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helahades · 4 years

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The Goddess and the Grocer

(Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Sappy and hopelessly romantic, the part time art student, part time grocery bagger, and full time fantasy creator Steve Rogers lives in his head, with you as his muse. Making puzzles out of your groceries, and portraits of your every curve and edge, he fears and craves every interaction, while living with you as a lover in his mind.

A/N: Well. I have struggled with motivation for the longest. Something hit me though, and by something I mean other supportive writers and great friends. Hugest shoutout to @threeminutesoflife for being a darling and @imanuglywombat for making TWO beautiful mood boards I stare at more than Steve stares at the Peggy compass.

Warnings: creepy, obsessive Steve. ideation of creepy thoughts. food focused talk. mention of overeating. dub-con concepts. two mentions of alcohol consumption.

New blog, new me! I’ll take this moment to say I’m taking requests, and I love feedback even more than Steve loves you! hope you enjoy

Word Count: about 3k

Now rain slicked, the sheen of oil and water twists the reflections of the tonights red, red, green—-“can I make the turn, no too late” on yellow—now red traffic lights into a twisted rainbow on the city streets.

Down those streets, and across a barren parking lot, parents, lovers, businesspeople and more squeak and clack and slap their rainy shoes on the old speckled tile at the entrance (that Steve had just mopped) as they do every week.

At the Potts Grocery Store, nothing ever changes. And never in the night.

It isn’t just night though, it’s dead night. The odd time after things have slowed for sleep, after the rush in between when people bumble in (promising themselves promises they won’t keep about doing the shopping sooner next month), after the ten minute period within which Dr. Banner wordlessly picks up the same array of bland teas.

The night has crawled beyond all the events that happen as they do, and entered the dead night.

Maybe Steve is too poetic—like his dad says he is—too tied up in fate, and hope in life’s mystique, but he holds hope for what happens where the night is dead.

When the night dies, and most are asleep, with it, facades die too. The only people to come in the dead of night, are drunks, doctors, various night shifters, and… you.

He hasn’t yet questioned your reason for showing up so late. Hasn’t really, technically, spoken to you at all, really.

Some part of Steve thinks, maybe if he startles you, says something that clangs too loud or awkward, all your pieces will blow away, like some agitated dandelion, and he will never know you again, if he ever even knew you at all.

No, Steve’s job isn’t to startle you, or to take up your space. It’s to try and meet your eyes as you hand him the reusable bags. It’s to try and figure out what meal you’re planning from what he’s bagging, and what he already knows lies unused in your kitchen. It’s to put the bags in your cart if you’ll let him.

He hasn’t seen you yet. It’s getting late, where are you?

Somewhere between cold fluorescent and neutral warm desk lamps, the lights of the grocery store seem to exist both to chase shadows on tired shoppers' faces, and to mock him, like a candle finally blown out by a stood up date.

Had he done something wrong the last time? If he had, that couldn’t be helped. You were wearing those shorts and looked like you had just gotten ready for bed and you had your hair pulled back, but just a little fell into your face anyway.

And your scent. It always wraps around him like the saccharine spice of pastries when he swings open the bakery door for his morning shift.

The moment you breezed by him after checkout was almost too much to bear. He caught the fresh damp scent of your tied up and deep conditioned hair. You smelled like fresh linens and a life he can only imagine having when he’s chasing orgasms alone and twisting up his sheets.

He could have devoured you.

But he didn’t.

Not even when your shoulder accidentally grazed him while you were rushing out in a frenzy.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” came your frantic whisper.

He dreams of making you that delicate again. He thinks he could shape your unsure apologies in his hands like clay, or spread you thin on a canvas when you whisper so soft. But he didn’t do those things at all.

Steve being Steve, he tried to make his large frame slouch, your aura wrapping him up into a double life Clark Kent shyness, despite your gentleness.

He didn’t say a word.

A wordless, mirthless stretch of his lips. An “It’s okay, walk all over me” grin. You regarded him with a flicker of an odd glance, and then you were out the door.

As he finishes up with the last shopper in his lane, his worn Converse squeak as he leans his frame against the bagging station at checkout.

Last class, last week, his art teacher dropped a big assignment. Stuffy and sadistic, the man seemed to only eat the pain of lovers kept from expression, so of course, he relished in the moment he told the class to try a new medium, with a subject they hadn’t previously captured.

He seemed to look directly at Steve as he delivered the blow.

Steve's problem certainly isn’t creativity. It isn’t talent or lack of effort. He surely is adaptable, he rarely tells on his love!

For the still life project, he captured the tree that blocks your kitchen window. Heavy strokes in his sketchbook.

He even painted the park in blooms on a paper towel—yes a paper towel—when you justified to a cashier one day that all the crackers and deli meats were for a picnic.

So he has a muse. But he’s not a fool. Sometimes he spends so much time trying not to look like a fool, and paints so much around you instead of you, that it’s a self portrait of his own obsession.

Your face. Your curves. The many separated sections where he tried to master the texture of your hair. All those traces of you live in his sketchbook. Only twice has he turned in a portrait of you.

Being told he can’t have you makes Steve feel like he’s been too obvious. You’re his little secret. And he is no fool. He’ll have to be more careful. So here he is.

The canvas is as bare as the walls of his studio apartment.

Three jobs and a potted plant from his mom just aren’t enough to decorate life. He wishes he could capture sleep in a picture frame and hang it on the wall. When he got too tired and caffeine stopped working, he thinks he’d pick up those frames and absorb the sleep in the way he can absorb nostalgia when looking at a real picture.

Then, he thinks, that’s the sort of thing art majors say when they haven’t slept in three weeks.

The canvas is still bare. It isn’t like Steve. He always knows where to go, what he feels, what he wants.

His teacher told him to try something different. Had the nerve to clap Steve on the back after class and say something about stretching creative wings and finding a new muse.

He thinks the guy should have punched him in the face instead.

There’s nothing stuck about Steve. He knows what he wants and how to get there.

He also knows that schooling ruins the intent of art, he knows how to put love into colors, that art teachers know the least about expression out of everyone on earth, and that he works two night jobs a week to barely afford to be taught by that man anyway.

Life is full of oddities.

Some of life’s oddities are right there in your cart as you approach. Steve notices the rain has frizzed your hair, the lovely heart shaped curve of your lips as they stretch into a smile, and the way you yawn before you say hello to the cashier.

He makes a mental note that your hair might have a warmer tinge when illuminated by the sun. You’re already his sun. His stars too. Maybe even his whole universe.

You’re always warm in his paintings. Anything to separate you from the dreadful scheme of this commercial death trap.

What’s for dinner this week?

Your groceries thump onto the counter in practiced succession. Perishables together at the front, and non perishables as neatly as possible following behind.

So thoughtful, my sweet darling.

Your produce today mostly consists of fruit. It reminds Steve of how practiced he is with a knife. How he’d slice up your apples just right for you. He has the practiced skills of an artist. He’d take care of you.

Bucky likes to tell him that cooking is the art and baking is the science. That’s meant to mean that it’s no surprise that Buckys got a perfect little life with a perfect little baker who smiles like the sun and only trusts Bucky in her kitchen.

...And it’s no surprise that Steve’s artsy streak has led him here. Thinking about folding mandarin slices between your perfect lips and letting the flavor explode across your tongue.

He thinks about kissing you. How you would taste tangy and sweet as you try not so hard to push him off so he gets back to cooking and doesn’t burn the house down.

The house. A house with you. A home.

He sees you’re wearing a sundress, and tries not to pity you for the irony. In the closet of some cookie cutter three bedroom, you might ask him how you look in it. He would beg you to wear it just for him a little longer, but ultimately, he would have been able to warn you about the rain.

You wouldn’t have listened though, my stubborn angel.

He thinks about your thighs beneath your dress, and the heat between them.

Sometimes, his dreams betray him, and he steps through the threshold to your shared home, not an artist, but a “Honey, I'm home” suit wearing prisoner.

He fears the simple life, but with you, he believes simplicity could be enough. Maybe he would be rich enough to buy you a million sundresses.

But without his art, he’d be powerless to show you how rich you look, bathed in color, divine from his perspective.

Without his art, he has no outlet for imagination. The only thing that gets him off these days is imagining what you look like under your clothes, and how it might sound if you spoke his name.

When you buy lotion, or a candle, he makes a mental note of the scent, and uses it to color his experience later. You like warm sugary scents, or natural outdoorsy ones, with no in between.

As you small talk with the cashier, your card slips from between your fingers and clatters onto the unswept floor. Finishing a thought, you delay in retrieving it, but by the time you’re leaning down, Steve’s already handing it back.

Eyes flitting up to meet the baggage boy standing up at full height, you melt into an easier smile.

You notice first that his eyes are incredibly blue behind the dark window frames, and second that his hands are incredibly warm as he hands your card back.

Frazzled, and just a bit smitten, you smile kindly.

“Thank you,” you say sweetly, regarding him fully, perhaps for the first time, and pausing only to let your eyes drift to the knitted cotton polo stretched across his broad chest—no, to the name tag resting on it…

“Steve,” you finish with a smile that makes it ring like an exclamation point. To hear you finally pronounce his name… it’s like church bells. But they’re muted because now he can only consider your eyes locked on his.

He’s never wanted to escape somewhere and go home with someone so badly. And would it be so wrong?

He could slice up fruit for you. He could bring sausages and deli meats and blocks of cheeses whole from the market where they slipped him things free. He’d slice them up nice and wrap them in cloth and surprise you with an old fashioned wicker basket picnic in the mountains.

He’d let you eat yourself round. And after you were full, he’d still offer to feed you grapes, to pour you more wine.

Steve never understood why the rich ate bread with olive oil, but God he wanted to be rich enough to give you that. All the things that sound ridiculous to people who work to live. He wanted to work so hard you’d never work again.

He wanted to kiss you dizzy, bunch up the fabric of your dress on your hip and tell you he loves you while you’re wine drunk. He’d carry you back to the car and surprise you with wildflowers in a bunch.

Later, he’d paint you nude with them in your hair, and he’d feed you more grapes.

He would tuck you in and wrap you up for later when you woke up missing him. Maybe he wouldn’t leave at all. Maybe you would want to spend the whole day with him too.

He’s got a twinkle of charm in his eye and just a bit of sadness that looks every bit like the starving artist people believe him to be. Bucky hasn’t stopped bringing him the leftover rolls at closing since he found out Steve spends more money on paint than meals.

And is it so wrong? As Steve looks into your eyes, he musters all that charm his mom said he was born with. He blinks brighter the twinkle in his eye.

“You’re welcome,” comes Steve’s gentle, but sure reply.

You pause at that, because really it’s nothing... But people always seem to say “Don’t worry about it!”, “It’s nothing”, or maybe nothing at all.

You pause at how the reaction seemed genuine, in a world of practiced replies, and on a day that you’re feeling shitty because the rain ruined your hair and happiness.

You smile at him again, grateful for a pocket of truthful kindness, and turn back to the cashier, effectively ending the interaction.

Steve’s mind is spinning in ways he just can’t bring himself to understand. So he bags your groceries. You forgot the reusable bags, he doesn’t pause to wonder why.

Click. Click. Click. Beep!

Tomatoes. He bags them with the apples. Double bags for good measure.

Beep.

Spaghetti. The good kind that most people overlook in favor of a more common brand. New bag.

Beep.

Frozen garlic bread. He adores you. You’ve got garlic and basil and more herbs than you’ll ever need at home. You’d probably make the spaghetti noodles and parmesan yourself if you could. But you love five minutes at 400 garlic bread.

He imagines your pretty little kitchen, with all its various knick knacks, smelling like garlic and tomato sauce. He can’t help thinking you’d be impressed with his chopping skills too. Just how his mom taught him.

He imagines cooking with you in the dead of night, instead of being here. He imagines you bending over with your legs straight and your back curved and the oven mitts on to get garlic bread out of the oven. You put the tray on the cold burners Steve’s not using.

Maybe he would ask you to try the sauce, he’d hold the spoon to your lips after blowing off for you. Your eyes always flutter closed to process the taste of things, and sometimes he swears he could read your mind.

Then they would open. Wide. The same way they did when you tasted the new product double chocolate brownie sample last Tuesday. You would tell him how perfect it is and praise how he finally isn’t shy about using garlic anymore. Turning off the burners, he’d pull you into his arms, he’d kiss you til you saw stars…

Walking you backwards, still entangled in the breathless kiss, he wouldn’t stop until you bumped the padded kitchen bench. Then he’d fall to his knees.

“Steve, honey”—

You’d cut yourself off with a breathy moan because he’d already be under your skirt.

Kissing up your thighs, flattening his tongue against you, kissing you gently, before sucking your clit, while working it with the tip of his tongue, he’d show you again, like always, how passionate of a lover he is.

You’d moan like heaven, because you are.

You’d lean back, propping yourself up on an arm and pushing the other hand through his golden hair. You just can’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue that’s still worshipping you.

He won’t use his fingers. It wouldn’t be proper, he’s just been cooking. So instead, he uses those hands to pull your thighs up onto his shoulders.

Still swirling his tongue around your clit, Steve is drawing you closer, your body seeming to know it’s own ways to pull him to you too.

It’s electric. You can’t stop and you’d never want to. He’d make love to you every single—

That’s not where he is though. He grabs the paper bags he’s bagged up with your ingredients and some other oddities, and he places them in the cart you’ve pushed forward.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re going home alone. He tries not to think about how he’ll be sleeping alone, and in cold colors. Tries to skip forward to later when he has all the time in the world to imagine the way things should be.

A quiet goodnight and you’re on your way. You’re careful not to graze him as you walk away, and he’s careful not to be obvious watching.

The cashier leaves the station, and Steve puts his head down as he passes, before looking up in your direction as he always does.

Except… when he looks up to see your sundress swishing, it isn’t. And you’re turned back looking at him with this funny little look.

You smile. A twinkle of embarrassment, nervous to have been caught looking. He tries not to chuckle for all the irony.

He watches you as you watch him just a bit longer, before your sundress swishes out the door, and the light of your halo fades into the distance, consumed by the rain.

By the time his shift is up, the rain has stopped and the sky is colored like a bruise. The sun knocks at a threshold unseen, just slightly feathering light through the sky.

Steve is dead tired, but he won’t sleep a wink. Once he arrives at his apartment, he begins the project.

A mixed medium piece. Acrylic paint, charcoal shadowed details. It’s a wicker basket, full of apples, grapes, and wildflowers.

Later, as the sun rises, and the painting is half done, he flops into bed, finishing up a stale roll from the bakery, and dreams about waking up to you.

He pretends there’s no job to be at in three and a half hours, but instead, that it’s a quiet Sunday, and he’s waking up to you in his arms...

Soft and ethereal.

Thank you for reading!

Whether or not this is your type of writing, or you liked it at all, I just want to tag some authors who generally inspire me and helped in some way to motivate me posting my first piece: @threeminutesoflife @imanuglywombat @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18 @heavenbarnes @tropicalcap @allaboardthereadingrailroad @thotty-tatertot @sapphirescrolls

#dark!steve #steve #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers #steve x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #steve au #steve rogers au #civillian!steve #artist!steve

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aswallowssong · 3 years

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OWP (but make it December?) Day 12 - My BFF

These are back too! I forgot I had already written this one (bless) so I guess the one that’s basically just silliness will have to wait until tomorrow... oops?

Read on AO3

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JJ had brought the game under the guise that they could only play so much poker in a five hour flight.

Kit knew that it was really because Hotch would never let them play five hours of poker on the jet. Someone would come away wounded.

She also knew it was for her benefit. She’d been working between sites for two months, and she didn’t know much about anyone on the team, save for Morgan. Even with their morning workouts, they were surface level friends at best.

Somehow she thought that it might have been Hotch behind it, but she couldn’t be sure, and she wasn’t going to ask. While still holding fast to the mantra that she wasn’t a part of the BAU team, the more they made an attempt to include her, the more she wished it were true.

“Okay, this one says, who’s your best friend?”

