will contain the usually Ugly things from the Indentured AU and similar, namely slavery with sexual elements. From this point forward there will be a lot of references to noncon, dubcon, pregnancy, torture, and so on.

Pre-RotS notes: Ahsoka is still a Jedi, and derailing RotS involved her still being there (keeps Anakin a fraction more stable), and Ventress having been captured at some point shortly before.

Setting start: RotS goes differently, in part because O66 doesn't get kicked into gear. Anakin doesn't Fall, and not all the Council members die, so Palpatine has the clones enact a different brain chip order: taking all the Jedi captive as traitors to the Republic to await an appropriate sentencing from the Senate.

Between Palpatine's emergency powers, anti-Jedi sentiment (enabled by the fact that Even The Clones have turned against them), and the breakdown of democracy, Palpatine does get to be Emperor, and he unilaterally decides on a punishment for the Jedi: Force-Nullifying cuffs on everyone over the age of one, and direct service to the Senate, under clone guard.

(This is actually better than the initial suggestions; Padme and Bail and the rest of their cohort managed to ensure the clone guard element; it's not there to protect Senators from the Jedi, but to protect Jedi from the Senators.) (The clones are still, by and large, under active chip control.)

Any given adult or teen Jedi is 'matched' to a planetary delegation. The Jedi are then 'given the freedom' to decide where to send the Initiates and Crechelings, since there are so many more kids than there are adults, what with the war killing off so many of them.

Palpatine has a goal with all this: putting the Jedi in this situation increases the general suffering a lot (so, yay, more Dark Side Energy for him), but also it gives him a way to directly impact Anakin.

Palpatine claims Anakin, Ventress, and Mace Windu to his own offices as his new Jedi Criminal Support or whatever they choose to call them. No younglings, just these three incredibly dangerous and important people that he can show off as having both won the war and subdued the Jedi uprising.

I think he maybe does a Dark Side thing to anyone who found out he was a Sith, to force them to keep their mouths shut. That way, some of RotS could still happen, leading to less "uhhhh let's figure out some plot? how did this even happen?"

The Senate is given leave to squabble amongst themselves to 'claim' Jedi. For his own entertainment, Palpatine 'suggests' that the Jedi are paired up to planets or senators they already have connections with, if possible. It's seen by the public as a kindness, to let Bail pull Obi-Wan, for Padme to claim Ahsoka, and so on.

It's meant to put them with friendly faces that can help 'rehabilitate' the Jedi to being law-abiding citizens who support the glorious new Empire and all that. Palpatine's handling of the Jedi and the Senate, even after declaring himself Emperor, was always at least partly a matter of balancing public perception.

I didn't really decide on who goes where elsewise, except that Yoda either ended up escaping and is biding his time, or he's with the Wookiees, and most people ended up at with the delegation of their planet of origin, when the numbers worked out. They are also generally guarded by clones they know. The clones don't necessarily act like the people they knew, but most Jedi do not know about the chips, so...

In public, the Jedi just look like. Servants/slaves. They're the latter, but they're all criminals, so does it really count? Look, they were even allowed to keep their children!

(Yes, it would count as slavery even if they were actually traitors.)

In the Senate Dome, Palpatine makes a habit of having Anakin and Ventress kneeling at either side of his throne, wearing a fancy gold collar and fancy gold cuffs that link behind their backs. This is very much a show of wealth and power, ostensibly. (In reality, it's less about showing off his power and more about humiliating these two.)

Some of the Senators do bring the older Jedi with them to the Rotunda. Some do it to be cruel (look how far you've fallen, look how futile it is, look at your fellows chained and tortured), and some do it to be helpful (Bail is hoping for Obi-Wan to pay attention and act as a sounding board to him to help reverse all of this)

Palpatine very rarely allows any clones to be active without their chip to tell them the Jedi are bad. When he does, it's temporary and very much meant to make everyone feel worse about the situation in general. He taunts them all with forcing the active-chipped to do things while the inactive watch in horror and helplessness.

In other areas, the clone guards on the Jedi are generally preventing the Jedi from being sexually assaulted by the less scrupulous Senators... usually. If Palpatine has decided a Jedi is causing too much trouble, or a Senator is worthy of a reward under the table, he can make sure the clones are looking away. (He can even have them do the deed, if the Senators aren't on his side. Nothing quite like the Emperor telling one of your best friends to rape you and then your best friend having to do it, right?)

Rex is actually chip-free, and slowly working to dechip some of his brothers, but that's a very, very small number and the spread is slow. He's been allowed to work under the Naboo delegation to guard Ahsoka. This is, again, meant to be a false kindness, and nobody can figure out what the catch is.

Padme has twin infants in her rooms, and Ahsoka's actual usual day-to-day is keeping an eye on Luke and Leia, and riding herd on a bunch of Initiates who are almost old enough to actually understand what's going on.

It's a very tense situation overall, but the actual horrors are, for the most part (so far), happening up in Palpatine's offices.

He knows that Anakin no longer trusts him, and is actually coming quite close to hating him, and so he doesn't try to pretend he's kind. He has Mace, but mostly just forces him to stand around and watch what's actually going on, which is usually... commanding Anakin and Ventress to have sex, and then shocking them with the collars or threatening Anakin's loved ones if they refuse.

He doesn't stay around to watch--it's not of any interest to him--but he does command chipped clones to ensure the two complete the deed, and that Mace watches from the wall without interfering.

(Mace does not want to watch, but even if he closes his eyes, he can hear, and he's the one that gets to apply bacta or cleanup when the incident is over.)

The three of them are not provided any contact with other Jedi, so nobody really knows what's going on with the three of them other than that Mace is never seen, and the younger two look deader in the eyes with every passing day.

(They're trophies, and at least a few Jedi are trying to make plans for Anakin having a far more complex relationship with this situation than most of them, on account of both his history with this trauma and his connection to the man who ushered it in.)

At one point, Palpatine decides to introduce a new element on a random schedule, which is Alpha-17 and the order to "visit some revenge upon the wretch who tortured you with Kenobi, won't you? There is what you may recognize as a 'breeding bench' in the next room, should you want it."