“Lame,” Elle said, her small grin full of mirth. Morgan nodded, “Yeah, that’s a boring one. Why do you always pick the most mellow cards, Jayje?”

JJ pouted momentarily. “You have to pick off the top, Morgan. What was I supposed to do, look through the cards until I found one I liked? That’s cheating.”

“Actually, I don’t think you can cheat in games like this, because there isn’t a point system. No winner, or loser, would be affected by the cards chosen.”

“This isn’t a game you can win,” Kit said, “If there isn’t a point system, how would you win at all?”

Reid thought for a moment with his eyebrows pulled together before he looked over at JJ and said simply. “This isn’t a game.”

“I didn’t say it was a game,” JJ said evenly, though the annoyance radiating off of her was entirely palpable. Elle shrugged as she and Morgan shared a look, but Spencer wasn’t done. “Actually, you said ‘Okay everyone, we aren’t playing cards for five hours, we’re playing a game that’-”

“Who’s your best friend, Reid?” Elle said, effectively both cutting off his verbatim quote of JJ from an hour before, and his impending death-by-Kit-glare if he continued. She hated when he quoted someone back to themselves. It felt like Reid trying to show off, and she hated a show off.

Reid was clearly caught off guard, though he was the one next to JJ. The rule was that everyone had to answer but the person holding the card, and Reid was seated on JJ’s other side. “Oh, um. I don’t know. Morgan?”

“Aw, thanks Pretty Boy,” Morgan said, heckling from across the table. “I’ll say you, but just because you said me, and you make the coffee in the breakroom almost good compared to the way Elle makes it.”

Elle, who was next to Morgan, rolled her eyes and shoved at him. “Listen, that coffee sucks without my help.”

“Who’s your best friend, Elle?” JJ asked, she and Kit sharing the same laugh as they watched the two bicker back and forth. Elle thought for a second before she said, “I guess Liza. She and I went through the academy together, and then we were both in Seattle. We get together when she’s in town and try to talk, but…” She trailed off and gestured vaguely, but they all knew. Kit nodded along with the others. She felt like she barely ever talked to her siblings anymore, especially the ones she didn’t live with. The BAU was running them all ragged, one day at a time.

Elle looked up at Kit, nodded at her. “Alright, Lep. You’re last, go ahead.”

“Hotch and Gideon didn’t go,” Kit said, nodding towards the men on the other side of the jet. They both insisted they were not playing, but they’d still been asked every question, and both had answered with little to no interest.

“Haley,” Hotch said easily, without even looking up from his file.

“David Rossi,” Gideon said, barely glancing up from his book before looking back down.

The group of five around the table were silent for a second before Elle nodded, looking over at Kit and saying, “Okay, there you go. Haley and David Rossi.”

“Who’s yours?” JJ said, giving Kit a small, encouraging smile.

Kit took a breath and tilted her head. “Um. Oh, okay. Monty, easily.”

“Monty isn’t your best friend,” Morgan said, and Kit raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, no?”

“No, she’s your identical twin sister who you work and live with. That’s not friendship, that’s codependency.”

Kit raised an eyebrow at him, eyes going hard and defensive. She knew he was joking, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Okay, so, Ari then?”

“Don’t you all live together?” Reid asked, tactlessly. “That would make Morgan’s reasoning sound for both your… twins? Siblings? How are you supposed to phrase that?”

“Cúpla,” she said easily, “Ari and I aren’t identical twins.”

“You’re in a set of triplets,” Elle pointed out. “I think that counts.”

These fucking people.

“Okay, well, then…” Kit trailed off, ears burning as she realized she didn’t really have any friends that weren’t Ari or Monty. They spent their time together on Sundays, the only day they all had off, and Kit saw Ari in the evenings and Monty leaving work. All her other time was spent in the clinic, or at the BAU.

“Then?” JJ prompted, and Kit sighed and looked away from their group. “Then I guess I don’t have one.”

“You don’t talk with any of the girls from the clinic?” Morgan asked, and Kit shook her head.

Elle prompted further, “What about your academy roommate?”

“Monty,” she said quietly, one hand coming up to tug at her left braid while the other slid along the leg of her pants.

Morgan spoke again, gently throwing an elbow in her direction, “No secret boyfriend?”

She knew he was teasing. He was trying to bring the mood back up; the mood she’d clearly just crushed by admitting that she didn’t have any friends at all. “I don’t have time for a secret boyfriend, even if I wanted one,” Kit said, rolling her eyes and swatting at his shoulder.

Reid looked confused at the other end of the table, next to Elle. “We have a two day weekend every week. Surely if you wanted to go out, you could go on either Friday or Saturday night without seeing sleep repercussions?”

Kit shook her head. This conversation was very quickly going from sort of sad to super depressing. “I work Saturdays in the clinic. My only day off during the week is Sunday, and if we’re on a case, I don’t get a day off at all.”

“You work six days a week?” JJ asked, clearly unaware. Kit didn’t care, she’d never told them, and hadn’t anticipated it coming up. She didn’t really care. Why would she?

She was sort of glad the conversation was scooting away from her lack of any conceivable friendship.

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug, “I have to keep my hours balanced. Three days with you, three days with them.”

“That doesn’t leave you a lot of personal time for friends.” Elle crossed one leg over the other, actively wrangling the conversation back into the super depressing. Kit wished she would have left it alone, but she knew it was strange. What twenty five year old had literally no friends?

They were quiet again for far too long. Kit refused to look up, or around, or at anything at all. She focused on the dryness of her hands, constantly chapped and raw from washing and washing in the clinic. She was startled when, out of anyone sitting there, Reid spoke up.

“You talk to us,” he said simply.

The other three nodded immediately, words tumbling and spilling as if they’d all been wanting to speak up, and now the floodgate was open for them.

“You came to my apartment when I got strep,” JJ said. “I wouldn’t have called anyone but a friend for that.”

“And I’ve never had a better training partner,” Morgan said, “No one else is competitive enough.”

“I didn’t think anyone else would share the same taste in music as I do, but then we caught you at the bar, and I knew you were cool before, but that really sold it.”

Kit looked around at them before feeling a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She knew what they were doing, of course, but the feelings coming off of them were genuine. They meant what they said, and she was incredibly grateful. She didn’t let the tears that threatened to prick get any further than a threat, but she had to physically swallow and clear her throat before she could speak.

“Thank you. All of you. I guess… I guess you guys are my best friends.”

Morgan scoffed, giving her a smirk and nodding towards Reid. “You may have to fight Pretty Ricky over there for it,” he said, watching for Reid’s reaction, which was exactly what they all expected it to be.

“‘Best’' is a qualifier of relative quality, which means that its place as a superlative adjective makes it of a singular quantity. Superlative adjectives are used to show-”

“You can have more than one best friend, Spence,” JJ said, cutting him off and nodding toward Kit, who’s cheeks lit a similar color to her hair. He seemed to realize and read the situation, though he’d already shoved his foot in his mouth, and instead of continuing just said quietly, “Right. Yeah, obviously. The world isn’t a thesis.”

“The world isn’t a thesis,” Elle echoed before nudging the deck of questions towards him. “Your turn, Doctor Reid.”

He fidgeted with his fingers before pulling the top card from the deck, reading aloud, “What is your favorite color?”

“No!”

“Throw the whole game away!”

“It’s not a game! We’ve established that this does not meet the qualities that allow something to be a game!”

“Shut up, Reid!”

Kit watched as the jet settled, all of the attention being pulled away from her as a warm presence settled in her chest.

Yes. These people, who drive me crazy, and have no concept of personal care of any kind. These people are my best friends.

#Brenna writes things #or at least she tries #October Writing Prompts #OWP #day 12 #My BFF #Criminal Minds #SCRC #Kit needs some friends

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diyunho · 4 years

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The Joker x Reader - “John Wick” Part 3

Y/N left The Organization 3 years ago for the one reason strong enough to make her settle down: love. But after tragedy crushed her to pieces, she decided to leave The Joker and seek refuge with an old friend and mentor - John Wick. Needless to say The King of Gotham can’t accept his wife running away without a word, especially since he didn’t have a chance to tell her things she might want to hear.

Part 1 Part 2

The Joker listens at the bedroom’s door, impatient to have a conversation with you. It seems you are engaged into a fervent phone call with Winston and figured he shouldn’t interrupt.

“Please, anything you can discover would be a great help! U-hum… U-hum… Thank you,” and you hang up, which queues your husband to walk into the room.

You completely ignore him, scrolling through the numerous text messages you sent to your connections; several are already answering back and hopefully you can get some news soon. The more people are involved into the project, the more chances to find Kase and untangle the mystery of what happened to him after he was removed from the car.

“You left me there,” The Joker sneaks in and closes the door behind him. “Luckily we had Wick with us so he gave me a ride.”

No reaction. He takes a deep breath, trying to get your awareness.

“I didn’t sleep with Evelyn; sex wasn’t the reason why I kept visiting her. I know how that asshole made it sound and he was totally out of line!”

You quickly glance at him, busy replying to Ares since you feel you’re going to explode soon.

“The only skill I was interested in is the fact that she is an excellent painter and a popular art smuggler, OK?” J raises his voice, sort of annoyed you neglect to participate into his monologue. “I did not cheat, alright?” he approaches his wife. “First of all: I’m VERY picky! Second of all: why would I want a woman everyone else had?! I don’t like used toys. Third: nobody’s been polishing my gun as you tastefully addressed the issue! I have one Queen and I married her!!”

A little bit of doubt in your eyes and he utilizes the opportunity.

“You said you saw me going to her house? I did! The Bowery King asked if it was for the last 6 months? Yeah, I did! You know why?!”

At least now The Joker got your attention: you play it cool but he guesses you’re torn apart by his confession.

Many unfortunate events crammed in lately and hating the man you love made life infinitely more unbearable.

“Why…?” you barely muster the strength to inquire and he sees it as a possibility to mend a few broken pieces; although you can hide your emotions well, J can still read between the lines.

Maybe that’s why he answers with another question:

“Do you realize there are just three Monet paintings in circulation on the black market in the entire world? You admire his work and it took a lot of effort and a substantial fortune to acquire The Water Lily Pond painting. Evelyn Black helped with the transaction, then I had her make some modifications to the original masterpiece.”

You keep staring at The King of Gotham, uncertain about the stuff being tossed your way: is he lying or telling the truth?... In your line of work translating feelings is a huge part of the job; ultimately you had the best mentor to teach you the ropes when you started with the organization: none other than the legendary Baba Yaga. Despite his reputation and to your own amazement, John was one of the few hitmen with integrity and perfectly mastered the aptitude of not being a jerk. Such a rare gem… And blissfully unaware of it himself.

On the opposite end, The Joker is a jerk and flawlessly acquainted with his own “captivating” personality that made you fall in love with him anyway.

Also, doesn’t appear to be deceitful for the moment.

And you despise yourself even more for wanting to believe him.

“What… modifications?...” you throw him a bone and J is definitely not going to pass on the alternative of explaining his actions.

“I wanted to surprise you so I took advantage of Miss Black’s capabilities in the art field; I had her add small images to the authentic canvas: an evolution of you being pregnant, the nine frames culminating with a tenth: the new mother holding our son. Similar to a timeline,” he emphasize and you look intrigued, which might be a positive sign. “Needless to say it was tedious, difficult work, especially because she had to apply special pigments you can’t find at every corner of the street. Apparently you can’t mix old paint with contemporary shades, thus I had to order aged, special colors from Italy, Spain and France. That’s why I went to her place so often: I had to supervise the long process and make sure it turns out astonishing. Then…” and The Joker pauses,”…Kase was gone and I didn’t know what to do with my gift: bring it home or not? Would you have loved it? Would it make you sadder? I continued to drive to Evelyn’s and glare at the stupid painting for hours, undecided on what to do…”

J watches you bite on your cheek, then straightens his shoulders as you utter the words:

“… … … You ruined a genuine Monet?”

Your spouse might be a smooth talker when needed, yet he’s not wasting his versatility on this statement:

“I didn’t ruin it; I made it better!”

Silence from both parties. A good or bad omen? Hard to decipher the riddle with two individuals tangled into a relationship that somehow worked despite countless peculiarities meant to keep them apart.

“I have to talk to Jonathan,” you finally mutter and The Joker steps in front of you.

“Talk to me!”

“Unless you know the exact location of the suitcase full of gold coins he’s been safekeeping for me, I really have to speak to him. Or do you want to hammer the whole basement searching for it?”

Y/N walks out of the bedroom and J lingers inside, evesdropping on the conversation happening downstairs. He can’t understand the chat, but you are probably notifying John about the details your husband left out.

Might as well join the party, therefore The Clown pops up in the living room with a plea impossible to refuse:

“Hey Wick, can I stay here? I don’t care if you say no, I’m not going to leave.”

Your friend crosses his arms on his chest, focusing on the random topic:

“How could I deny such a polite request? Of course you can stay Mister Joker; my house is your house.”

You’re watching the free show unamused; usually it would make you smile…now you lack the depth for such connotations.

“Don’t get smart with me, Wick!” J growls and Jonathan pushes for a tiny, unnecessary quarrel.

“I’m not; although generally speaking, I fancy considering myself a smart guy.”

The Joker opens his mouth and you’re not in the mood for whatever the heck they’re initiating:

“I’m going to pump, then after you dig out the suitcase I’ll take half to the Bowery King,” you announce your plans to them.

“You can do that and rest; I’ll deliver the coins,” John immediately offers. “I can stop by Aurelio’s car shop and ask for his collaboration: he has a lot of associates, doesn’t hurt to get him involved. You have plenty of gold.”

“I have two more suitcases in the Continental’s safe and two more at The Penthouse. It doesn’t matter if it’s all gone as long as I can find my son.”

“I know gold coins are preferred; don’t forget we have a lot of money too,” J reckons with spite.

Is he reminding you or Jonathan?...

*************

Your husband spent the last hour in the garden, talking and texting with a lot of people; needless to mention he’s capitalizing on his network also. Winston disclosed Stonneberg’s contract is still opened, meaning the son of a bitch is out there; you have to scoop him before anybody else does.

“Y/N…” The Joker tiptoes in your quarters. “I thought you were taking a nap,” he huffs when he sees you at the edge of the bed.

You glare at the vial on the nightstand, sharing your idea for a future you wish will come true:

“I didn’t have my medicine in two days; I won’t take it anymore because if we get Kase back… I will nurse him. It all goes in the milk and I want to be able to feed my baby… Do you think his little heart is still beating?...” you sniffle and J is currently debating on a clever response since his mind is blank; one could deduce messing up is encoded in his DNA, but on such a huge scale… well, it gives new interpretations to the term even for him.

The grieving woman seeking reassurance for their loss is trying to make sense of the pointless occurrences that lead to Kase being an innocent victim and The Joker can’t render clarification: he has no clue why he asked her to marry him and why she said yes, it’s not that he’s husband material or a family man. Perhaps Y/N thought he could be… just enough to get by, that’s why she accepted his proposal.

Most women would have cringed at the concept. Most women. Not Y/N.

Most women would have flinched at the notion of having his baby. Most women. Not his wife.

Above all, she trusted J with their son and he treated the three weeks old like a trinket: didn’t drive him home because he had an important meeting, didn’t bother to assign escorting cars nor extra security. The King of Gotham took his child’s safety lightly and it definitely had severe consequences. Too late now to fix past mistakes... but he can attempt.

“You’ll be able to nurse him, OK?” he sits by you and hands over his cell. “Can you enter your phone number in here? Or am I not allowed to have the present digits?”

You’re hesitant and he slides the screen while you hold the gadget.

“Lemme help you,” The Joker sarcastically mumbles. “It should be the first on my list, right where the old number you canceled was.”

You exhale and fulfill his demand out of pure frustration when he squeezes in a second innocent petition.

“Chose my avatar.”

You grunt at his rubbish, scrolling through his folders for a picture anyway; J hopes the largest file will get your attention and that’s the point. How could Y/N miss it?!

Entitled “Baby”, the humongous cluster of pics contains 5,723 items. You open it quite absorbed by its size; what’s more puzzling is the collection depicting Kase’s ultrasounds, hundreds of frames with you being pregnant taken without you knowing: there’s a few when your ankles were so swollen you had to sleep with your feet up on 4 pillows, others with you munching on strange food you craved, more with you in the shower focused on your bump, a decent amount of couple selfies when you were sleeping and J had to immortalize the moment without waking you up and approximately 1,500 images of the newborn.

“You didn’t gross me out when you were pregnant,” The Joker reminds a teary Y/N. “Not sure why you would believe such aberration...” he pulls you on his knees and yanks the phone away, tossing it on the nightstand. “I would also like to underline I didn’t have an affair with Miss Black, alright?”

J lifts your chin up, forcing to look at him.

“Let’s put it this way: why would I fuck around with another woman when I have a wife at home that wants to kill me on a regular basis, hm? Where would the fun be? I mean, she didn’t pull the trigger yet but it’s exciting to hope she might. You know me: I’m a sucker for thrills!”

“Do I?”

“Huh?” J steals a kiss and you frown at his sleekness.

“Know you?”

“Yeah,” the green haired Clown acts composed while in fact his feathers are ruffled. Before you catch onto it he has to ultimately admit: “I’m sorry I didn’t drive the car… I should have…”

The Joker holds in his breath when your arms go around his neck very tight.

“I’m suffocating…” he grumbles. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to hug me or choke me to death,” J keeps on caressing your hair, prepared to block your attack in case you’re actually in killing mode.

This is the excitement he was speaking about: with you, one could never know until it’s a done deal.

“I bumped into Magnus at the Continental,” you give him a bit of space to inhale much needed air and The Joker is surprised at your revelation. “I had no idea about his scheme, otherwise I would have skinned him alive right on the hotel grounds! I wouldn’t have cared about the consequences!”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” J cuts you off and he can tell you’re getting mad; maybe you think he doesn’t give a damn but the reason is simple. “You would’ve been declared excommunicado for murder on neutral ground and I don’t want my wife to be the target of such punishment from the company she so proudly retired from. I need my partner!”

The King of Gotham touches your forehead with his as you whisper:

“I hate you!”

“Mmm, regarding this true love affirmation, I’m gonna need you to take a break from detesting me until we have Kase, then you can despise me full throttle again. Deal?” he extends the palm of his hand and you reluctantly shake it, not realizing you’re reacting to his nonsense. “Is that a smile?” J returns the favor with one of his creepy silver grins.

“No.”

“Liar,” he pecks your lips and can’t explain the weird feeling in his heart when you kiss him back.

*************

Jonathan enters the house and becomes suspicious after a few minutes: too much silence.

Omg! Did you and The Joker engaged into a brawling that ended up badly? Did you end each other?!

John frantically runs to the garage, nervous to see your car and J’s are still parked inside. Shit!

“Y/N?” he shouts, concerned about your fate; The Joker’s… irrelevant. Nobody in the garden, patio is empty also. Downstairs is deserted thus he rushes upstairs to your room. The door is not completely shut and he slowly pushes it, knocking.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

The first thing he notices are clothes scattered on the floor, then he halts his movement at the sight of Y/N and her husband dozing off on the bed sideways: the naked bodies are covered with a blanket, but he can tell you’re snuggled in J’s arms.

Jonathan steps backwards, guilty of invading his guests’ privacy; he certainly didn’t expect to intrude in such a manner and softly closes the door, grateful it’s not what he feared.

You and The Joker are so worn out the sound of your phones vibrating on the nightstand doesn’t wake you from the deep sleep. Your numerous contacts keep replying back to the text messages, the most important one showing up on his cell: one of the people J reached to is Evelyn Black and the two sentence conversation lights up the screen.

“Let me know if you see Stonnenberg.”

“He’s here.”

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker x reader #the joker fanfiction #the joker imagine #john wick imagine #john wick x reader #the joker jared leto #the joker suicide squad #the joker #joker #joker fanfiction #joker jared leto #mister j #Mistah J #Mr.J #dc #dcu

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jenildasjewelquest · 4 years

Text

for once, i’m not ranting.

I’m not waiting for the downfall either, when I say that things are actually turning out well.

part one: the org.

The warzone that used to be the college org that had pulled me in about a year ago, has become something like a congress or courthouse. It’s not yet a perfect democracy, but at least it’s no longer a one-man army. Maybe it’s just my war flashbacks - a term I’ve quite recently learned to call my officer initiatives as - talking, but I really am proud that it’s quickly coming to a close.

I authored 80% of a constitution, designed new branding schemes, appointed key bearers of the legacy, and hauled in the footholds for a well-connected and reputable college organization. In the end, I stumbled with the unfamiliarity of what I’ve achieved. I’ve grown so used to doing everything on my own that I almost forgot that I was leaving, that I should be training others to be as open to receiving new learnings as I had when I started out. For the younger ones, I’m the org mentor that I never had for myself.

It’s weird, it’s heart-expanding, it’s inspiring to see progress. And especially when you’ve been working for it all along.

But it hurts - just as much - to have to give it up, just as it teeters towards the peak of its greatness.

part two: the internship.

By luckiest stroke of fate, by some divine intervention, by some alignment of stars that still boggle me til now, I got into the best internship I think I could ever have signed up for.

I got into an IT consulting firm that specializes in UI/UX web and mobile development and design. Coding and UI, my unexplored specialties. My graphics design team are made up of UI/UX designers, and they allow me to learn their trade without being pressured to keep up with their standards. They were literally assisting me in coding my thesis website, but that wasn’t the best part.

The firm allowed for flexi-time, which meant I could clock in anytime in the work week as long as I got to finish at least eight hours. My supervisor always came around 10am-7pm, and I always arrived earlier and left later than him. I’m determined to do as much work as I can for the whole day; I can almost go 12 hours with minor breaks and coffee lmao.

The supervisor is an alumni of my course. He had taken his college life easier than me, and him being like that allowed me to think that hey, even if you don’t graduate this school at the top, you can still get by if you have the guts and the grit. And that’s what I’m developing right now. I occasionally ask for time off work to attend to org duties and thesis emergencies, but I still do deliver for the internship. Yep, while senior high taught me that I had a voice, college taught me how to use it and use it well.

part three: the thesis.

I know where to use my voice for: to talk about what no one does. My undergraduate thesis talks about civics education: the umbrella concept for how people are taught about politics, society, and democracy. It’s a personal advocacy that stemmed from questions about nationalism and patriotism, from reading about history surrounding Rizal, and being immersed in the novels themselves. Writer as I am, I simply can’t help the latter.

The multimedia thesis a print card game about Rizal’s civic activities, that aims to teach civics education to Grade 10 students. Paperwork and pre-production almost done, this iteration is down to the last few tweaks until we can squeak past proofreading, user testing, and market testing.

For the record, I myself stressed over the website for the last few weeks that not only had the UI/UX designers at the internship had stepped in and offered some tips, but that I seriously had to take days off work just to finish it. When I finally eked out half, my thesis adviser said that I should have focused on the game instead, since the website was only a marketing tool. Within that same day, I churned out all 63 cards (one still had its illustration underway) out of 2 ginormous PSD files, ready for proofreading and printing. The night burned me out quite bad, but at least that load quickly finished...

part four: the story.

Coupled within the week, a good friend had asked help for his animation thesis, which was an advocacy story he was to animate in VR. I’d promised my help long ago, and I delivered: a five-page draft script, complete with concrete visualizations and directions of how he’ll execute it in VR.

I couldn’t have been prouder of this collab. I’ve always wanted to be a story artist - someone who visualizes stories and writes them as well - the only thing holding me back is my lack of experience in drawing for animation aka my degree. I could be helping all his classmates with their animation stories, he says, with how much I’m able to use film techniques, symbolisms, dialogues, and colors to fully execute his VR animated story. My degree is siphoning me into the ad industry, but in this collab, I learned what it’s like to be the visual director, the story artist. Not only was it fun, it was actually really fulfilling to be able to write with animation!

The collab also demonstrated that two people - in all their differences and similarities - can still be on equal ground if they work together. This collab taught me what it truly means to be loyal, to have each other’s back not out of duty or responsibility but because you chose to learn when you chose to stay.

part five: the burnout.

The weekend after demanded at least 12 hours of sleep and mug of warm milk, and ton of chocolate. The burnout was real. My head was ringing from the online calls for the animation thesis, among other things; I was in no mood to do org work nor house chores, not even to draw, write a poem, or squeeze out a chapter. I was tired, physically, mentally.

But emotionally, I was satisfied.

For once, I was satisfied with my week.

Not only with my week, but everything that led up to that. The org. The internship. The thesis. My staying. Everything.

My college life is coming to a close. My time to understand everything, before twenty hits, is fast ending. For once I’m not regretting, for once, I’m not mad.

For once, I’m no longer ranting.

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motheatenscarf · 7 years

Text

Title: Convergence, Part One

Words: 5500

Rating: T, mild language and descriptions of violence

Summary: Redeeming the Sith and reforming the Empire was never going to happen overnight. Setbacks were inevitable. Finding the right people to get the job done would a good start, but in an Empire where fear and paranoia reign supreme, that was going to be a task in and of itself.

Characters: LS(ish?) Female Sith Warrior, Vette, LS Jaesa Willsaam

Preview: Vette couldn’t even remember seeing Jaesa cry as she’d watched her former master succumb to his own Darkness. Whatever had happened in the Academy must have been…. Well. It was Korriban. When was the last time anything good ever happened on Korriban?

There were no gods, spirits, or philosophies Vette prayed to so much as whatever capricious masters ruled over chance and possibility.

She prayed to them now, muttering “They’re fine, they’re fine, they’re fine,” into the emptiness as she paced the length of the ship from escape pod to escape pod. Maybe if she said it enough, it would be true.

Her quick gait against the metallic floor was almost enough to mask how her heart raced, it too clamoring desperately for an escape from the claustrophobic space.

On most days, Vette could look at how unstable most Sith and Jedi turned out and convince herself that being born without the ability to use the Force was one of the few kindnesses chance had ever shown her. On days when it meant she was left behind to fret helplessly as her friends waded into danger, however, she’d have gladly taken the few loose screws if it meant she was able to keep them safe.

She knew what the Sith would do if they discovered a renegade Sith working in tandem with a half trained former Jedi who were trying to abscond with a horde of Acolytes in the dead of night. What she didn’t know was what she was going to do once they were captured.

If, she reminded herself: if they were captured.

It wasn’t a certainty until she knew. There was always a chance.

The Sith Academy was a formidable enough target to break into unnoticed without the potential threat of having every Inquisitor on the planet looking for them. Heightened security and increased vigilance against potential traitors was the only real change enacted thanks to Malgus’ bungle over Ilum. Vette herself had been captured within hours after her own attempt to sneak into one of the Valley’s tombs even before labels of traitor and heretic were being slung at Acolytes like it was going out of style. Which was exactly why Tallia had begged her to stay on the ship.

It hadn’t taken much convincing, truth be told. Vette wasn’t exactly eager to wind up back in the shock collar at the mercy of a Sith. Especially when she knew how low the chances were she’d ever find another Sith who actually had any concept of mercy like Tallia had. Or compassion. Or friendship, for that matter.

Still. Vette hated getting left behind. In the end, she was always left behind.

Mother, Tivva, Nok, Risha, Taunt… some part of her had always known, deep down, that her time with Tallia would eventually end. It had been foolish of her to believe with how Tallia had seen her reunited with Taunt and Tivva, this might finally be the home that lasted.

The exterior motion sensor buzzed at last, pulling Vette out of her spiraling thoughts.

She broke out of her pacing and turned on her heel so quickly she nearly tripped, bolting toward the monitors by the ship’s entrance.

Her hands trembled as she fiddled with the switches and waited for the monitors to light up. It might not have been Tallia, she reminded herself, trying to keep her hopes grounded. It could just have easily have been some stray tuk’ata or a scavenging klorr’slug, or an army of Inquisitors coming to seize the ship.

The monitor buzzed to life, a monstrous array of teeth set in a bone jaw with two enormous protruding fangs filling up the space.

Vette leapt back at the sight of it, unable to contain the exclaimed “Shit!” that escaped her in surprise.

Images of rancors tearing through the hull with monstrous claws flashed through her mind. Damning her own imagination, Vette pushed back the mental slideshow of her friends being ripped to pieces and eaten alive and noticed the teeth pulling further away from the camera feeding into the monitor. The distance revealed an entire animal skull enveloped under a deep plum colored hood.

She relaxed, recognizing the kitschy nightmare of a skull as Tallia’s mask and sighed with relief.

The mask bobbed about as Tallia seemed to be struggling with something before hitting the comm by the camera with a loose fist.

“Vette, do you copy?”

Shaking off the last of her dark thoughts, Vette pressed her finger to the comm and spoke into the mic.

“Well, well, well,” she began, voice lilting in forced humor. “Rise and shine, Your Spikiness. And where have you been out all night while I was worried sick?”

Tallia’s face was obstructed, but there was something off in the way she held herself. Tense, her weight shifting to one side with what looked like an arm slung around her.

“Nowhere pleasant,” she answered, her voice stern. “Let us in. Jaesa needs to rest.”

By virtue of being Sith, Tallia almost always came across as grim even in her best of moods but she was usually more willing to banter than this. Something was wrong.

Her apprehension already returning, Vette began the unlock sequence to let them in.

Jaesa needed to rest. What did that mean? Had she been hurt?

Vette braced herself for the worst as the airlock hissed open, the door disappearing into the ship. With a clear view of her friends, she gasped at the sight before her.

Their robes were stained with pools of damp blood, Jaesa resting the entirety of her weight against Tallia’s shoulder, arm slung around her as Tallia all but carried her up the ramp. Jaesa was barely able to lift her feet as she was dragged along.

Without wasting time on the thousand questions racing through her mind, Vette swept in and took up Jaesa’s other arm, bearing as much of the Jedi’s weight as her petite frame could carry.

“I’ll prep the kolto tank,” Vette offered, her eyes wide with terror as she looked Jaesa up and down for signs of injury. Her spare hand padded the blood pool on Jaesa’s stomach, hoping to add pressure to whatever wound was causing it.

“It’s not my blood,” Jaesa reassured her through her mask, identical in shape and color to Tallia’s. The confusion on Vette’s face must have been evident, as after one glance at her Jaesa continued to explain, “I’m unharmed. Just… very tired.”

“She’s drained,” Tallia elaborated, taking the lead. “Focused her power for too long a stretch. We’re lucky she’s even still conscious.”

“All-Nighters at the Sith Academy,” Vette nattered, hoping to ease the tension as she realized there were no students in tow. “Who knew Korriban was such a party school?”

Tallia let out a bitter huff of a laugh for her efforts, at least. The distraction might have even worked had it not been for the pained grunt Jaesa let out as they lifted her over the threshold into the holo-comm room.

“We’re almost there,” Tallia promised, her voice as soft and comforting as the hard woman was able to muster.

As they crossed the length of the ship’s common room, Tallia used her now free hand to throw back her hood and rip her mask off, gasping in the fresh air.

It took every ounce of self awareness for Vette not to noticeably balk upon seeing Tallia’s face in the cold lighting emitting off the central holo-comm.

Slate gray clumps of sweat-laden hair stuck out at awkward angles instead of framing her now pallid and blood-drained face. Gold eyes that usually burned with the pride of her Sith blooded pedigree instead sat hollow, distant with some memory she couldn’t shake. Even the huge gashes that ran down and across her face seemed deeper as sweat trailed down the trenches that had been carved into her face.

Tallia must have noticed her staring, glancing at Vette before asking, “That bad?”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” Vette replied, feigning innocence.

The three women turned at the doorway and into the Med-Bay where Jaesa had made herself at home and gently placed her onto the spare bed adorned with the softest cushions and throws Alderaan had to offer.