Alpha-17, for the record, does not want to do that. Alpha-17 does not have a choice.

Even without a chip in his own brain, there are brothers here, and Palpatine threatening to kill Fox if Alpha doesn't take him up on the offer to violate Ventress kind of makes the decision for him.

(So does Ventress catching his eyes and giving him the subtlest nod she can, because they're ALL fucked right now, and there are only so many ways to please Palpatine enough for the tortures to remain at a minimum.)

Palpatine is having a lot of fun finding out how close he can push Anakin to Falling like this.

At one point, a reporter of some shade catches Ahsoka in an off moment and asks if she's had any contact with the disgraced Skywalker. She says that no, she hasn't, and nobody else has, either. "Weren't you civvies all really upset about the whole 'child-stealing' rumor, by the way? Wasn't that a big part of the reason you were angry at the Jedi? Skyguy hasn't even gotten to meet his babies because of the Emperor's punishment. Why should his family be getting torn apart when that's one of those things you guys are always mad about in the first place?"

This hits the media trail and does rounds, but doesn't really have an effect.

Anakin isn't aware of it, of course, because his life is currently hell.

He and Ventress have been bonding over a lot of things, like how they were both slaves from a young age until a Jedi freed them, and the more recent bullshit, which they share with Mace (and sometimes Alpha). Ventress's wartime crimes are still a major horror for all three of the Rep-side guys, sure, but it's kind of fallen by the wayside considering everything going on in the moment.

The Senators who aren't pro-Jedi are getting more and more bold, and Palpatine is letting them push what few boundaries were set at the start. They are dressing up their Jedi in more revealing costumes, having them kneel at their feet in the pods or in the center of their offices. Many of the more attractive Jedi are put in next to nothing and made to serve drinks in a way that, to those in the know, is not dissimilar to a Hutt's court. They are asked to dance, or pose and hold as decoration, or to lay by the Senator's feet and suffer their affections like a pet.

(Senator Taa has not yet had his way with Aayla, but she hates him for how she is sat by his feet so he can caress her lekku and call her a good girl.) (She is finding it ever harder to convince herself that it is wrong to kill an unarmed sentient.) (Most of the Jedi are.)

In some cases, when there is an awareness of who a Jedi might consent to sex with--often a clone or a fellow Jedi that there have been rumors about--those Senators will arrange a show. Sure, the clones are meant to keep them from assaulting the Jedi, but there's nothing in those patchy rules the Emperor gave them about watching a Jedi get railed by her clone commander, right?

(Bly wishes it could have happened differently.)

After all, the Emperor always invites his favorite Senators to come up for drinks when Ventress and Skywalker are putting on a show, gagged and bound and blindfolded. Clearly, it's fine to watch. Sometimes, the Emperor even makes sure the two are in ever so humiliating outfits. It's almost cute!

(Sometimes, it's not the favorite Senators that are invited, but the ones that are the most horrified. Padme isn't, because he's still playing at keeping her and Anakin apart. )

(Bail is, because someone needs to ensure Obi-Wan knows what's going on, and Palpatine can almost taste how delicious his horror at his padawan's suffering will be, when the Senator of Alderaan reports back.)

Sometimes, Fox or Thire or whoever is on guard that day is asked to enact some humiliation, such as cuffing them up and waxing them bare, or binding them in some mutual predicament bondage where neither can escape, an act that is humiliating but not directly sexual so much as enabling the furtherment of Palpatine's enjoyment of the 'show couple' that he's made... and then the clone commander has their gun confiscated and their chip deactivated, and they are left in the room with the full weight of their actions and no weapons to even attempt a revenge on the man who's doing this to them.

They are left to sit with that horror, desperately trying to apologize to Anakin and Mace and even Ventress, maybe, and just when they start to bring themselves back together, the chip is reactivated.

(It happens repeatedly. Sheev thinks it's funny, after all.)

Then, because Palpatine wants to dig all these knives deeper, because incremental increases to the psychological torture truly do give him joy, Ventress is confirmed pregnant.

(It's not like Palpatine ever shied away from nonconsensual body modification in canon, and removing some birth control is nothing compared to what he does to Vader.)

The news leaks, probably by way of clone, but maybe it doesn't, and people just don't know or even suspect until Ventress starts showing, or a non-human delegation with particularly sensitive noses can tell by scent. Bothan, maybe.

The baby is probably Anakin's. (It might be Alpha's.)

This sets off gossip and tabloids like none other, and then Padme demands custody.

The Emperor claims that the child's parents are both terrorists or traitors or felons or what have you? Fine. They can't have custody of any child until they are released? Okay. In that case, the newborn should go to the nearest living relative, and since the Empire--by way of inheriting laws from the Republic--still has a rule on the books and in precedent that prioritizes keeping siblings together whenever possible, one that has not yet been overturned, Ventress's child should be with Luke and Leia, as half-siblings. Padme, as Anakin's wife and mother of his children, is thus the nearest living individual with a right to claim them.

Palpatine lets that happen, because he has precisely zero interest in having a wailing newborn in his living or office space, and it's probably going to really fuck up Ventress to have her child taken away only minutes after it's born.

The media starts clamoring a bit and asking if, since they can't take Padme's children away, and Anakin should be with a Senate member anyway, why not just transfer his sentence to the Naboo delegation? And since Ventress is carrying his kid, presumably, shouldn't she go with him too? It's far more in line with galactic policy, right? You'd still have the Head of the Order, Emperor. That's quite the person to have as your own resident Jedi Criminal!

Palpatine decides to let it happen, for now. A touch of happiness in the moment will make the later horrors when they're ripped apart again so much harsher, when there's been a chance to build up some fragile bonds again, and even in the meantime, Anakin's marriage will be on the rocks from the (forced) infidelity, the new child, and the circle of horror that's going to happen whenever they talk about what they've been going through.

(And they can't even mention Palps is a Sith.)

The family is somewhat happily reunited. Padme pastes on a fake smile--she's trying REALLY hard, you guys--for Ventress, and asks if she's had any prenatal care, because Padme wasn't too great about that herself, and she wishes she'd tried harder to discretely see a doctor. Threepio knows how to make a variety of pregnancy-friendly foods, by the way, do you need a snack?

Padme has to put in a lot of effort to not be jealous of how close Anakin and Ventress are now, how well they know each other, compared to Anakin and Padme after their snatches of time here and there over the course of three years. It's patently ludicrous to be jealous of their situation, so she shoves it down deep and decides to deal with it later.

Anakin gets to hold Luke and Leia, at least. He cries. So does everyone else, especially Ahsoka.

(The Guard show up one day. They need to 'borrow' Anakin and the very pregnant Ventress for an event the Emperor is hosting. He'd like to display them, you see. All above-board, promise.)

(They are met by Alpha-17, and they all know the rest of the night is going to be nothing but bondage and unwanted sexual activity.)

(Anakin ends up fucking into Ventress while speared on Alpha's cock, and it's... he might have enjoyed it, in another situation. Here... no. Nothing.)

Their 'reward' for cooperating is that Alpha gets to move into Padme's apartments with them.

It's deeply awkward, for all the same reasons, except also because Rex was kind of in love with Anakin for the last bit of the war, Anakin who has now been fucked by Rex's big brother apparently, and that's not romantic but it is trauma and bonding through sexual horror, and also Rex refuses to make a move while Anakin is in this specific shape of hell and flinches from even his own wife, so what can he even do? The web of relationships with just the four people actually doing sex things is already complicated enough, he can't do anything about it.

Alternately, Rex isn't interested in Anakin but has been having his own horrible situation going on with the Emperor 'encouraging' Padme to put Ahsoka in her place with the help of Rex's dick, which is all kinds of weird and uncomfortable since they were sort of dating, but also not.

IDK where I'm going with this as a plot, other than the idea that some of the Jedi who escaped capture try to save their family after regrouping in the Outer Rim. It involves Cal and Merrin, mostly because I need Merrin and Ventress to somehow compound their powers the second the Force-nullification cuffs and collar come off.

Other option is that, between Rex's spreading of the chip removal and Ahsoka getting temporarily possessed by a magic owl from outer space, the revolution starts from 'inside the house,' so to speak.

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samsimisauser · 5 months

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I am incredibly exited to announce that this year i will be taking part the @mlbigbang

For this Event i have been partnered with the absolutely amazing @asti-doodles (you will get a sneak peek of the art down below the story fragment)

The first chapter will drop on January 5th (that means you'll get to read mine and @mysticraven20s Story on the same day!)

Now to the story: The summary :

Crown-Prince Adrien has just escaped from the more than Six years of confinement he was forced into after his mothers death. And He's really not too keen on his father sitting on his throne, ruling over his people (and doing quite the bad Job). So instead of having a calm few weeks with his aunt, as was the original plan he escapes to the nearest Town and makes contract with the revolutionary cell there. Soon he is brought before their leader, a fierce woman known only as "the Lady". Needless to say he's smitten. Luckily everyone here wants the same thing! Right? Except she keeps going on about this thing called democracy…

Well that`s one way to look at the situation i wonder what the Lady(bug) thinks...?

President ex nihilo Ladybug really only wants one thing, for her people to be free and not starving. Her People of course being everyone without a title. Unfortunately for everyone the government strongly disagrees with her "freedom and not starving" plan and brands her a traitor. Luckily she managed to gather a few like-minded people. And a few not so like-minded People, but at least they all agree on one thing. The king must go. Then the prince shows up on her door. Somewhat surprisingly he also wants to get rid of the king. There`s just one slight problem, she cant get him out of her head.

Now for a sneak peek of chapter one of Sic Semper Regis:

"So you are the -" Adrien tries to project as much authority and confidence as he can. He does not even manage to finish a sentence.

The rapier (presumably what was used to cut his blindfold earlier) is shoved in his face. A moment later she changes her mind, re-sheathing her rapier, and instead points a gun at him. He is far too close, not to mention the Lady's arm is absolutely steady. Adrien sinks down in the chair, it is less of an attempt to avoid what's about to happen and More of an expression of exhaustion and disappointment in himself. One thing is for certain:

He is going to die. Coming here was a mistake.

The Revolutionaries are not his allies, they are a bunch of mindless thugs. Instead of stupidly coming here on his own, he should have just convinced his aunt to move against his father when he had the chance. He made a miscalculation and now he's going to pay the price.

He gathers his last shreds of bravery. He raises his head and looks - for the first and quite possibly the last time at his captor.

She (because it must be her) is dressed in simple clothing, certainly not what he would expect from someone calling themselves "the Lady". A simple pair of dark blue pants, a white shirt underneath a dark west. On top of her dark, somehow almost blueish hair, sits a simple cap, it is black. The only thing differentiating her cap from an ordinary one is the single red feather on its left side. The revolutionaries end all of their pamphlets with the same sketch of a feather.

Desperately he tries to bring his mind back on track, what track? What reason? he is going to die here, his thoughts are spiraling so needs to change… something. He tries to make out her facial features but fails to do so, not because of the light in his cell (his soon to be grave) but because his eyes simply slide off of her.

She's beautiful, his heart sings, stupidly. Well at least I'm going to die with a beautiful woman at my side, he thinks more than a little hysterically. A broken little noise makes its way past his lips. He manages to look into her eyes. They are Blue, so very very blue.

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ladrien #ml fanworks #mlbigbang #preview 2023 #ssr #ml au #ladybug #my fics

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petrow1tch · 6 months

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Yeah so what are your thoughts on the dark ritual in DAO?

LOL ok so i'll try to give two (relatively short) answers, one is a gameplay one, and the other is how i justified in from the lore perspective with my HoF

(GAMEPLAY) The intro of the game where you gather the blood of darkspawn, yeah, the ritual of joining is shrouded in mystery, like "why we don't tell you what is the ritual? dont worry about it wink wink", so you think "hmm is there something wrong with it, what's up?"