Jaesa sat with her legs hanging over the side of the bed, leaning forward to help the air out of her lungs. Tallia held her steady while Vette moved to help her out of the mask, hoping to make the task of breathing easier. The poor woman didn’t even have the strength to shake her head free from the last of it as Vette pulled it over her head.

As bad as Tallia’s face had seemed, Jaesa was somehow in worse shape.

Dried streams of tears were the only clean spot on the Jedi’s face, dirt and blood caked onto her tawny skin. Her brown eyes were still glazed over from where she must have cried her heart out.

Vette couldn’t even remember seeing Jaesa cry as she’d watched her former master succumb to his own Darkness. Whatever had happened in the Academy must have been…. Well. It was Korriban. When was the last time anything good ever happened on Korriban?

Not knowing what else to do, Vette sat beside her on the bed and wrapped an arm around her friend, rubbing small circles into her tense back. Jaesa exhaled, slowly, breathing back in huge gasps of air like she was trying to remember how the process worked.

While she breathed, Vette picked up one of Jaesa’s hands and gave it a small squeeze, craning her head forward to try and make eye contact with her. She offered a half-hearted smile but doubted Jaesa could register it.

Her eyes were wide, staring into the floor and beyond it into nothingness. Vette flicked her gaze up over to Tallia who remained standing by Jaesa’s side, standing tall with one hand on her back to brace her and the other gripping around the Jedi’s bicep to keep her upright.

She had the decency not to say anything when she finally heard a sniffle escape Jaesa’s nostrils, the faintest twitch of a blink the first sign of the tears that were forming in her eyes. Tallia simply glared ahead, sharp eyes digging into the same spot Jaesa had lost herself to.

They sat in silence as they pieced themselves back together in the aftermath of whatever they had endured in the Academy.

“So,” Vette began, finally interrupting their trance as she was unable to take the quiet any longer. “I take it we’re not gonna have to wash the sheets on all the spare bunks for the students?”

She winced at her own words. There was no delicate way to ask but even still, she didn’t want to seem callous. Stars knew what they had been through.

Jaesa sniffled, slipping her hand free of Vette’s grasp and rubbing her eyes clear, shaking her head as she confirmed “They’re all dead.”

“Slaughtered,” Tallia growled.

Vette tried to hide her disappointment. “So it was a trap.”

“Yes,” Jaesa confessed, “you were right all along, master.”

Tallia gave a single curt shake of her head in response. “But they had been in danger. You were right to ask us to come for them.”

“You shouldn’t offer praise,” Jaesa pleaded, tilting her head to look up at the Sith. “It was my foolhardiness which put us in danger… and it was my plan that got them killed.”

“And your quick thinking which saved us from death in turn,” Tallia countered. “You did all that you could for them and more than could have ever been expected of you. If you want to flog yourself in penance, you can do so once you’ve rested.”

Vette rolled her eyes, turning her mental Sith Speech Translator on as she sat up to make room for Jaesa to lean back against the bed.

“She means you did a good job and she’s proud of you but you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I know,” Jaesa admitted, sounding smaller than she had even on the day she’d joined their crew, “but I just… I wish it had been enough to save your students.”

A sullen frown tugged at Tallia’s face as she chewed on her lower lip, scrambling for something to say. Her hand stretched out, hovering in place a moment, faltering just once with the slightest tremble before settling firmly on Jaesa’s shoulder.

“There is no pain worse than losing those you failed to protect,” she said, frankly. “Take it in without shame and add it to the whole of you. Own it as a reminder of what you survived and try again tomorrow. Just try to remember that right now, we only have tomorrow because of what you did. We’ll recover what we lost one day. And you will recover as well.”

Jaesa clasped her hand over Tallia’s, catching it just before the Sith could snatch her hand away in time. “Thank you,” she said, sincerity in her voice and worship in her eyes as she looked up toward her mentor.

Tallia nodded, her eyes tearing away instinctively from such adoration as if ashamed to receive it and tugged her hand free of Jaesa’s. She gave the Jedi a deliberate, awkward pat on the arm before looking to Vette and gesturing toward the doorway as she stepped away from the bed and back into the hall.

“Okey doke,” Vette groaned, leaning over to make a show of fluffing Jaesa’s pillows as she settled against them. “I am gonna give you a break from grouch patrol and insist you take a nap. Anything you need before I check in on Tallia?”

Jaesa shook her head silently to refuse, only offering up a soft-spoken “Thank you,” by way of that famed Alderaanian civility.

“Alrighty,” Vette conceded with a sigh. She lifted her hand from the pillows to gently swipe the hair from Jaesa’s brow and pressed her lips against the salty skin there to wish her, “Sweet dreams.”

Jaesa was unable to hold back the small, delighted chuckle that escaped her after the gesture, the soft dimples creeping back into her face a welcome sight as Vette left her to her rest.

Out in the comm room, Vette caught sight of Tallia already at the far end near the stairs, seated in one of the many couches Warbles had torn to hell and back. Her head was hung as she rested her elbows on her knees, the heels of her palms dug deep into her eyes. She made no motion to indicate she’d noticed Vette leaving the Med-Bay.

Inspiration struck as Vette made her way across the room, taking a quick detour into the hall to sneak through Tallia’s room, hoping the rush of the door flying open wouldn’t alert the Sith to her presence.

“There you are, you little monster,” Vette greeted cheerfully as she spotted a large lump underneath the bedding with a black scaled tail sticking out and whipping about.

She pulled the sheets down and uncovered the lizard-like creature, earning a disgruntled “Bwark” for her disruption as he tried to nestle himself deeper into the bedding.

“Oh no you don’t,” she refuted, diving in after him and ripping the sheets from the bedding entirely. She could always blame the mess on the little guy later if Tallia asked.

Vette lifted the baby varactyl into her arms, one hand falling over the other to keep her grip on him as he tried to worm his way free. He was still small even for a six-month old hatchling but what he lacked in size he made up for in spirit tenfold.

If the ruckus hadn’t alerted Tallia to her plans before, the loud yelp and shouts of “Stop, stop it, quit it,” she let out certainly must have as Warbles’ beak tried to nudge and dig her hands out of the way.

Fed up with the struggle, Vette wrapped a loose fist around his vibrant golden beak to get him to hold still. He made a long, high pitched whine of sorts somewhere in his throat, but otherwise made no further protest. With successfully wrangled varactyl in tow, Vette made her way back into the comm-room to try and cheer up her sour looking friend.

“Look who I got,” she gloated in a sing-song voice as she approached the couches.

Tallia raised her head with a forced smirk. “Hello, Warbles,” she greeted without a hint of joy.

Vette bent forward to place the creature in Tallia’s lap, only a little jealous when Warbles let out an elated series of trills and stretched his neck to lean into where Tallia absent-mindedly began scratching along the feathers at the crown of his head.

“Too-vee, prep the engines for takeoff and get us the hell off this tainted world the instant they’re ready,” Tallia ordered without glancing over her shoulder to the droid who hovered by the steps to the cockpit.

Vette caught a flash of light reflecting off his gangly joints snapping to attention with a deferential “Yes, master, right away, master,” before the droid disappeared through to door as commanded.

Why Tallia kept that skittish, ass-kissing bucket of bolts around when she kicked all the other Imperials off the ship, Vette couldn’t say with any accuracy. Maybe she still needed someone she could bark around without feeling any guilt over.

It didn’t matter, she supposed. There were more relevant and pressing questions she had to ask first.

“It’s safe to leave, then?”

“Yes,” Tallia confirmed with a weak nod. “No one still breathing saw us come in or get out of the Academy. And none of Jaesa’s students gave us up before they were killed.”

Vette crossed her arms and leaned back against the towering holo-comm. She tried to think of some way to ease the conversation toward any kind of explanation as to what had gone down in the valley’s crumbling walls. Prying when Tallia didn’t want to talk rarely got her anywhere but she doubted Tallia would have called her into the hall if she wanted to be evasive.

She decided frankness was the best approach in dealing with Tallia when she was in such a dire mood. “You gonna tell me what happened or do I have to guess?”

Tallia scoffed as the ship’s engines roared life to carry them away from the hell she’d escaped. “You don’t want to know,” was her only explanation.

Vette rubbed at her tensing brow with a displeased huff. “Like pulling teeth from a nexu, I swear. Fine,” she acquiesced. “What about Jaesa, will she’ll be okay?”

“Physically, she’ll recover soon. Probably within the week. Mentally? I don’t know. I don’t think she was ready to see a massacre. I don’t know that anyone ever can be ready for something like that...”

Vette scrunched her face in disbelief. “You wouldn’t call Corellia a massacre? Or Taris?”

“Not like this,” Tallia uttered.

That shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to her, Vette realized. Korriban’s infamous brutality wasn’t something she could actually see from her holding cell in the slave pens but all the sound-proof padding in the galaxy couldn’t stop the screams that echoed in day and night. If that was the commonplace, everyday nightmare of what they did to make examples of traitors and failures before the Empire’s greatest hero attempted a coup…

Vette shuddered at the memory of their blood stained robes.

Maybe it was for the best Tallia didn’t want to tell her what had happened to the students.

“So… what do we do now?”

“Do?” Tallia repeated, snorting out a bitter laugh at the question. “There’s nothing to be done. It’s over.”

“That can’t be true,” Vette demanded, taken aback. “What about the Kaas City Academy, or Ziost, or-”

“Every Acolyte in the network was connected through the Korriban Overseers,” Tallia interrupted. “The distress signal may have been real initially but the Inquisitors have access to our comm signals now. We can’t use them to contact anyone and we can’t risk setting up new signals with Korriban on such high alert now. It’s done. We failed.”

Vette gritted her teeth and hissed out a quiet groan, more at the vibration of the hyper-drive coming online that always made her fillings hum in her skull, but the realization that their plans to reform the Empire had become a complete wash was far from thrilling.

The rush of energy as the ship stretched into hyperspace had Warbles scampering out of Tallia’s lap onto the couch, burrowing his head between her back and the cushions and whimpering. Six months of regular spaceflight still had him running scared at the sounds the ship made. Tallia clicked her tongue apologetically, running her fingers down the frightened creature’s spine to comfort him.

Vette wondered if the little guy had the right idea.

“If the Inquisitors know about the network, we should probably go into hiding,” she suggested.

Tallia shook her head. “We were fortunate in that regard at least. They’ve no idea who sponsored the Acolytes.”

That surprised Vette. “They couldn’t track the comms to us?”

“No. Evidently they know it’s Sith in origin but they seem to be operating under the assumption it’s to do with some intra-Council vie for the throne.”

“Sounds like you actually found out more about them than they did about you. What, did they monologue at you or something?”

“Jaesa’s brilliance at work, actually,” Tallia said, some of the light in her eyes returning as a proud smile crept up. “She hid us in plain sight by using the Force to bend the Inquisitors’ perceptions. We were able to eavesdrop while we waited for an opening to escape… we had a long time to listen.”

She’d watched Jaesa train before, straining as she tested the boundaries of the power she was still growing into. The former Padawan became exhausted after even an hour of strenuous practice with manipulating the Force as a Sith would. Tallia and Jaesa had been gone for a total of six and a half hours. Even with the hike to and from the Academy, Vette couldn’t imagine how long Jaesa must have had to keep that up, all with the knowledge that if she failed for even an instant it would mean death for she and her master.

Poor thing. No wonder she could hardly stand.

“So we’re in the clear then? No need to pack my bags? I think Taunt knows a guy who knows a guy who can stash us somewhere even a Hutt wouldn’t think to look, if we wanna play it safe.”

Tallia grunted an affirmation, pulling Warbles out from behind her so she could recline against the sofa. “No, apparently they’re just grasping at straws and rumors without a functioning Intelligence network to rely on. We keep our heads low for the next while and we should come out unscathed… relatively speaking, anyway.”

Small mercies from the cruel rulers of chance, Vette figured.

“I know it’s kind of a bleak mood right now, but I’m really gonna enjoy thinking about how the big bad Sith heretic hunters are just chasing their tails without the lackeys they boss around to actually tell them where to bark and what to sniff for.”

Tallia’s eyes lit up with an appreciative grin. “There is some irony to be appreciated there,” she confessed.

It was no secret that the only thing Tallia held more contempt for than the average Imperial sycophant was the average Sith sadist who treated their subordinates like disposable pieces on a dejarik table. Baras had been one of the worst offenders in that regard, according to Tallia. Considering how many of his own people Vette had personally seen him send Tallia to assassinate just in the two years they worked for him, she didn’t have a hard time believing it either.

The young Sith had once told her over a bottle of wine after a particularly grisly assassination that she’d been raised to value her charges while under the roof of her great uncle. It was why she went so far out of her way to see that her military attaches knew they could rely on her. It was why it cut her so deeply when they proved she couldn’t rely on them.

Although that particular sin should have weighed a lot heavier on one of them more than the other. The jerk.

“You ever feel anything for throwing out your own lackeys?” Vette asked.

The glare Tallia shot her for the question was answer enough.

Vette let out a frustrated groan. “You know someday you’re gonna have to talk about it,” she insisted.

“No, I won’t,” Tallia countered, sulking and crossing her arm to turn her bitter gaze to the floor.

Vette rolled her eyes. Someday she was going to have to write a guide book on the caring of grumpy Sith Lords and was going to dedicate an entire chapter on how to deal with their pouting alone.

After living through so many of Tallia’s moods, Vette had learned to tell the difference between a momentary bout of surliness and the fouler, deeper sickness that stirred in her, waiting just beneath the surface at all times.

This was definitely starting to seem like the latter.

“What are you gonna do about the students?” Vette asked her.

“I told you. Nothing,” she lied.

“Tallia,” Vette began, the sincerity in her voice drawing the Sith’s attention. She wasn’t going to leave her to wallow in whatever dark place it was she retreated to after a bad day. “What are you gonna do? For real,” she implored.

The Sith’s shoulders slumped as her eyes fell solemnly. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. Her teeth grit, nostrils flaring. “But I won’t let this happen again. No one else dies for my mistakes.”

“Oh, shut up with that,” Vette flouted. “You just gave Jaesa the business for that exact talk, this wasn’t your fault any more than it was hers.”

“I should have known better,” Tallia growled. “It’s one thing for a Jedi to believe the Sith can be redeemed but I should have known better. You can’t force medicine down the throat of a snake intent on devouring itself. I never should have agreed to this plan in the first place.”

“C’mon, there are plenty of people want the Empire to change, they just need someone to show them it’s possible. Look at how many students you were able to convince to try and make a difference.”

“And look at how many were slaughtered because they dared!”

Vette could count on one hand the number of times Tallia had ever shouted at her. This was definitely not just another one of her moods. She’d learned long ago that Tallia’s bark was worse than her bite when it came to her though, and held firm, unshaken by the outburst.

“I’m sorry,” Tallia relented immediately, remorse sinking into her features. “I just… I’m not the one to do this, Vette. I can’t inspire the hope Jaesa needs. All I can do is breed fear in those who deserve it until they break and kneel to the changes she wants.”

“That’s not you and you know it,” Vette contended softly.

Tallia’s posture fell almost limp at that, her anger deflating into shame. “It is, though...”

Vette sighed, leaning up from the holo-comm and picking Warbles up off the seat next to Tallia before replacing it with her own weight. “You know,” she began, “a wise woman once said there’s no pain greater than losing the people you failed to protect.”

Tallia let out a pained groan that sounded suspiciously like a disguised laugh and threw her head back against the back of the sofa. “You’re awful.”

“You’ve just gotta take it in and add it to the whole of you and try again tomorrow,” Vette continued as an impish grin plastered itself onto her features.

“I hate you,” Tallia chortled.

“See? I figured out how to beat you. You never do what you’re told but you always do what you want. So if I just tell you your own advice, that’s gotta cancel something out and you’ll actually have to listen to me for once.”

“I should start giving out better advice then.”

Vette chuckled at that as Warbles climbed back onto the couch and stretched himself across their laps.

She patted the soft downy feathers running along his back and rested her elbow against the sofa, twisting her torso to look at Tallia.