So then you start the ritual and BAM you can die during it. One way or another. It feels like "damn ok i'm in it now, but i guess i can see why they kept it a secret, ok, now to play the game and be a hero". Suprises are seemingly over.

then BAM at the end of the game is another reveal that to kill the Archdemon you need to die with it, and, like, ok, it is a bit sudden to give that info to the player who already went through with the Landsmeet and had some plot expectations from it. It feels like a rug being swept from under your feet; and then BAM again here comes Morrigan and says "oh btw you can just not die, just let me have the baby", and, this whole part seems very rushed? Like, ok, there were supposed to be any stakes with choosing who's going to die to end the blight, and suddenly there isn't? (Thats if you're playing a male warden ofc, who can do so himself no matter who's he is in romance with, or you can try and force Alistair to sleep with Morrigan, which i'm not just a fan of. He's already eager to sacrifice himself if you say "i don't wanna die" to Riordan when he says you gotta die to kill AD so why would he agree to a ritual (that he doesn't benefit from) from an apostate (that he dislikes)? If you romance Alistair, then forcing him to sleep with Morrigan is the only choice you have to save your loved one and yourself, but again, would you force someone you love to cheat on you with a person he hates? For a ritual? That he would oppose?)

So, yeah, that whole "die to win" and dark ritual reveal was kinda badly executed IMO

now, to LORE part of why i actually don't mind using the dark ritual

People say that even from in-universe perspective it would be weird to agree to the ritual since the old god would technically still be alive and Morrigan is shady, but you know what? My HoF dgaf.

Now, let's take a look. My HoF is a male Cousland rogue, who was opposed to joining the Grey Wardens when Duncan arrived at the Highever, so that's the angle from which i'm basing my dark ritual choice. It'd be different for different origins methinks.

During Howe's massacre of the castle, Duncan presented the HoF with a "choice":

"Die here or i'll save you to conscript you into GW"

Now. I'm replaying DA2 currently, and this Duncan's offer very much reminds me of Arishok's "we give choice. they can choose to not accept qun and die or to accept the qun and live. #democracy"

So my HoF, who previously stated that he has no interest in joining Grey Wardens, feels very cheated by Duncan using HoF's life as a bargaining chip. It shouldn't have happened! First, Howe slaughtered his entire family, and now Duncan is using the moment to claim HoF's life for his own goal to add numbers to his "glorious murder-suicide" cult? That's fucked up. But HoF doesn't have much choice if he wants to live, so he accepts the offer, with main goal being survival to avenge his family and to live in spite of it all.

So, now we get to the joining, HoF meets Alistair, they gather the blood, meet Morrigan, and go back to the joining ritual. Suddenly HoF sees that you can die from the joining ritual, and from the Duncan also if you reject the joining ritual. what the fuck. Again, there's is no other choice than to accept the outcome that guarantees the bigger chance of survival. HoF goes through with the joining ritual, feeling even more disdain towards GWs.

Joining, Ostagar, saving by Flemeth. HoF and Alistair are the only GW survivors. This is where HoF was about to say "fuck it" and disappear, until Flemeth gathered his ass, after which he decided to wait with rush decisions.

While traveling with Morrigan and Alistair to Lothering, HoF had time to gather his thoughts. He learned that Alistair considered GWs to be his family, and HoF could relate to losing it all at one night, so his disdain towards GWs melted away a bit just for this one guy, who basically lived through the same experience as he did. HoF also found Morrigan interesting and could see reason in some of her actions and decisions, thus they started to form some sort of friendship.

While traveling with these two, HoF found to like Alistair not for just being someone with the same lived experience, but also for a person that he is. You could say it was love, but HoF knew that that couldn't happen, so the best he could do was to be a very good friend.

The longer they traveled, the more HoF understood Alistair's point of view on Wardens as a family, since the adventuring party themselves became some sort of found family to each other. Some of them may not like one another, but they still care for each other's well-being because at the very least, you need them to reach your own goals (committing the dark ritual; avenging the Cousland family; ending the Blight), and at best, they're the ones who you consider friend or even more.

So all this said, HoF found more and more reasons to stay alive, not anymore blinded by anger and revenge, but also for helping those he holds close to his heart. Ending the Blight transformed from being something that he was forced, almost ensalved to do, into something more of a favor for someone he loves.

After gathering all armies, HoF traveled to Denerim where he finally had the chance to kill Howe. He decided to kill everyone who ever associated themselves with Howe, anyone who ever helped him to kill Cousland's family. Be it conspirators, merchants, or even his kids. (Keeping true to his promise, HoF later killed Nathaniel immediately upon learning who he was)

At the Landsmeet, HoF was determined to help Alistair in avoiding the throne, as he wasn't as concerned with grand political scheme as he was with the Alistair's feelings. Thus Anora was made queen, Loghain was executed and Alistair happily gave up any and all rights he had to the royalty. Seemingly a happy end, now to just go to Redcliffe and slay a big evil dragon and the friend's errand is done? WRONG

HEY

GREY WARDEN

WE WANT YOU TO DIE SO FUCKING BAD

HoF and Alistair learn from Riordan that to kill an Archdemon, a warden must sacrifice himself, dying in the process.

He survived the slaughter of his family, he survived the joining, he survived the Fade, Deep Roads, ancient curses and armies of undead, just to die anyways? No. Not gonna happen. HoF will not die killing an Archdemon.

...

"I'll do it"

Facecrack of the fucking century. The man who was the only one HoF could relate to, the man who he considered his closest friend, the man he loved and went all this way for. Alistair says he will kill himself to slay the archdemon.

Without even a chance to say his word, HoF gets shut out by Riordan telling them to get ready for march to Denerim tomorrow. Coming out of the room, he is on the point of breaking apart between his will to live in spite of it all and his desire to save Alistair. There seems no other choice than to forfeit his life and sacrifice himself, that is until he happens on Morrigan in the middle of his room.

And now, now we have this picture of Morrigan suggesting HoF a dark ritual, which would save the chosen warden from untimely death and help Morrigan herself with her goal.

Of course HoF would agree to the ritual.