“So. I ask again, what actually productive thing are we gonna do tomorrow instead of planning to cut up a bunch of Inquisitors into itty bitty pieces and feed them to Warbles?”

“Well, there’s always rampaging through the Dark Council chambers and hoping they’re all in session to stage a coup,” Tallia offered.

“Bzzt! Wrong answer, drama queen. Try again with something that won’t get you killed.”

The Sith gave an exasperated shrug with a loll of her head. “I don’t know then, Vette, you seem to have it figured out. What’s our next move?”

“Uhh….” Vette hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

Shooting down bad ideas was easy. She had to shoot down at least ten terrible ideas a week with Tallia. Providing rational alternatives had always been more Quinn’s job than hers. Jaesa picked up the slack in his absence as best she could but Vette still found it difficult to resist enabling some of the Sith’s more outlandish schemes.

The quirked brow and smug “Hmm,” Tallia hummed at her were the irritating flint she needed to light the spark of genius as a thought happened upon her.

“Let’s get lackeys!” she blurted out.

“…. what?” Tallia replied, incredulity seeping into her thick Imperial accent.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vette continued, the half formed plan solidifying and taking shape as she spoke. “So, you said that without Imperial Intelligence the Sith don’t know what they’re doing right? And I hate to say it but ever since you transferred Piece to Black Ops and kicked Quinn off the ship we kinda don’t- oh, don’t give me that look, you know I’m right!”

“I will not crawl to them on hand and knee to beg for another knife in my back,” the Sith glowered.

“I don’t mean those lackeys specifically, I just mean some kinda lackeys,” she elaborated. “Someone who actually knows how to organize and keep things secret. Admit it, we’re as clueless on how to do this as the Inquisitors are.”

“Alright,” the Sith replied with a shrug, “I admit it. But that doesn’t mean we should rush to invite in someone who’s only going to wind up betraying us.”

“I hate being paranoid but uh, we’ve got Jaesa, genius.”

Tallia blinked once. Then twice, piecing together Vette’s scheme for herself. “I don’t want her to feel used...” was the only protestation she could think of.

“Run it by her, I guarantee you she’ll jump at the chance use her power to find someone who can help us who actually wants the Empire to change.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start searching...” Tallia muttered, lost in thought as she chewed on her lip.

It wasn’t an outright refusal. She was considering it.

“You’ve got an Admiral for an aunt, right?” Vette suggested, keeping the momentum going before Tallia could overthink it and shoot her down. “And I know Vowrawn still owes you like a million favors for Corellia. Maybe we can even try to scoop up one of those Intelligence guys, I bet they really know how to keep a secret.”

Tallia absently ran a thumb over her lower lip in contemplation. “It’s highly unlikely we’d even find anyone. Intelligence training is like Korriban for Imperials. Weakness and compassion are burned out just as ruthlessly.”

Tallia was already convinced of the plan’s merit- she just needed that final push to take a leap of faith.

Vette gave a light shrug for a counterpoint. “You made it out okay.”

Tallia answered with a bitter snicker. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“C’mon,” Vette urged, “it’s unlikely but it’s not impossible.”

The endless cosmos of possibility Vette lived in fear of and prayed to for kindness simultaneously had taught her more than once how easily it could turn her life upside-down in a single day. Tallia had learned the same hard lessons many times over as well. Where Vette preferred to approach the galaxy as a glass half-full kind of girl, Tallia seemed fatalistic in her certainty that being thrown for such loops only ever brought misfortune.

But chance, or fate, or maybe even the Force in its wisdom had placed them in each other’s orbits.

“Alright,” Tallia conceded, giving in to the possibilities. “We’ll try. Tomorrow.”

If chance could take Vette winding up in shackles and twist that path toward leading her to the best friend she’d ever known, then maybe it could turn the wasted lives of those Acolytes into the catalyst of some great new alliance with a friend they hadn’t met yet.

Because more than chance, more than fate, more than even the Force she couldn’t feel, Vette believed in her friends. And as long as she had them, and they had her, they’d fight to make tomorrow something worth believing in.

[PART TWO]

#Caitlin Plays SWTOR #Eschatallia Soranus #SWTOR Vette #Caitlin Writes Shit

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duhragonball · 7 years

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (58/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous chapters conveniently available here.

[26 July 236 Before Age. Interstellar Space]

The wedding had gone smoothly, more or less. Neither Luffa nor Zatte had any real interest in jewelry, so there were no rings. The only physical symbol of their union was an unremarkable printout of a marriage certificate issued by the county clerk of Hobstot III’s capital city. On the bridge of Luffa’s ship, Zatte sat at one of the crew stations with her feet on the console, and admired the paper copy with a contented grin.

The trip back to Luffasworld had been quiet. Dr. Topsas had retired to his guest quarters several hours ago. Keda had gone to bed as well, although she lived on the ship’s bridge, so she had curled up in the sleeping bag she had laid along one of the edges of the deck. She had planned to stay up longer and talk, but the long day had taken its toll on the young Dorlun.

This left Zatte alone with one of the only other guests for the ceremony. Wampaaan’riix was a Yetitan, a humanoid nine feet in height, covered in a thick coat of long white hair. He was a friend of Luffa’s, although Zatte had never met him. Now that he was here for a visit, she was determined to make up for lost time.

"I meant to ask about your garment?" he asked from his seat at the adjacent station. The chair was comically small for a creature of his size, but he seemed well-accustomed to such accommodations. "Is it traditional Dorlun attire?"

Zatte glanced down at the tailcoat she had laid on the floor. She had loosened her tie and unbuttoned her waistcoat, having intended to change clothes hours ago, but somehow she had never gotten around to it. None of it had been particularly comfortable, although she had to admit that it looked good.

"It’s traditional wedding attire on Hobstot," Zatte said. "Same as that big white dress Luffa had on. Fact is, Dorluns have a utilitarian attitude about clothing. I thought Saiyans were the same, but the wedding planner we went to showed us some pictures and Luffa just *had* to do it too."

"Interesting," Wampaaan’riix said. "I wouldn’t have thought her to be so sentimental."

"It always seems to come out when you least expect it," Zatte said. She looked at her marriage certificate again, running her finger over the embossed seal left by the notary public. "I guess I’m one to talk. I’ve been staring at this thing all night like I married it instead of her."

"It’s a token of a prize well-earned," Wampaaan’riix said. "We each cherish such triumphs in our own way. It would be more troubling if you didn’t."

"I suppose you’re right," Zatte said. "Listen, I want to thank you both for coming. Luffa was really excited to have you here for this."

"The honor is mine," Wampaaan’riix said solemnly. "And I had been promising to introduce my son to her for some time now. This seemed to be a perfect occasion."

"Introduce?" Zatte was confused. She had been under the impression that they had met before. "The way Luffa talked about your son, I thought they had known each other a long time."

"In a manner of speaking," Wampaaan’riix explained. "Earlier, we were discussing the time she and I fought, and how she inadvertently read my mind."

"Right, that was how she first found out she could do that sort of thing," Zatte said. "She’s gotten a lot better at it since then."

"Well, in that moment, she experienced a great deal of my memories firsthand," Wampaaan’riix said. "This left a lasting impression upon her. In a sense, she may feel very strongly about my family, as if they were her own..."

********

Below, in the yacht's dining hall, Luffa was surrounded by to-go boxes supplied by the company that had catered her wedding. Using a large spoon from the galley, she scooped portions from each one onto her plate, gobbled them down with relish, then grabbed a fistful of carved fowl to follow it up. She repeated this routine several times, occasionally pausing to drink from a large stein of ale. Every so often, she would lift one of the large swaths of fabric from her wedding gown and wipe sauce from her face.

Sitting beside her, Dewbaaac'nogg watched with admiration. Luffa had set a place for him and piled several servings of leftovers on his plate, but he had barely touched it.

"Are you sure you're not hungry, boy?" Luffa asked with her mouth full. "The reception was seven hours ago."

"Like, negatory," he said, doing his best to make a good impression. "I'm still stuffed from before, you dig?"

Luffa shrugged and continued eating. "Suit yourself, Dewbaaac'nogg. I don't see how anybody as big as you gets by on so little nourishment." She pointed her spoon at him and gave him a knowing look. "Especially when you're as strong as you are. Your old man told me how far along you've gotten in your training, but now that I can sense your ki for myself, I'm starting to think he was selling you short."

"Hey, no need to be so formal," he said. "I gave you the scoop when we met on Hobstot, chickadee," he said. "'Dewbaaac'nogg' is my A-plus appellation, but all my friends call me Dewbie!"

Her face had the same puzzled expression as the last three times he had told her this. "I'm still getting used to that," she said. "Same way I'm still getting used to the way you talk now, and all that yellow junk you put in your hair."

Dewbie reached into the fur on his shoulder and produced a small plastic comb, which he used on the tuft of hair on his scalp. "Don't dis the 'do, sister. This is the *style* on Yetitan. And it's a hip trend on a heapin' helpin' of other happenin' planets."

"I know," Luffa said, trying to contain her embarrassment. "I led a band of Extraligans into battle a few months back, and they all dyed their crest feathers bright yellow."

"Outta sight!" Dewbie exclaimed. "I heard about that, but I thought somebody was pullin' ol' Dewbie's leg!"

Luffa's exploits had earned her a fan following over the past two years. They seemed to come from all walks of life. Soldiers, athletes, activists, and anyone else looking for a symbol would adopt pieces of her appearance or mannerisms. The ones with hair on their heads would style it and color it to resemble her Super Saiyan form. Those with tails would use fluorescent dye to resemble the way her own tail glowed in the transformed state. People would adopt various catchphrases and inspirational quotes that were attributed to Luffa, even if she had never actually said them.

For his part, Dewbaaac'nogg had gotten in on the ground floor. His father had been absent for much of his life, preferring to seek his fortune on other worlds as a martial artist. By chance, a random encounter with Luffa had forced Wampaaan'riix to rethink his priorities. She defeated him with ease, but when she accidentally read his mind, she chose to spare his life. His vulnerabilities laid bare, Wampaaan'riix chose to reconnect with his family, and Dewbie had been grateful to Luffa ever since. When she became a celebrity, he became her number one fan on Yetitan. Not all of his friends believed him when he claimed she was a friend of his father, but he couldn't really blame them for being skeptical.

He had wanted to meet Luffa in person ever since, but he had to admit that she wasn't what he had expected. She looked very much like any ordinary Saiyan. Attending her wedding ceremony had been a great honor, but it also reminded Dewbie of his great aunt's third wedding last year. At least this time Dewbie hadn't been required to perform the role of standard bearer, but it still felt more like time spent with an obscure relative than a great hero. All Saiyans looked small to the giant Yetitans, but Luffa was even smaller still. Her hands would tremble sometimes, to the point where she would tuck them under her armpits or between her knees.

"Sorry," she said. "Most of what I know about you is from when I absorbed your dad's memories, and that's all two years out of date. A lot's changed since then, and I wasn't around to see it, so I'm still getting used to how you are now... Dewbie."

"No worries," Dewbie said, trying his best to stay casual. "Pops filled me in on that particular factoid on the way to Hobstot. Must be real gone to see me rocking this killer look and using all this hep lingo. I guess I used to be kind of a square back then."

"Hell no," Luffa said, her voice suddenly becoming serious. "The young man you used to be, well, he saved me once. You might look and talk different, and you've got a silly nickname, but what's important hasn't changed. Hah! Your heart's the same. That's what I need. That's why I'm hoping you'll be able to help me again."

He wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but he was too stunned to speak. She was asking for his help?

Perhaps sensing his confusion, Luffa lowered her head and focused on her meal. "Skip it," she said. "This is a special occasion. I don't want to bring down the mood. We'll have plenty of time to go over it tomorrow, after your lesson."

There was something ominous about the way she used the word 'lesson'. That was the whole reason Dewbie had been excited for this trip. His father had kept up with Luffa through subspace correspondence, and she had asked to spar with Dewbie when his father thought he was ready. Her exact words had been: "Maybe I can give the kid some pointers." He had memorized that entire letter, but those eight words felt like they were etched onto his soul. His hero, the Legendary Super Saiyan, the most famous warrior in the galaxy was going to give him a private lesson. It was too good to be true.

And yet, now that he had finally heard her say the word aloud, Dewbie couldn't help but feel a sense of dread...

*******

[26 July 236 Before Age. Luffasworld.]

Luffa used an entire planet for her training ground. Since Planet Yetitan had a very cold climate, she had chosen a region near Luffasworld's southern pole for her session with Dewbie.

While there had only been six people aboard the star-yacht during its trip to and from the wedding, by mid-morning it had filled with all sorts of people, most of them either looking for Luffa or the ship's bridge. On his way to the galley for breakfast, he had passed a man in a wizard's cloak, two Plantians, and a crustacean-looking fellow in a military dress uniform. Eventually, he became frustrated with the crowds and his own anxious anticipation, so he flew to the rendezvous point a full hour ahead of schedule. He stretched and warmed up and meditated. An hour and twenty minutes later, Luffa arrived to meet him.

She was very apologetic about being late, and this bothered Dewbie far more than he lateness itself. It was almost as though she was his biggest fan, and not the other way around. His generation of Yetitans knew better than to get hung up on timetables, and he wasn't the sort of killjoy who would get bent out of shape over a twenty minute delay. Besides, she was a busy woman. It was an honor that she had set this time aside for him at all. He tried to tell her as much, but the message never seemed to get across. Also, she was still in her wedding gown from the night before, which seemed odd to him.

"Why not?" Luffa said with a shrug as she rotated her shoulder to limber up. "This getup looks good on me. Besides, I paid enough for the damn thing."

Once they began sparring, however, things fell more in line with his expectations. Dewbie's father had tried to prepare him for the Saiyan fighting style as best as he could, but ultimately the best advice Wampaaan'riix could give him was that there wasn't much use in seeking advice. The only way to truly understand was to experience it firsthand, and now Dewbie could see what he meant.

Luffa sparred in her base form, which was still more than powerful enough to kill Dewbie instantly. He knew she was holding back the vast majority of her strength for his sake, but even so, he still felt as though he was in a real fight and not a friendly exhibition. When she found an opening in his guard, she seized on it with almost sadistic glee. When he landed a punch on her solar plexus, he knew she had allowed him to do so, but she still glared at him as if he had tried to kill her, only to smile proudly at him an instant later.

"Do you trust me, Dewbie?" she asked between strikes.

Dewbie could only nod as he struggled to block. Little by little, she had turned up the pressure on him, forcing him to use more and more of his strength to keep up. As much as it had seemed like a real fight, she was only toying with him, but now Dewbie was fighting as hard as he would have been in actual combat.

He had seen her transform before. Not in person, of course, but a handful of lucky spectators had managed to record her in the act, and their blurry, grainy footage had become an instant hit among the Luffa enthusiasts across the galaxy. He expected her to build up to it, but instead she simply grunted and flashed bright yellow without breaking the rhythm of her strikes. One second she was dark haired with brown eyes, and in the next she was blonde with green eyes. Only it wasn't exactly blonde and green. The colors were more vivid. It was unsettling to look at her, and Dewbie was unprepared for how strange it was up close.

He forced himself to stay focused, and as they continued, he realized to his amazement that she was staying focused too. He could feel how much stronger her ki had become, but she was still holding her strength to the same level she had been using before. Dewbie's father had suggested to him that she didn't have this sort of fine control over her forms, but that must have changed.

"Don't slow down now, boy," she said with a grin. "This was how you wanted it, right?"

It was. Before, he thought she was using her base form for his safety, but now he could see that she could have sparred with him this way from the start. The thrill and the honor was greater, but she wanted him to work for it, and now that she had transformed, she wanted him to push himself harder to extend the experience. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going, but he was determined to find out.

And then, after what seemed like an eternity, he succumbed to fatigue. When he could no longer block Luffa's strikes, she landed five blows to his midsection and shoulders. They felt surprisingly gentle, but they somehow managed to disrupt all the ki energy in his body, and he collapsed to his knees onto the glacier that had been their battlefield. He leaned forward and planted his hands on the ice as well, struggling to catch his breath.

"Well done," Luffa said. He thought she might have been smiling, but all he could see at the moment were the toes of her black combat boots peeking out from under her wedding dress. He tried to raise his head to look up at her, and then she cried out. "Hey, don't move!"

Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen, like a muscle spasm. Dewbie clutched at his gut, wondering what had happened, though he suspected that there was some sort of delayed effect to the last attack Luffa had used on him.

"Are you okay?" Luffa asked, kneeling down to check on him. "Dammit, that was just supposed to knock you down, but if I used too much pressure I might have hurt a vital organ--"

"I'm... aces, honest," Dewbie assured her. "Just need... a sec to... get my groove back."

"Don't try to tough it out, son" she scolded him. "I can get you back to the ship in no time, and Doc can... can..."

She had put her hand on his massive shoulder, and now he could feel it begin to tremble. She drew it back quickly and held it tightly in her other hand.

"You... almost sounded... like Daddio there, champ," Dewbie said. "I guess when you read... my pop's noggin, some of the pages must have rubbed off on you."

Luffa sighed and sat down on the ice. "You don't know how right you are," she said. "Thanks to that botched mind link with your father, I sort of think of you as my own kid. I mean, not really. I know better, but I have to keep reminding myself you're not a child. Hell, you're only a few years younger than me. You're old enough to decide if you need medical treatment."

"Hey, no problemo," Dewbie said. "I figured that might have had something to do with you invitin' me out to your pad. Me and my pops are like family."

"It's more than that," Luffa said. "You saved me."

"Whuh-huh?"

She hesitated, then gritted her teeth and just started blurting it all out. "When I first fought your father, Dewbie... well, I was pregnant. Not very far along, of course. I didn't know about it myself at the time. By the time I found out, the Tikosi were experimenting on me. It would have been a boy. Your father helped me escape, but by the time he got there, the Tikosi had already removed the fetus."

"Pops never told me that part," Dewbie said solemnly. "That's heavy. I'm sorry."

"I never told your father. It's... not something I talk about much. It's painful to think about. That's why the Makyans tried to use it against me."

"Wait, wait. Time out. The which?" Dewbie asked.

"A race of demons," Luffa explained. "They used a magic potion to try to control me. It played on my most selfish desire, which was to forget about the pain and shame of losing my baby. I was strong enough resist it, but I couldn't make myself want to."

"Farrrrr out... Well, how'd you squeeze out of that one?"

Luffa looked at him and smiled. "As much as I wanted to, I couldn't just forget what had happened to me. That boy would have grown up to be a mighty Saiyan, and my soul wouldn't rest until I had avenged him. So my most selfish desire was to have my son back, and the Makyans couldn't give him to me. They could only make me forget. It started to drive me nuts. I started seeing hallucinations of my friends, all of 'em trying to convince me to snap out of it. Instead, I... well, I killed them all. Then I hallucinated you. I tried to kill you too, only I couldn't go through with it."

"Because once you got an eyeful of my handsome mug, it reminded you of your unborn son," Dewbie realized.

"Exactly," Luffa said. "Once I came to my senses... Let's just say it'll be a long time before the Makyans try to pull that crap with anyone else."

Dewbie was curious about details of Luffa's wrath, but something told him it was better that he didn't ask.

"After that, I was kind of upset about killing those hallucinations," Luffa went on. "I got in touch with your old man, just so I could sleep better. He told me that the two of you had gone on a mission to save his old martial arts master. It was for your rite of ascension. Way I hear it, you did really well."

"Well, I couldn't let pops take all the risk for himself," Dewbie said modestly. "I mean, what kind of a swingin' son would I be then?"

"That's why I invited you here, Dewbie," Luffa said. "I need you to help me with something. I think you're the only one I can turn to."

"You gave me that rap before," Dewbie said. "And ol' Dewbie's keen to lend a hand, but I don't see what good I can do."

Luffa stood up and balled her fists. "I'll show you," she said. "First I have to raise my power level."

With that, she began to scream, and a golden aura flashed around her body.

********

For a moment, bright yellow light was all Dewbie could see. When it finally faded, he looked around and couldn't believe his eyes.

They had been alone on the glacier, he was sure of that, but now they were surrounded by hundreds--no, thousands--of alien beings. They were grey, androgynous humanoids covered in blue and purple markings. They carried unfamiliar tools and rode strange vehicles along the surface of the glacier and through the sky. In the distance, he could see a fortress. Dewbie had never seen a species like them before, but there was no mistaking their behavior.

They were fighting a war.

In spite of their fierce combat, he couldn't really tell if there was any malice to their actions. It was hard to interpret their body language at all. That was when Dewbie finally realized that he couldn't hear them. For all their activity, there was no sound at all.

A pair of the creatures ran right up to him. One was chasing the other. At last the one being pursued turned and made what Dewbie thought could have been a desperate last stand. Before he could bring his weapon to bear, his enemy opened fire, and he fell silently to the ice. A pale grey liquid oozed from his still-smoking wound, but before the fallen warrior died, he managed to return fire with his own weapon, and killed his pursuer in turn. Then a bomb fell from the sky, and their corpses were disintegrated where they lay.

None of it made a sound. The only thing Dewbie could hear was the wind, and the constant, steady thrum of Luffa's Super Saiyan aura. ��He turned and saw her standing stoically in the center of it all. A troop convoy drove by and passed right through her. She looked at him, and seemed visibly relieved.

"Good," she said. You can see them too. I was afraid I'd be the only one. I never told the others about them. They worry about me enough as it is. If they heard me talking about ghosts, they'd think I was completely crazy."

"Wh-what's the dillio?" Dewbie asked.

"On this planet, when I increase my power to a certain level, all of this appears," she said, gesturing at the battle surrounding them. "At first, I thought I was just seeing things. My powers kind of tie into my emotions, and I've been pushing things pretty hard since I got here. Eventually, I figured out that it's not my imagination. They only show up on this planet, and only for as long as I raise my ki to this point. Early on, this level was near my absolute limit, so I'd only catch glimpses of them. As I trained and got stronger, I was able to hold this level for a long time, and then I could see them whenever I wanted, for as long as I wanted."

Dewbie reached out to touch another creature that had approached them. His hand passed through its chest, but it seemed to stare right at him, as if it could see him. "What are they?" he asked. "Why are they fighting?"

"They're robots," Luffa said. "Well, that's my best guess. They move like machines, and there's something artificial about their faces, like someone was trying to make them look like flesh-and-blood people, but not too closely.

"They were soldiers. Could be that someone created them to fight their battles for them, but they're not just automated weapons. I've been watching them for a while, and I can tell they're intelligent. I don't know what they're fighting over, but they did it all over the world. Every time I see them, they're always fighting some giant battle. It's different everywhere I go. When I'm over the oceans, they've got boats and planes. When I'm in the desert, they have tanks. In the mountains, they've got snipers. Out here, it's mostly infantry. I guess they don't mind the cold, so it's easier for them to travel in the snow on foot than to use any vehicles."

"But what good's it do 'em to fight over a planet they can't even touch?" Dewbie asked. He pointed at the area where the phantom bomb had exploded. It had destroyed the robots, but the ice they were laying upon was untouched.

"They're all dead," Luffa said darkly. "Those two you saw kill each other a minute ago? I've been here before, and I've seen them do that a dozen times or more. They all look a lot alike, but I can tell by the markings on their bodies. They indicate their ranks and identifications somehow. They look alike, but they're still individuals. You can tell them apart if you know what to look for.

"What we're seeing is a war they fought on this planet a long time ago. They all died, and for whatever reason their ghosts are still playing out the same battles over and over again. At least, that's all I've managed to find out from them."

"You mean you're hip to their lingo?"

"Not exactly," Luffa said. She tapped her finger against the side of her head. Normal Saiyans have some telepathic abilities, but ever since I first met your father, I've been finding new ways to use them. When I'm ramped up enough to see these guys, I start to sense their energy, too. And when I really concentrate, it's like I can feel their emotions. But it's really faint, and I can't make much sense out of it. There's so many of them, and they're so... well, different."

"Different?"

"They don't seem to feel the same things that you or I would. You and I are aliens to each other, and there's other life forms that are even stranger, but we all know what it's like to be hungry or tired or scared. These robots, whatever they are, they're not like that at all. I can't really tell how they feel. They're just sort of... dissatisfied."

By now, other robots had abandoned their endless battle to approach Luffa and Dewbie. Dewbie tried to see what Luffa was talking about in their expressions, but it was useless. They simply looked at him blankly with their enigmatic blue eyes. One of them had a large wound on its head, and grey liquid was seeping out of it at an alarming rate, but it paid no heed to this. Was the injury just not that serious, or did the robot somehow know that it was already dead? Did it mind?

"I got interested in their battle, so I started exploring the planet, looking for clues," Luffa said. "The people who sold me this place said it was uninhabited, and there was no sign of even an ancient civilization. But I saw them using a huge aircraft carrier in the ocean once, and when I went diving in the same place, I found a coral reef about the same size and shape. In the desert, I turned up some scrap metal that could have been those pikes some of them carry around. So I'm pretty sure this war they fought happened a really long time ago. Like, hundreds of thousands of years. Plenty of time for nature to recover from the damage they did, and erase any evidence of the battle."

She smiled sadly. "It's beautiful, really. These guys really tore this place up. They fought like true warriors, every last one of them, and they're still fighting, long after their cause was forgotten. It's been an honor to watch them go at it, but I'm not sure they feel the same way. That's why I need your help.

"The trouble is that I think these guys want

help, but I'm not sure what I should do. I just know they're dissatisfied, but I don't know why. Maybe they just didn't like how the war turned out, or they want the universe to remember them for their bravery. One night I was talking to my wife about how Doc doesn't like to fight, and I wondered if maybe these robots are the same way. What if they were forced into this, and now they're stuck reliving this same battle over and over?"

"Heavy..." was all Dewbie could say.

"Or maybe they're like the Dorluns, and they're just grateful that they somehow managed to continue to exist. For all I know, they're not dead, and this is totally normal for them. Maybe they're like me, and they're being forced into some new form they don't understand. It might be good for them, and they don't even know it."

The creatures continued to stare at them, their expressions as mysterious as ever. What had Dewbie's attention now was the troubled look on Luffa's face when she looked at them. She didn't look like any Saiyan he'd ever seen.

"I... envy you guys, you know?" she finally said.

"Come back?" Dewbie asked.

"Doc’s not even a fighter, but he’s done braver things than I’ll ever do. And Keda and Zatte, and you and your father, you all earned the power you have."

She pointed at her hair and shook her head. "I didn’t do anything to end up like this. It just happened. Maybe the Tikosi forced my body to evolve, or I was born with this ability, but either way it was dumb luck. I have the power to decide the fate of these ghosts, but I don’t think I have the right."

She took Dewbie’s hand in both of hers. "I know about the Yetitan rites. You had to prove yourself as an adult warrior. It’s mostly ceremony, but it’s still proof. I’m proud of you for that. I guess that’s why I’m asking for your help."

Luffa pointed at the spirits that had gathered around her aura. "I have the power to disperse these phantoms, but I don't know whether or not I should. Tell me what you think I should do with these guys, and I’ll do it."

"That’s a real heavy load, pal-o-mine," Dewbie said. "I dig that you don’t want to make that call by your lonesome. Makes sense to get an extra pair of peepers on the scene, and make sure you’re on the beam, but what good does it do to have me take the wheel?"

"I know it’s a lot to ask," Luffa said. "And there’s no way to know if you’ll be making the right decision, but I know you and I know your heart's in the right place. Whatever you come up with, right or wrong, at least it'll be honorable."

"Heavy," Dewbie muttered. "I mean real heavy. I hope you’re not in a rush, ’cause this little Yetitan’s gonna have to do some first-class thinkin’ on this one. Like, real Grade A, you dig?"

"Take your time, Dewbie." Luffa said. "I can hold this power level for a while. I can do that much at least, no problem."

Dewbie nodded and sat down on the ground. As he considered the dilemma, the ghosts continued to gather around them, and some of them started to lose their shape. They floated and swirled around Dewbie and Luffa, making gestures he could not begin to understand. Beside him, Luffa grimaced and her aura continued to flash and hum.

*******

Some time later, Dewbie broke his silence to ask a question: "Luffa, you need to take five?"

"I’m fine," she said.

"Roger that, mama bear, I know my fave can handle anything, but I’ve been at this a while..."

She shook her head. "I told you to take your time, boy. It’s.... important."

"I dig, but my noggin’ can tackle this without the visuals for a while."

"No," Luffa said. "It’s bad enough I’m asking you to decide this for me. The least I can do for these people is make them visible, so you can see what’s on the line."

"No kiddin’, huh? This must be that Saiyan pride I heard so much about."

She looked at him and smiled. "You’re damned right," she growled.

He looked at her, and considered the grim determination on her face. He had no idea what her limits were. The only being in the galaxy stronger than Luffa was the Shockmaster, and she was determined to surpass him. For all Dewbie knew, she already had. He didn't know how much longer she could maintain her current power level, but sooner or later she would succumb to fatigue just as he had done during their sparring session. The point Luffa wanted to impress upon him then was not to hold out forever, but simply to last as long as he could, and then a little bit longer, and then a little bit longer than that.

That was why Saiyans like Luffa seemed to treat their sparring matches like genuine combat. Luffa vs. Dewbie was a complete mismatch, but that wasn't the point. The point was to force Dewbie to confront himself, and Dewbie vs. Dewbie was a lifelong rivalry. In the long run, it was the only rivalry that really mattered for him.

"You'd do this all day long if you had to," Dewbie observed.

Luffa's only reply was to scrunch up her face and ball her fists tighter.

"Well, you can cool it," Dewbie said, "because I’m all through thinkin’. It’s decision time, and ol’ Judge Dewbie’s ready to rule."

Luffa sighed with relief, but didn't relax her energy. "Thanks," she said. "What’ll it be?"

Dewbie rose to his feet and took a deep breath. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I’m leavin’ it up to you." he said.

She glared at him, her face revealing some of the fatigue she had been trying to conceal. "Dewbie, I’m serious--"

"Well that makes two of us, ’cause I'm serious too."

"Dammit!" she shouted, and her aura flared up in size. The ground shook beneath Dewbie’s feet. He wobbled slightly, but maintained his footing, and kept his eyes on Luffa. He didn’t expect her to attack, and there wasn't much he could do about it if she actually did, but he was trained to anticipate the possibility regardless.

She waved her hands at the silent images that were watching them. "Don’t you get it?" she demanded. "These people need an answer, Dewbie! They’ve been waiting for one long enough, haven’t they? Can’t you see that?!"

"Course I can. Like, twenty-twenty, even."

Her hands were trembling as she gestured wildly at him. "Don’t you care what happens to them?!"

"Totally, my dude."

"Then why won’t you decide?" Luffa demanded. Dewbie could see tears welling up in her eyes.

"Because you care about ’em even more than I do."

Luffa was stunned to hear this. "What?"

"You’ve been pushin’ yourself to the limit this whole time, just so you could find out what was wrong with these peeps," Dewbie explained. "And you were so worried about checkin’ the wrong box on what to do for ’em, you stood here and strained yourself for an hour while you waited for me to figure somethin’ out."

"I’m not straining myself," Luffa insisted. "I told you I can keep this level up for--"

"--for as long as it takes, yeah, I heard this song before, mama bear," Dewbie said. "But why should you lift the proverbial finger, unless you were worried about these guys?"

"I just... I feel bad for them, okay?" Luffa said. "And I need the workout anyway, so what’s the harm?"

"You wanted me to make the call because you thought I’d make an honorable decision," Dewbie said, "But *nobody’s* honored these far out groovy ghoulies more than you. If anyone’s got the right to decide their fate, it’s you, lady."

"But... I’m not... You were the one who..."