Of course HoF would help his friend who he had no reason to disagree with prior, fully knowing she has her secrets, but still considering her family

Of course HoF would do anything to save Alistair, whom he loves. Had he known about what it takes to kill an Archdemon, he'd force him to become a king, but alas, the "glorious murder-suicide" cult wouldn't tell all it's secrets neither to him, nor Alistair.

So HoF goes through with the ritual, and when the time comes, he leaves Alistair to defend the gates of the city, much to his surprise. HoF has one chance to do it right, and he cant afford to fuck it up even in the slightest. Doesn't matter what Alistair thinks of him, "how could the man who only yesterday refused to die to archdemon, suddnly leave me here to fight lesser battle, and go to face the dragon himself, without me". It is not important. What is important, is that HoF gonna save Alistair, and that HoF is gonna live in spite of it all.

so yeah lorewise i think dark ritual is pretty neat

#petrotalk #dragon age #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #morrigan #hero of ferelden #my god thats a lot of rambling #tldr: mean witch helps gay boy to save token straightie with fat ass

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rynnaaurelius · 1 year

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I've been deeply unwell about Andor for the last month and a half, and I keep thinking about Nemik's "Remember this: Try." from the finale and its response to Yoda from Episode Five.

In the greater cultural consciousness, that line is taken as a "You either do it or not," as a sort of "Ignore those doubts and suck it up, buttercup, you're gonna do it," and Nemik's line is taken as a rebuke to that, and I think there's validity to that, I do, particularly considering Maarva's speech about how it might be too late, but she'll fight anyway, and the general interpretation of Star Wars when you're not on Tumblr, but also--

In Empire Strikes Back, Yoda says it to Luke because he doesn't believe. He doesn't believe that he can lift the X-Wing, he thinks it's impossible, and says that he'll try in the same way an atheist goes to church.

And Yoda. Yoda tells him to do. Because Yoda is a Jedi, Yoda believes. And he does it, and it's incredible, and at the end, Luke says:

"I don't believe it."

"And that is why you fail."

It's not a matter of strength of will. It's a matter of faith in what you do, something that Star Wars champions from the start. To close your eyes, damn rational thought, and make that leap, to destroy the Death Star, to have faith in your father, in the Chosen One, in your friends, regardless of what your eyes tell you about failure.

It's been in the fabric of Star Wars for decades.

And then we have Nemik. Nemik, who is called the "true believer" by Skeen. Nemik, who encourages the galaxy to try, who has his faith, who calls Cassian, who believes in no greater ideal when they meet, "my ideal reader."

And it's important, I think, to remember the role the Jedi played in the galaxy, both from an in-universe perspective and that of the story itself. They were peacekeepers and guardians, fighting the ultimate bad guys and trying to do good in the galaxy.

They were superheroes. Upholding justice and compassion and democracy and all that good stuff against the darkness.

But the darkness won. The Sith won. The Jedi were wiped out so completely that they and the Force are little more than obscure rumor by the time of Andor.

And with them went that faith--and I mean faith in a mostly secular way, I think. The belief that good trumps evil, that there is a better world to defend, that kindness will bring reward instead of pain.

The Jedi eventually win, of course. Luke Skywalker comes along with destiny and the Force and a ghost mentor and all that entails to make him believe that there is good in Vader.

But--this isn't A New Hope. Cassian Andor is not the son of a Jedi, with a laser sword and Jedi Master to train him in higher ideals and superpowers as he completes the Hero's Journey and saves the galaxy. This is Andor, and everyone on this show is just trying to survive the Empire they live under and not get killed by a trigger-happy Imperial schmuck.

Without the Force, without that faith in a galactic battle between Light and Dark, with just fascism's boot on your throat, one among millions, how do you believe that anything could be good again? That there's a good worth fighting for, when it's mud and death and desperation?

Without a destiny and Chosen Ones and the Force and ghostly mentors, how do you believe in the ability to win against the darkness? How do you recover that faith when it and its protectors have been wiped out from the galaxy?

And Nemik, who is no Luke Skywalker, who is going to die within days of meeting a disbelieving Cassian Andor, who has likely never heard the word Jedi, or seen how fear made one man destroy the Republic, or has the comfort of an all-consuming magical Force to lean on when people keep suffering:

There will be times when the struggle seems impossible. Freedom is a pure idea. Oppression is the mask of fear. One single thing will break the siege. Remember this.

Try.

#star wars #andor #karis nemik #cassian andor #jedi #yoda #thinking about the matter of faith #and how that's really what it always comes down to #also thinking about how yoda had no faith in vader to turn back after order 66 #and luke had nothing but belief the whole way

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severeweatheralert · 7 months

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Hey @sorrowcats happy birthday! I was (am) working on an alt ending AU for the Long Way Home, but I discontinued the first draft (didn't like where the conflict was going (if you're gonna do Evil Ending AUS you gotta follow through)). Which means I have deleted scenes for you. So. V&C angst under the cut :)

(Also major spoilers for LWH, of course, and a bunch of me trying to figure out how I want the Borderlands to work)

(The usual Long Way Home warnings; there was supposed to be some context between the first and the second scene, but they don't make sense without the end of the planned conflict. Not much Chishiya in the last scene but. I like it. So.)

In the distance, there was the fog. Here was the Joker’s tower, charred, stinking of chemical smoke and fear. All black; somehow still standing as the mass of game masters and new recruits filed, one by one, through the entrance. Val was still clutching at Chishiya’s hand. Had barely let it go since the courthouse. ‘Are you sure?’ he said, although he projected nothing but mild curiousity, as though he hadn’t been shot just yesterday, as though they hadn’t chosen death. ‘That ship has sailed.’ She kept the tremble out of her voice. The die was cast. They were Citizens. ‘We’ll figure out what the rules are,’ Chishiya said. How to break them, he didn’t say. The cue shuffled forward. Two dozen new recruits. The bloodstains still on their skin. A broad-shouldered man in a crisp white shirt herded them in, a sharp-toothed grin etched deep into his worn face. The rules. If there was some gap in them, Chishiya would find it. But the tower hadn't burned and the Joker was practically a God. They had accepted permanent Residence. That was all there was to it.

Their turn. Even though the inner room had to be crowded, barely any sound emanated from the void beyond the door. Last chance to run for it, even if the Citizens would shoot them in the back. Die, the way her body had died in the real world, and where would they go then? Hell? Weren’t they there, yet? ‘One at a time,’ the doorman said. Eyes like tar. Trailing over her, over Chishiya. Stopping at their hands. Chishiya smiled at her, and went first. ‘You know,’ the doorman said, ‘We had a bet running on whether you two would stay.’ She swallowed. ‘Did you win?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Now get in.’

The charred walls muffled the chatter, the nervous scuffling of feet. The ceiling hung low, the dark pressing down on them like smog. The old Citizens found the tiles with their names on them. Val hung back, shoulder to shoulder with Chishiya. Still not entirely convinced the Citizens wouldn’t pounce on them like a cat on limping mice. ‘Quiet!’ someone called from the center of the room. The doorman entered. Shut the door, and then there was darkness.

‘Quiet!’ the same person repeated, trying to shout over the strange air, even as it muffled all sound. ‘Tanaka and I counted the votes. Tanaka?’ ‘Good job, everyone,’ Tanaka - presumably - yelled. ‘Results were actually conclusive, this time. If I call your name, go to the second level. Jack of Spades, Nakagawa.’ A round of applause as someone vacated the room. Entered the stairwell. Would the Joker have melted? Golden grin melting, twisting in the heat of the fire? If Chishiya hadn’t had to use his explosives on the grid, could they have levelled the tower then? Had they been one bomb collar away from winning?

She clutched at him as Tanaka listed the new Face Card positions. A vote. The Citizens were, hilariously, running a democracy. Had their names been in the running? She hadn't even thought to consider they might have branded her with a Face Card and send her off to die the very next round of games. Or Chishiya. Fuck. What if they’d named him King of Diamonds and she’d be left alone, to- She forced a shuddering breath into her lungs. They were here now. That was it. If there was a gap in the rules, Chishiya would find it. They would fight it.

‘And that’s that!’ Tanaka called out, as the new King of Hearts ascended into the second chamber. ‘New people! Welcome. You’ve made the worst decision of your lives! Now, you’re going to want to hold on for the next part-’ Tanaka kept talking, but his voice grew even quieter as the entire room dulled. Even the candle light faded, as though the tower itself was starting up a fainting spell, until the only sound in Val’s ears was the pounding of her heart, the rushing of her blood. The only thing she felt the hand in hers, the weight of her boots on the floor as gravity itself increased. Multiplied. She couldn’t move. The light was fading, now, no matter how hard she blinked, no matter how hard she clasped at him. Sweat was beading on her skin.

For half a moment, she was gone entirely.

Then the air was back in her lungs and the candle light was flickering violently and in the distance, someone screamed. ‘Shut it!’ Tanaka yelled. Barely dishevelled. ‘That was the easiest Shifting we’ve had in ages. New people, take a good look at the floor, would you?’ The floor was shiny, black lacquer again, shimmering in the dancing light; worse, Val was standing on a plaque. Bronze. Her name hammered definitively into it, letter by letter, with the same finality of engraving it into a tombstone. Beneath it, a stylized heart. Chishiya stepped aside. Fuck. Val should have seen that coming. The Joker had assigned him Diamonds.

Tanaka was yelling something again, but Val wasn’t listening. Chishiya gave her a half shrug that meant we’ll figure out the rules and I’m smarter than everyone in this room and I don’t particularly care if we lose the game tonight. She was still clinging to his hand.

She was going to have to let it go, eventually.

The berries were the same red as her blood. As Chishiya’s blood. She knew that, now. They had sat against each other on freezing, concrete steps, watching their lifeblood mingle in the dirt. That wasn’t the sort of thing you could get away from. That was permanent. For better or for worse.

The vines, laden with berries, were decorated with thorns. Lean sharp thorns with hooks like fishing lures. One of them had fucked her leg up. To the point even the Joker’s IVs couldn’t put it right again, even if they had somehow closed the jagged rift in her side. The bullet hole in Chishiya’s. Matching scars. Her calf complained as she sank down. Careful. So careful. She needed to get this right. But she had been a scientist, once upon a time, and she could do precision.

Leather gloves and tweezers and an empty ziplock bag. How many berries would it take? Not a lot, she assumed. It’d taken a single scratch of those thorns to turn her body on itself so violently she’d almost died, an impossibly long week ago.

She rose. Stuffed the ziplock into another ziplock and a third, then hid it deep in the confines of her bag. Stood, for a moment, between octogenarian trees curved with the growth of impossible generations. In this iteration of the Borderlands, it didn’t rain. The evening light filtered through their leaves, golden, clouds of tiny flies dancing on the wind. It was almost nice. Almost peaceful. She could almost forget there was a laser grid beyond the forest’s edge - no mountains, here, no cliffsides or bare rock to pitch tents on. I hope she’s made it home. Well. They’d made it to the same place and that would have to be enough.

The grid hummed. It was the high-pitched humming of cheap office lighting, the kind she’d be able to tune out if it didn’t set the hairs on the back of her neck straight up. She squared her shoulders. She was a Citizen, now. The grid wasn’t meant for her. It knew that, too. Still she needed a moment, to take a breath, force the oxygen into her blood, her brain. To tell herself it was fine, to panic later. Then she stepped forward. The grid zipped open around her. Not even a flash of heat. Not the stink of burning hair, burning flesh. Another thing to get used to.

The Joker’s tower landmarked the top of the Residence’s hill, the only orientation point she had in the coiling streets. It was black, black like the void was black, had absorbed her whole and rearranged her atoms to suit its needs. The town had changed, during the Shift; streets that used to coil one way now coiled in the other direction. Every building different, lopsided, jagged; each designed by another subconscious. There were brutalist blocks, cottages, small-scale towers and farmhouses, arranged with all the artistry of an impatient toddler. Only the plaques on the doors were the same. A name. A suit.

Their plaque had two names.