He shook his head. "I know you had that real bad trip, and you got back into your groove when you had a way-out vision of me," Dewbie said. "But I’m thinkin’ what you really saw back then wasn't me, or even your own son. What you saw was your conscience."

"My...?"

"Sure," Dewbie said. He raised an eyebrow and began to stroke his hairy chin. "Every cat and kitten in the universe has one, you know. Just so happens your conscience just looks a little handsomer than most folks’."

"What if you’re wrong?!" Luffa asked.

"You brought me in on this because you trusted me to make the best call, didn’t you?" Dewbie said with a shrug. "Well my call is for you to trust your lonesome. My call is that you’ve known that from the get-go, but maybe you needed to hear someone else say it."

Luffa turned away from him. "Maybe I did," she said. "No matter what I do, we’ll never know for sure if it was right. I just have to do the best I can."

"Sounds like the sort of rap I had to learn for the manhood rites on Yetitan," Dewbie said. "Maybe you had it wrong, and you really did earn your power somewhere along the way. You might've took a different route, but your boots are just as worn as mine. Well, I don't wear kicks myself. Ol' Dewbie likes to keep things natural, if you know what I mean."

She looked at her hands, then clenched them into fists. "Brace yourself," she said. "This shouldn’t take long."

"What are you gonna do?" Dewbie asked.

"What I should have done from the start," Luffa said. "Thanks, boy. Thanks for giving me a swift kick in the butt."

She summoned her ki, and Dewbie crossed his arms in front of his face as her aura produced a terrible wind. Around them, the spirits streaked through the air, wailing silently, and making their incomprehensible gestures.

In the center of it all, Luffa screamed. She put her fingers against her head, and Dewbie suspected that she was in pain. In spite of his advice, he still had an impulse to reach out, to try and help her somehow, but he knew better. Even if he knew what to do for her, even if he had the power, it was better this way.

So instead he concentrated his ki on protecting himself, and he admired his hero, his father’s friend, his friend, who loved him like a son.

And when she was finished, and she powered down her her normal form, and the ghosts vanished, and she fell to her hands and knees, only then did Dewbaaac’nogg rush to her aid, scooping her up like a Yetitan cub in his massive arms.

*******

Thousands of miles away, Luffa lay on a beach, massaging her scalp. She opened her eyes and found Dewbie looming over her, his white fur soggy from swimming. With all of his hair matted down, he looked much slimmer than usual. The hair on his head had gone limp, but the dye had somehow managed to resist the effects of the seawater. In his hand he held a large fish.

"Figured you'd want some chow," he said cordially.

Luffa sat up and ripped the fish out of his hand, then started ripping it to pieces with her hands and teeth. Dewbie was unnerved, but pleased to see he his fishing expedition had been worth the trouble. In a matter of minutes there was nothing left of his catch but bones and sraps of connective tissue.

"Thanks," Luffa said. She grabbed the hem of her wedding gown and wiped the blood from her mouth. “Thanks for everything.”

"What's your twenty?" Dewbie asked. "Feelin' any better?"

"My head is killing me," Luffa groaned. "I'm starting to think I only held off for so long because I knew how hard it would be."

"But it did the trick, right?" Dewbie asked hopefully. "That crazy psychic power you used fed the bulldog, didn't it?"

"I think so," Luffa said wearily. She snapped a small rib bone off the fish's skeleton and started picking her teeth with it. "I used something similar when I broke the spell the Makyans used on me. As I pushed against the robots to destroy them, I could get a better connection with their emotions. So at least I got a better understanding of them."

She turned her head and spit on the sand. "I'm not gonna pretend I have all the answers, but I think they understood what I was doing and why. It may not have been what they needed, but I think they knew this was the best ending they could get. Someone else might have come along who could really help them, but who knows how long they'd have to wait. I'm pretty sure they were tired of waiting. I don't know."

"Maybe we oughta boogie on back to your ship," Dewbie suggested. "We both went through the ringer today. Even if it's nothing serious, might not be bad to have Doc Topsas give us the once-over."

Luffa nodded, and opened her mouth as if to agree, and then she stopped short. "No," she said. "We can't do that. Not for a while, anyway. Doc's... uh... well, he's busy."

"Busy?"

Luffa's face and ears had turned red. "That's why I was late meeting up with you," she said. "We had a situation back at the house, and..."

*******

Aboard Luffa’s star-yacht, Dr. Topsas carefully ran his fingers over Zatte’s left hand. Satisfied with the tactile examination, he moved on to her thoracic wall, then consulted a set of scans of her skeleton.

"Fortunately, the Plantians have stocked the ship's sickbay with a generous supply of superpolymorphic unleashing gel," he said cheerfully. "So if something like this ever happens in the future, you can repair a cracked rib or a sprained wrist in a fraction of the time it would normally take."

Gingerly, Zatte sat up from the examination tabled and sighed. "I'll keep that in mind, doctor," she said.

"Are you feeling all right, Ms. Zatte?" he asked.

"Still a little sore, but a lot better than I was two hours ago," she said. "Uh... thanks for not asking how this happened. The whole thing’s silly and Luffa’s even more embarrassed about it than I am... "

"Say no more, Ms. Zatte” Topsas said. “I was a young newlywed myself once..."

NEXT: Shock to the System.

#dragon ball #fanfiction #super saiyan #luffa #dewbaaac'nogg #wampaaan'riix #zatte #dr topsas #luffasworld #lssjluffafic

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cellerityweb · 7 years

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The Making of Paperverse – The Art-Style That Binds R2G

Creating an art-style that fits various games from different genres and settings can be a hard task – here developer Thing Trunk explains how they approached this process to finally come up with a coherent paper art-style that just works perfectly.

By Marciej Biedrzycki

On 28 July 2018 we revealed »Book of Demons«, a mid-core hack & slash game, the first title in our upcoming »Return 2 Games«-series (R2G in short). That was a big deal for us, as we were finally showing to the world what we’ve been working on for the last four years. To our surprise, a lot of people have been complimenting and asking us about the paper art-style we adopted. This was a bit of a surprise, as we never thought about it as the main feature of the game. Especially among all the gameplay innovations such as deck building. But it feels great because we put a lot of effort into making everything the way it looks now and the road to getting here was a really bumpy one. My role on the project was two-fold. I was co-art-directing (together with Filip Starzynski) and I was also doing a lot of 2D post-processing work. This was mostly making sure that all the graphics delivered to us by different designers, artist and contractors fit nicely together and form one coherent style.

Why have an Art-Style at all?

Developing the paper art-style for R2G took us almost two years, so one might ask, why the need for an art-style at all? Why didn’t we just make »normal« realistic graphics and be done with it? And why did it take so long? And was it worth it in the end? We decided we needed a strong art-style very early in the production. It was a natural consequence of the idea we had. The idea was to build a series of mid-core games inspired by the classic PC hits from the 1990’s. The games would be of different genres and themes, so we really needed for them to have a common aesthetic ground. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be perceived as a series. We wanted R2G to have an iconic look, and be adaptable to various themes. Think about how well it works in Lego (figure 1). This is something we were aiming for.

Why Paper?

The other part of our idea was about the crossover nature of the games. This meant that the art-style should be appealing to both hardcore and casual gamer audiences. This constraint helped us rule out some of the most exotic ideas, like making everything out of macaroni, voxels, or mono-color pixel art. Such ideas were quickly scrapped. For a brief moment, we considered taking a safe route and adopting a 2D cartoon style (think of »Plants vs. Zombies«) or a 3D cartoon style (think of »Clash of Clans«). But this would go against our desire to make something unique, and we also feared that such style which is very popular in the mobile market would not look good enough in a big PC title. We’ve already announced that Book of Demons will be coming to Xbox One, and we’re planning to go for mobile, so the style had to be universal. Still, PC is our primary platform and PC gamers are our core audience. Identifying this helped us rule out more options, especially ones that might look too childish.

A concept of Book of Demons in a »Disney cartoon«-like style.

One day someone said, why don’t we make each game in the series a book, and place the action inside a world of pop-up paper cutouts. Everyone on the team was instantly sold on the idea, as it solved all of our problems. Paper is a very flexible material, so we could really do whatever we wanted with it, take it into any direction we wanted. We could easily have paper dragons and paper spaceships. Even better, paper is symbolic, and that meant we could easily have paper gore (like blood and guts) and it would still be acceptable to the casual audience (think of cruel and scary fairy-tales).

What makes an Art-Style?

As it quickly occurred to us, choosing the right medium for the art-style was only the first step, and the really hard part was still ahead. Paper is so flexible that there are literally hundreds of ways to structure it, fold it, texture it, light it, animate it. Asking google images for »paper characters« reveals a myriad of different possibilities and artistic choices that are possible. On one side there can be flat cutouts, on the other, realistic spatial models. The shapes can be open or closed, round or boxy. You can have detailed textures on the paper, or no textures at all, like in origami. And there’s everything in between. Hell, you could even mix those things and come up with new ones. Paper is just a medium and a tool. A canvas so to speak. Without artistic guidelines, it does not make an art-style, yet. So we were still at square one because we still had no clue how the games would actually look. How do we represent characters? How do we represent water, fire and smoke? How do we represent GUI elements such as windows, cursors, and icons? What palette of colors are we using? How do the objects move? And how does the style differ from game to game? We had to answer all those questions and there was no way around it other than start experimenting.

Early Results

Early results were very … mixed. Over the next year, we worked with multiple freelance designers and we did so many tests, that it would be impossible to cover all of them here. First, we worked on 2D, vector style images with little hints of paper (figure 2).

They would later serve as prototypes for the finished screens in the game. We focused on the general mood, what we wanted to show and how much screen space each element should take. Although we’ve been simultaneously working on three games at this time, I can only show mockups from one of them (Book of Demons). This is because the next games in the series haven’t been announced, yet, and I really don’t want to spoil the surprise. But remember that we were working on the art-style for the whole series, so we wanted to test how different ideas translate between themes and moods from the very beginning.

But mocking up screens in vector graphics could only get us so far. When we were happy with the basic layouts, we started looking for a way to make them more realistic in terms of paper styling. The first thing we tried was the simplest thing we could do – we printed the mockups and made cutouts (figure 3).

Figure 4: Paper-style graphics in 3D are quite simple to create as tests showed.

This was quick and quite effective and would make for a great and simple production pipeline – especially if would be done in 3D. Figure 4 shows one of such tests. It showed that it is quite simple to get a paper feel in 3D, even without simulating all of the details characteristic to paper cutouts (like imperfect cuts, texture washes on the borders, paper waving, etc.). Unfortunately, we couldn’t have gone this way as we made a decision that the in-dungeon part of the game will be isometric. The game we were building was supposed to be a tribute to »Diablo«, and we just couldn’t get the idea to work without having a proper, isometric dungeon. So we started experimenting with paper dungeons.

Figure 5 is the first paper dungeon attempt that seemed to work. It wasn’t as good as wanted the end result to be, but it was promising and we knew we were on the right track. This is what we had in May 2013. At this stage, we were still very early in the process, as each answered question seemed to spawn two more. For example, the characters above are very simple and could work well when miniaturized in the dungeon, but what if we had a characters face close-up on the whole screen?

One way would be to adapt the level of detail with each frame, preserving the most important details, like the face of a character for instance (figure 6). This could technically work, but it would have two major drawbacks. First, it would be a lot of work as each character and object in the game would have to be re-built from scratch for every level of camera zoom. Also, it would be hard or impossible to do smooth zooming.

Figure 7: One example of a user interface that did not fit the graphic style of the game.

Second, it would also make the art-style eclectic. If you think about Lego blocks, the character details and proportions don’t change depending on camera zoom and it all works in games and movies. How about the user interface, how should it look?

Well, certainly not like in figure 7. To give you a sense of how much effort went into finding the right ways, figure 8 shows a few versions of the Book of Demons cathedral that we had made.

Help from the Big Guns

So we had some bits and pieces that started to work, but nothing final. We had equally as many questions as we had answers. Each of the designers we worked with was able to sort some stuff out, produce some nice details, but no one was able to approach the art-style as a whole (instead of a sum of its parts) and propose a concise, working set of rules encompassing everything from characters to GUI, from shapes to textures. Seeing that we were starting to go around in circles and not moving forward, we had to make some drastic changes to our art-style development methodology. We decided we needed outside help and we figured the best way to do it, would be to run a contest. The idea was to hire a few visual agencies, experienced in game graphics and see whose take on the subject would be best.

So the contest idea was quite simple: Let’s take three R2G games (we already had three working prototypes back then), create two screen mockups for each and let the participants propose the final look of the games as a visualization. Six screen mockups in total. Simple as it was, creating the job description for the contest turned out to be a herculean task of its own. Would you believe me if I told you that we created 99 pages of documentation with 19,713 words in it? After working on the art style on our own for over a year now, we now had a lot to tell. We didn’t want to just list the requirements but we wanted to explain what we already knew that would work, and what would not. We feared that otherwise the agencies would waste time figuring what we already did figure.

Figure 9: This template mockup was provided for the contest by the developers.

Working with big companies can be tough for an Indie studio, especially financially wise, so we had to do a lot of searching and negotiations. In July 2013 we started the contest, with two high-profile companies participating – the Shanghai-based Virtuos, and US-based Supergenius Studio. What shouldn’t be surprising at this point, the whole process turned out to be complex. It involved writing hundreds of emails to each studio, mostly giving detailed feedback on the materials we were receiving. I’ll use just one mockup from the contest as an example. Figure 9 shows one of the template mockups we provided. It was a pixel-perfect mockup for the dungeon screen of Book of Demons.

Figure 10 is the end proposal that Virtuos did send in, while figure 11 shows the same from Supergenius Studio. If you’ve seen screenshots from Book of Demons, you already know that we went with Supergenius. This might be surprising from the two screens above, but note that we weren’t judging only the quality of screens but the quality of the entire collaboration. While Virtuos presented us with many high-quality screens for each of the three games, their results weren’t really coherent and we couldn’t see any common ground between them. However, Supergenius sent us detailed explanations of the reasoning behind every decision and even sketched examples how the style would differ from game to game.

Figure 12: Supergenius not only sent in screens showing the final art-style ingame but also delivered detailed sketches on how the art-style might differ from game to game.

Figure 12 is an example of one of those studies. On the right we have a skeleton from Book of Demons (the theme here is dark fantasy) and on the left is a skeleton from another fantasy game, but this time the mood is lighter, more fairy-tale like. This was exactly the result we were hoping for. We quickly ended the contest and contracted Supergenius to develop all six screens and all the details of the art-style. It was a tiresome process for both parties, and involved even more emails bouncing back and forth. There were some hiccups, but in the end, everything turned out fine. We were happy with the results. Over a couple of months, the dungeon screen went from what you could see earlier, to figure 13 and the town screen went from figure 14 to figure 15.

Figure 16 is a sneak-peek from mockups for some of the other R2G games. Those titles weren’t announced, yet, so I hope I’m not spoiling too much. I’d lie if I said that in the end we had everything figured out (we still weren’t satisfied with the GUI part), but we knew a lot, and most importantly, we had developed a lot of rules about paper thickness, texturing, shapes for the particular games. Figure 17 shows one of the studies we did – visualizing a tree and a brick wall in three R2G games.

But does it work?

When we felt we had a good grip on the art-style, we wanted to give it a test drive. Something like in the Lego examples from the beginning of this article. Basically, we wanted to see if our art-style could handle some heavy lifting. To this end, we selected three iconic movie scenes and then had them recreated in our paper style. This was done by the talented artist Piotr Lisek, who at this time had already worked with us as our in-house lead artist. Luckily, he got such a good grip on the art-style, that he created most of the subsequent designs and artworks in Book of Demons. I think the results of this test shown in figure 18 speak for themselves. Ok, now is the time for a disclaimer. The images in figure 18 are not part of our games! They are simply fan-arts that we created for internal tests and to proof our art-style. Having said that, they make great wallpapers!