It was a modern structure, whitewashed concrete and straight lines, the perfect opposite of the house she grew up in. But inside there were rugs, soft on her feet once she kicked her shoes off, rugs and plants in boxes by the windows, black metal bookshelves and even, ridicilously, a basement laboratory. The Joker indulging her. Saying, quietly, do all the research you want. You’re never going to figure it out. And maybe on her own she wouldn’t. Except she wasn’t on her own. That was why she was here.

#writing #long way home #mine #snippets from my drafts #deleted scenes #alt ending au #fic #ao3 #alice in borderland

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tobiasdrake · 6 months

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The final camera. Tension continues to build. Who's going to die? How? Why?

Yup. Here we are. Setting up a secret spycam at the entrance to an all-girls' school for what Shachi assures me are definitely freedom-fighting reasons. Most certainly.

On the plus side, that camera is super visible, especially when you consider the stairs leading up offscreen to my right, giving people an easy vantage from which to see the poorly-concealed cam. Yuma didn't even bother to try and stick it in the bushes.

So there's a strong chance that, within a couple days, someone will stomp on it while screaming "FUCKING PERVERT." An assessment that I'm not entirely sure I disagree with.

None of these places seem to be bustling with police activity, which makes me really suspicious about why you sent me here, bruh.

Sure, I can call and let him know it's done. We'll see if he picks up. He has a pretty high chance of being either the killer, the victim, or the falsely-accused by Amaterasu in this case. For a man of his grand importance, who we've been told has one of two guns in play on his person, and who is the nicest cinnamon roll ever to lead a rebellion? Yeah, there's no way he's going to be a mere witness.

Plus he seems to know a lot about homunculi, which is either good or bad for his chances for survival. If he lives, he can tell us things like Kurumi did. But if he dies, he can take his knowledge with him and leave us fumbling around in the dark some more.

...oh, or maybe Serval is trying to kill us in order to tie up loose ends. That's also a possibility. I'll admit, I did not see that coming.

Wait, is Shachi's transceiver going to explode? I thought that meant ours was going to explode.

Well. Fuck. The game is afoot. That happened abruptly. Serval is immediately suspicious, but in that "too suspicious" sort of way. Like, the only person who could possibly be responsible for this is Serval, which makes Serval's culpability way too obvious to be true.

Yeah, I didn't think we were crossing two separate districts in five minutes' time. Okay, time to go find Shachi's smoldering corpse and begin asking the questions. Like. Why was he in the phone booth where we planted the first cam?

But there doesn't appear to be a body in it. So maybe the bomb wasn't Shachi's transceiver. Maybe the cameras are the bombs.

That would explain the bizarre placements, if the Resistance wants to do some shock-and-awe property damage bombings but without hitting any civilians in the process. These are all in locations that are remote enough that they could be detonated without hitting anyone but close enough that people would notice.

Like, if they wanted to kill people, we'd set the bomb inside the cafe. Not at a bus stop outside the cafe.

Y'know what? I support this. They're making a public spectacle and being disruptive without hurting anyone in the process. This is way better than anything they might have done with those cameras.

I assume they probably still have a camera built-in, so Serval can tell when there's no one in the blast radius.

...okay, so they just got lucky that there was no one in the blast radius. My bad.

My dude isn't wrong when he suggests that there will be casualties on the road to revolution. In a fascist dictatorship, there are few if any non-violent roads to change, and violent means lead to violent consequences.

But he's saying it with the Wicked Bad Guy tone and language, so he's obviously talking about the Resistance killing civilians rather than rallying soldiers to die for liberation. You know how media is. "Anti-fascists are JUST AS BAD as the fascists! Maybe worse!" Writers sure do love their aggressive centrism.

Which brings us right back around to "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss." This is not a democracy. These people have no power over their government, and their government is cruel and corrupt enough to not care about collateral damage. There is nothing to be gained by targeting civilians for reprisal.

#master detective archives: rain code #drake plays rain code

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jarchivussy · 1 year

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the people have spoken. it is time.

[id: a badly edited screenshot of my poll. the text on top reads: 'ok wait. democracy or whatever'. the question of the poll is: 'should i write a call-out post for vee' with the options being 'yes' and 'no'. the yes option is at 100% and there is poorly colour matched scribbles over my pfp to make it appear like i did not vote for it. other edits are: the number of votes has been edited to be '1 mil', and the 'poll ends in' indicator has been edited to 'poll ended already'. end id.]

so. i would like to bring to people's attention that vee littlespoonsokka @grossgirl might not be the person they appear to be at first in this totally serious call-out post.

it all started on august 12th of 2022 when i sent a very innocuous ask, simply stating my preference for the number 49 and ham, and healthily communicating my feelings and expressing them to vee. however, he woke up and chose violence. her response not only denied me in my feelings, but also insulted ham and the number 49. i would be willing to forgive and forget, as i am a kind and very nice person, but unfortunately for us all, vee was on a roll. later the same day, they again slandered ham, even going as far as saying that it, and i quote: 'sounds like the saddest pussy!!!' not only this, but he also admitted to having lied to me about being 5'9" prior (i am autistic and heights are very important to me).

now, this was enough of a mess as it is, but on january 4th the same year, vee also admitted that she would soon no longer be a neurodivergent minor, instead becoming a 'neurodivergent major' (explanation on why this label is harmful here). they even claimed it was 'not of their own choice' when it clearly is. (additionally, he refused to pay my hospital bills, but amongst the other awful things she's done, i wasn't even sure if i wanted to include it).

and finally. today was just the last straw. what started as an innocent discussion of peanuts and food preferences, unfortunately devolved into something much more sinister in the comments. vee went as far as saying he wishes 'an anvil falls on my foot' and even told me to 'die' as well as attacking his poor and completely innocent (now ex) hubby @nazumichi.

this post isn't made to provoke harassment or anything of the sort. it's just to inform you and bring to light what dark things may hide in the shadows of your mutualships....... so watch out

#originals #GIANT SLASH JAY SLASH EL HAYCH (we are all joking around)#but no i actually seriously felt so dizzy writing this. i think vee hexed me

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jessicas-southkoreanlitblog · 2 years

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5 Interesting South Korean NonFiction Books

I want to Die But I Want to Eat Tteokpokki by Baek Sehee

"PSYCHIATRIST: So how can I help you?

ME: I don't know, I'm – what's the word – depressed? Do I have to go into detail?

Baek Sehee is a successful young social media director at a publishing house when she begins seeing a psychiatrist about her - what to call it? - depression? She feels persistently low, anxious, endlessly self-doubting, but also highly judgmental of others. She hides her feelings well at work and with friends, performing the calmness her lifestyle demands. The effort is exhausting, overwhelming, and keeps her from forming deep relationships. This can't be normal. But if she's so hopeless, why can she always summon a yen for her favorite street food: the hot, spicy rice cake, tteokbokki? Is this just what life is like?

Recording her dialogues with her psychiatrist over a twelve-week period, and expanding on each session with her own reflective micro-essays, Baek begins to disentangle the feedback loops, knee-jerk reactions, and harmful behaviors that keep her locked in a cycle of self-abuse. Part memoir, part self-help book, I Want to Die but I Want to Eat Tteokbokki is a book to keep close and to reach for in times of darkness. It will appeal to anyone who has ever felt alone or unjustified in their everyday despair." (GoodReads.com)

A History of Korea: From "Land of the Morning Calm" to States in Conflict by Jinwung Kim

"Contemporary North and South Korea are nations of radical contrasts: one a bellicose totalitarian state with a failing economy; the other a peaceful democracy with a strong economy. Yet their people share a common history that extends back more than 3,000 years. In this comprehensive new history of Korea from the prehistoric era to the present day, Jinwung Kim recounts the rich and fascinating story of the political, social, cultural, economic, and diplomatic developments in Korea’s long march to the present. He provides a detailed account of the origins of the Korean people and language and the founding of the first walled-town states, along with the advanced civilization that existed in the ancient land of "Unified Silla." Clarifying the often complex history of the Three Kingdoms Period, Kim chronicles the five-century long history of the Choson dynasty, which left a deep impression on Korean culture. From the beginning, China has loomed large in the history of Korea, from the earliest times when the tribes that would eventually make up the Korean nation roamed the vast plains of Manchuria and against whom Korea would soon define itself. Japan, too, has played an important role in Korean history, particularly in the 20th century; Kim tells this story as well, including the conflicts that led to the current divided state. The first detailed overview of Korean history in nearly a quarter century, this volume will enlighten a new generation of students eager to understand this contested region of Asia." (GoodReads.com)

Devotion: An Epic Story of Heroism, Friendship, and Sacrifice by Adam Makos

"Devotion tells the inspirational story of the U.S. Navy’s most famous aviator duo: Lieutenant Tom Hudner, a white New Englander from the country-club scene, and Ensign Jesse Brown, an African American sharecropper’s son from Mississippi. Tom passed up Harvard to fly fighter planes for his country. Jesse became the navy’s first black carrier pilot to defend a nation that wouldn’t even serve him in a bar.

While much of America remained divided by segregation, Jesse and Tom joined forces as wingmen in Fighter Squadron 32. Adam Makos takes us into the cockpit as these bold young aviators cut their teeth at the world’s most dangerous job—landing on the deck of an aircraft carrier—a line of work that Jesse’s young wife, Daisy, struggles to accept. Then comes the war no one expected, in faraway Korea.

Devotion brings us into the foxholes with U.S. Marines and soaring overhead with Tom and Jesse as they battle a North Korean invasion. As the fury of the fighting escalates, Tom and Jesse fly, guns blazing, to save a Marine division cornered at the Chosin Reservoir and outnumbered ten to one. When one of the duo is shot down behind enemy lines and pinned in his burning plane, the other faces an unthinkable choice: watch his friend die or attempt history’s most audacious one-man rescue mission.

A tug-at-the-heartstrings tale of bravery and selflessness, Devotion asks: How far would you go to save a friend?"(GoodReads.com)

Brother One Cell: An American Coming of Age in South Korea's Prisons by Cullen Thomas

"At age twenty-three Cullen Thomas was, like most middle-class kids his age, looking for something meaningful and exciting to do before settling into the 9-to-5 routine. Possessed of a youthful, romantic view of the world, he set off for adventure in Asia and a job teaching English in Seoul, South Korea. But he got more than he ever bargained for when an ill-advised stunt led to a drugsmuggling arrest and a three-and-a-half-year prison sentence. Brother One Cell is Cullen�s memoir of that time�the harrowing and unusual story of a good kid forced to grow up in very unusual circumstances.

One of only a handful of foreign inmates, Cullen shared a cell block with human-traffickers, jewel smugglers, murderers, and thieves. Fortunately for him, the strict Confucian social mores that dominated the prison made it almost a safe place, different from the brutal, lawless setting most would imagine. In the relative calm of this environment Cullen would learn invaluable life lessons and come out of the experience a wise and grounded adult. With its gritty descriptions of life behind the concrete walls, colorful depictions of his fellow inmates, and acute insights about Korean society, Brother One Cell is part gritty prison story, part cautionary tale, and part insightful travelogue into the places most people never see."(GoodReads.com)

Trail of Crumbs: Hunger, Love, and the Search for Home: a memoir by Kim Sunée

Kim Sunée was three years old when her mother took her to a crowded marketplace and left her on a bench with a fistful of food. Three terrifying days and nights later a policeman discovered Kim, who was clutching what was now only a fistful of crumbs.

Nearly twenty years later, Kim's life is unrecognizable. Adopted by a family in New Orleans, she grew up as one of only two Asian children in her community. At the age of twenty-two, she becomes involved with a famous French businessman, and finds herself living in France, mistress over his houses in Provence and Paris, and stepmother to his eight year-old daughter.

But despite this glamorous lifestyle, Kim never really feels at home. Trail of Crumbs follows Kim as she cooks her way into many makeshift homes and discovers that familiar flavors are the antidote to a lifetime of wandering. Ultimately, it is in food and cooking that Kim finds solace and a sense of place. Sensuous, intense, and intimate, this powerful memoir will appeal to anyone who is passionate about love, food, travel, or the ultimate search for self." (GoodReads.com)

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