The Pipeline

I’m sure that you noticed that most of the graphics shown here are CGI renders and not actual paper models. This was due to practical reasons. We did a lot of paper models to learn how paper works and feels, but in the end, it just wouldn’t be practical for us to have everything created and animated in real life. It’s fun when you need to do a single model, but when you need 70 different, animated monsters, divided into individual sprites with transparency, or pixel perfect isometric tiles to make the dungeons and whole sceneries it just gets out of your reach very quickly. Having said that, we did make some models, even some real life ones, and figure 19 is a proof.

Figure 19: A real life model of a character made out of paper.

A few Words about GUI

Even with all the art-related tasks that we completed, designing paper GUI for Book of Demons turned out to be a complicated task for us. It was something we couldn’t get right and required many, many attempts. The version on the bottom of figure 20 is final – an actual screenshot from the running game. All others are various attempts we tested at various stages of development. With an element such as this – one which the player sees constantly all throughout the game – we wouldn’t stop until we were completely satisfied with the result.

Figure 20: Various versions of the GUI from different stages of development, the one on the bottom is the final result.

In fact, this part was also tackled via a contest. I guess this type of solving most problematic cases worked quite well for us. We had a rough version done by Supergenius (top row), then we had three takes by independent designers we worked with (both in-house and external). The most promising version was selected as a team vote (second from the bottom) and it was developed into the final state over several intense sessions. But as you can see, all the versions did contribute something to the final result, so we weren’t complaining that we took the time to explore all those possibilities. All important elements went through a similar development pipeline, and all GUI elements evolved more or less simultaneously. Every time something would not feel right, we would introduce someone else into the workflow to do his or her take and introduce new blood.

Paperverse in Action

Figure 21 is a gallery of some of the final (or near final, we’re getting close to internal beta) screenshots from the game, that show the R2G paper art-style in action in Book of Demons. But before you jump into those examples, I feel that I need to make one more important comment. You see, even with all the hassle and effort that went into the development, the paper style we use was never intended to be a major selling point of the games. It’s nice and all, but it’s only a tool that lets us realize our goals of gameplay and design. So if something doesn’t work in paper (fog? glass? fire?), then we’re not afraid to bend the art-style rules. We’re not slaves of the style we developed and it’s the style that serves the games, not the other way round.

If you visit our website (www.return2games.com) you can view a trailer of the game and see how it all looks in action. For example, the screens can’t show the type of animation we went with. In fact, we went with very subtle animations, as we wanted our games to have a very symbolic feel, similar to a real board game. We hope that this way players will get to use more of their imagination, and that’s a nod to all the great games from the 1990’s that managed to keep us glued to the screens with the very few pixels they operated on.

The »Archive of Awesome« is the menu where all the different games will be available as books to fit the paper style.

One interesting thing about the trailer is that if you look closely it mixes realistic graphics (the gate) with paper graphics (everything else). This is deliberate, although it doesn’t work as well in the trailer as it does in the game. In the game, the first location the player sees is what we call the »Archive of Awesome«. This is a place where all the books/games in the Return 2 Games are stored. When the player selects a book, it magically lifts, opens and shows all the nice paper popups. The camera flies inside the book and we are suddenly inside the paper worlds (which we call »Paperverse« by the way) surrounded by paper objects and characters.

This was important to us, as it symbolically marks the transition from the real world, represented by realistic graphics, to the games’ paper world. It also gives the player a sense of place. The player knows he’s literally inside a popup book because we’ve just shown it. If we made a jarring transition from the desktop straight into the paper world it might have been a bit abstract and disorienting at first. The way we do it is smoother, gentler, and in our opinion helps build the suspense of disbelief.

Closing Words

When preparing materials for this article, I was shocked at the amount of test, mockups and studies we produced or had produced. We have so many materials, that this article could go on and on and on. I feel that I just scratched the surface and had to simplify and skip entire parts. For example, a making-of the animated key art with the Archdemon (you can see it on our website at www.return2games.com) could easily be a topic for a separate article. Hopefully, you will find something interesting in the description of our process, or even get inspired by it. My team has done many games before, but before working on Book of Demons we mostly did casual games, and we never had so much fun and trouble at the same time developing an art-style for a game. Knowing what we know now, would probably let us shave a year off development, but realistically speaking I don’t know how we could make all those decisions without trying so many things out in the process.

If everything goes well, Book of Demons will be completed this year and the next games from the R2G series will soon follow. All of the work on the art style we did was part of the pre-production of the entire series. Sure it took a lot of time and effort, but we hope that what we developed and all the guidelines we have now in place will all contribute to making our production easier in the future.

About the Author

Maciej Biedrzycki is Founder and Chief Game Architect at Thing Trunk, a pretty small game development studio behind »Book of Demons« – a deck-building hack and slash, where it’s the player who decides the length of quests. Book of Demons is also the first title from the »Return 2 Games«-series, a series of unique mid-core games, inspired by the early golden days of PC gaming.

The post The Making of Paperverse – The Art-Style That Binds R2G appeared first on Making Games.

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elkboy · 7 years

Text

Pedantic Peter

Inspector Kermit was on his last leg. The case that he had been working on for over a year was finally coming to an end, but there was one thing that bothered him. For the first time in a career spanning two decades, he was not so sure about the man he was going to prosecute. Kermit was a perfectionist and knowing everything was crucial to his success.

His mental check-list had him asking questions: is the suspect clean, thoughtful and scientifically inclined or was he/she a general fuck up? what did the suspect eat every morning? did they like to establish a routine in order to focus on a craft or did their lives involve waddling around, eating and taking the occasional shit?

On a normal day, the answers were laid bare, but this time something was 'off' and he couldn't quite place his finger on what was wrong. The suspect, Roosemar Pheloosh is a renowned screenwriter and abstractionist. His work is so great that it often falls outside the realm of criticism. Everything he produced until now was so edgy, visceral and brilliant that Kermit had to think twice before locking him down.

He was currently at one of Mr. Roosemar's many ‘safe-houses', looking for any bits of evidence that could cement his deductions. He achieved this by sitting on a chair and meditating while his assistant, Detective Gomez looked for hidden secrets.

Kermit was a simple, but sharp man. He wore a bold dark suit with a red shirt inside. A slick black tie hung perfectly from his neck. His attire matched a brown leather watch that he wore on his left hand. The watch had an imprint of an 'elk' under the clock-face. He was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room for over an hour— eyes closed and hands placed inwards on his lap. Subtle breathing was given away, only by the minute displacements of his tie. He was in a state of deep awareness. By focusing on the breath, the concoction of images and thoughts that pulverized him at first were slowly disappearing like clouds in thin air.

Kermit could always count on the 'morning sitting' to clear out his thoughts. The meditations helped him be more stable. However, this time it was not a matter of simple relaxation. He was trying to speak to the man that was hiding in his subconscious. This 'elusive' man, was a concept that Kermit could swear by. He could always radio-in whenever he needed help. The elusive man usually showed him what he needed to see at that very moment. It was up to Kermit to take his advice— or warnings —about the state of things to come.

Trying to contact the elusive man by focusing on the breath was a similar experience to tuning a stringed instrument. One had to focus on the movements of the abdomen by catching the breath in its natural rhythm. While resting on the breath, a comfortable middle ground had to be found between being too relaxed and too wound up; a balance between being lethargic and rigid. If a string on a guitar is too loose, it has a lazy...blubbery sound; too tight and it produces an over-enthusiastic tink, tink. For a chord to have the desired effect, the tension of the strings must be balanced. In just the same way, one had to attain an unwavering and delicate focus on the breath.

Kermit was now perfectly in tune. With his back straight and feet flat on the ground he resembled an antenna that was ready to receive and send signals. An image of the man slowly started to appear— like a television in his mind. The man's figure was like any other person but his face kept switching features like it was unable to decide. This 'twitching' mostly affected the jaw line and forehead. Caucasian for a few seconds then hispanic for half. Only his eyes remained consistent throughout. An imprint of the man was on a blank canvas but soon enough, a 32X32 grid based system was imposed and pixels of varying colors started to bleed in from all sides.

A purple sun filled-in two and a half bigger grid-squares while the surrounding area was dabbed with ominous streaks of colors that were two to three shades lighter than the sun. The ground was made of sharp white sand that supported a strange circular room. Kermit could slowly feel himself. He entered the room. The elusive man was standing atop a table. His jawline, still unreadable but Kermit could tell that he was proud of his latest work. The man was after all responsible for constructing dreamscapes when Kermit was asleep at night. An engineer of the dream.

A subtle bell-like sound came from the man's core as if to request Kermit's attention. The engineer looked at the watch on his hand and froze in place. Perfectly still, he resembled the living embodiment of an instructional manual. Kermit registered this and looked at his watch. The imprint of the elk under the clock-face was gone. The hour markings were replaced with head to heel caricatures of Roosemar Pheloosh, the suspect. Roosemar's figure was down sized and drawn inside of a watch. Each hour-marking was slightly different. It took Kermit a while to notice, that all the caricatures collectively formed the frames of an animated loop. The suspect's face was mimicked perfectly and each frame had an impeccable amount of detail. Every hour, progressively showed Roosemar's figure losing visibility and eventually disappearing. Kermit thought hard to make something of it. He then looked up from his watch and waited for the elusive man.

The man suddenly shifted position with military confidence. His hands were pointing to the other tables beside him. A grid system was slowly phasing-in around the suggested area. They were accurately being filled-in with what seemed to be heads belonging to Roosemar, but this time it was to scale. Both the heads were identical but Kermit was starting to see minute differences. Two to be precise: a thicker brow on one and a small mark under the eye of the other.

The man then switched-off and fell lifeless onto the floor— like a ragdoll. Legs tucked underneath the spine with head and heel facing each other. Hands in obtuse angles to the center of the body. Kermit was left alone to analyze. He thought for a while but came up empty. It didn't seem like there was an epiphany hitting him anytime soon. What was the elusive man trying to tell him? Throughout his career as a deductionist, he always knew what things meant. This time everything was void. An absolute zero. Kermit was slowly shuffling into a bad mood. He could feel his metaphysical self tensing up. A mucky soup of irritatingly convoluted thoughts were forcing his transcendent state, out the window. Anger was taking control and the ground under him was starting to feel a bit loose, creaking with every step Kermit took to balance himself. The circular room was closing in, its circumference getting smaller. Kermit could feel sweat dripping down his brow, the pain of uncertainty creeping in. He let out a well-timed scream, as the dreamscape began to collapse.

"Gomez, I'm not so sure about the case!“, Kermit said, erupting from his meditation chair like a hot geyser.

“But sir, all of the evidence we have so far makes sense.”, Gomez said, trying not to laugh. He felt a pinch of happiness seeing the ever-tranquil Kermit in such a mess.

"Yes, I’m aware of that. There’s something else going on here, though. This whole ‘Roosemar’ situation is surrounded by a deep mystery. We have all the facts and they’re all solid but I just feel like there’s more to this. It was all too simple.”, Kermit said as he paced around the room feverishly while Gomez watched him.

Something doesn't add up, Kermit thought. Why would he leave his keys by the bedstand when he drinks this much caffeine? Why was the victim left unscathed? Most importantly, why was he shown two copies of Roosemar’s head? Kermit was still pacing about, talking to himself in a hushed tone. The nerves on his forehead looked like they were about to pop. The room went quiet for a minute until something caught Kermit’s eye. A white sheet of paper sat peacefully on a dull wooden table. Kermit felt a calm breeze enter through the window and soothe his forehead. He walked up to the table and read the contents of the paper. It was a script for a film of some kind.

Pedantic Peter

A script by Roosemar Pheloosh and Tambourine Smith

The scene opens in a strange basement laboratory located in the mucky,deeply-industrialised Penwick city. The city has nothing but pipes and engines for vast stretches. A slice of which is visible through a grill high up on a wall in the lab. Two scientists Peter and Garcia can be seen working on an experiment. Various filters,computers,charts of algorithms,dead garden-cats,snails and bottles of wax can be seen strewn about long tables. Peter is an alarmingly tall man with hair like the spikes of a cactus. His assistant Garcia is short and sleepy-eyed. He reeks of a visible green trail of 'laziness'.

Peter: I don't know about you, but something's amiss.

Garcia: Padrone, you are looking for something?

Peter: Well, Subject A has a mark on the posterior segment but Subject B is smooth as far as the eye can see.

Garcia: Longworms will be longworms, Padrone.

Peter: Open your eyes. They are both the same, yet so different!

Garcia: Peter, my eyes are open. But, not for long. I can feel a blanket of sleep coming over me.

Peter: Garcia, you fuck! We are so close. Flawless cloning is just a few embellishments away. You can’t give up on me now!

Garcia: They will be pleased with everything we have at this very moment! We don't need to make sure that every graft of skin is the same! You worry too much Peter. It is time to relax.

Garcia walks up to a small refrigerator. A dead meer-cat blocks the door. Garcia flings the carcass across the room. He opens the refrigerator, grabs two bottles of liquid beer, walks up to Peter and offers it to him.Peter refuses.

Peter: I haven't shown you this but... I think that now is a perfect time.

Peter pulls out a wallet from under his lab coat. A dead snail falls onto the floor, the sound of its shell cracking is barely audible.He takes a thin piece of folded paper from a secret compartment in his wallet. The paper contains an image of the Menger Sponge Fractal. He holds it up dangerously close to Garcia's face.

Peter: You see this? Everything is paced perfectly with arithmetic precision. There's a rhythm, a continuation all up to the Apex. A fractal that speaks volumes of self-similarity. I have to say, Garcia, after I first set eyes on this, everything around me has morphed into a parable for symmetry. All we have to do is replace the Sierpinski Carpet fractal with this and I guarantee, the result will be a perfect clone.

Garcia: A job's a job, Peter. You've gotta learn to space it out. Besides, when a thing is finished in some way or form, learn to let it go.

Garcia takes off his lab coat and leaves the basement. Peter has lost faith in the people around him as nobody shares his eye for detail. He looks at the fractal one last time, while he walks to a terminal that is attached to a transparent enclosure. He makes an alteration to the algorithm, looks a Longworm in the eye and pushes a button. The machine shakes violently. Smoke seeps out of it like a waterfall covering the entire room with a thick white haze. From the opening, a purple gland breaks through the smoke like a houdini, its succulent body moving by centimeters. Peter's eyes are fixed on what could be a success. Was the effort worthy of praise? The gland reveals more of itself. Several orifices can be seen on the side of its body. They have an outline that glows. The color of the light is deep blue. The orifices open its sphincters to reveal horribly sharp teeth. Peter has seen enough. It turned out to be worse than he had imagined. He picks up a stool and smashes the mutated clone to bits. The machine shakes in response as if to mourn for its creation. Peter falls to the floor with his head in his hands. A bolt from the machine ricochets and hits a small storage hanger on the ceiling. Peter wails loudly, his voice reverberating through the lab, as medium-sized animal carcasses fall onto him from above.

SCENE ENDS

Kermit puts the script down. "We've solved the case" he said as he placed the wooden chair in its original position next to the table. A deceptive knot was finally untangled. Kermit was sure that it was Roosemar and asked Gomez to call it in. All of the evidence made sense so it was rather unquestionable. This was not the situation a few minutes ago however, as Kermit struggled with the few remaining pieces. All he had to do was loosen the pressure that Uncertainty had instilled on him. Its dark depths sucking away every morsel of his ability to make a decision.There comes a point when a ‘concept' becomes too intertwined like an impenetrable jungle. If its meaning can be abstracted in a single sentence then that is enough.

Gomez was relieved to find out that he could go home. He did not grasp what had happened and gave up entirely on trying to figure out the causes and conditions of Kermit's confusion. Maybe this was a good thing as his mind was sitting perfectly still with no ripples on the surface. He yawned, as he walked up to his car as if to acknowledge the end.

Kermit, on the other hand, was thankful for the experience of imbibing something new. After all, learning is the only profound remnant of the strange world we live in. Before returning home that night, he picked up an artist's rendition of the Menger Sponge Fractal. He nailed it onto the wall behind his bed and went into a deep sleep.

#short story #pedantic peter

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