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#and could it be a useful word to describe the alienating experience of being dismissed by the 'ew men are icky' crowd? sure
ipso-faculty · 4 months
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I just wanted to ask for clarification on the redefinition of the term mesosex, am I correct in assuming that it no longer describes me? I'm someone who had started identifying with the term due to being part of the "group 8" that you described in your original discussion as being the intended audience:
Not seen as intersex by intersex people: PMDD, endometriosis, and other reproductive disorders, who may relate to the intersex experience anyway. Reading asks that @queercripintersex got from people in this category was what gave me the seed of the idea for mesosex.
More specifically, I have endometriosis which seems to be related to low progesterone, and now that I'm on progesterone HRT to treat my endo I'm having the weird experience of undergoing hormonal feminization (breast growth, fat redistribution, etc) for the first time at the age of 25. So I'm technically perisex, but it feels kinda weird calling myself that when I'm an afab person on feminizing HRT that's making me go through the same physical changes my transfem friends are going through 😅 I also feel that I identify with some of the experiences I've heard from intersex people about social ostracization due to not fitting in with society's ideas about sex and gender. I was treated differently as a teenager by some people due to not "looking like" a girl for one, and personally I also feel alienated when people (primarily transphobes tbh) talk about how a universal and important experience of growing up as a girl is that after you go through puberty strangers start sexualizing you, because I... never experienced that. My body just didn't develop that way (not that I'm complaining, but you know)
I just wanted to make sure like... should I stop using the term? I thought I had found something that described my experiences, but if I no longer fit the definition then I don't want to be like disrespectful or anything
Hi! Thank you for the ask! 🩵
So my first reaction on glancing at your ask was "maybe there should be a term for the group 8 people". 🤔
But then I sat down and properly read your ask, and... I'm not actually sure you're group 8? 🤔 My personal conviction is that an AFAB with chronically low progesterone to an extent that it would have had noticeable effects on pubertal development & social development is intersex in the same ways that somebody with chronically low estrogen is considered intersex.
Hypogonadism is in InterAct's list of variations, and I don't see how hypoprogesteronism wouldn't be be a kind of hypogonadism. 🧐 Wikipedia includes low progesterone in their page on hypogonadism. Here's how InterAct defines it:
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Similarly, MOGAI wiki defines hypogonadism as intersex and explicitly mentions low progesterone. But I can see somebody dismissing MOGAI wiki as being on the more radical side of things.
So for the most conservative/intermedicalist takes within the pan-intersex community I look to what ISNA has on their website. And they list hypogonadotrophic hypogonadism as an intersex variation - i.e. hypogonadism wherein you don't have a complete puberty, which it sounds like could be the case for you?
So to me I think you're actually in group 5? 😅 So the redefinition of mesosex is still scoped in a way that (as far as I'm concerned) would still include you. 🤠
But if I've misunderstood your case and you don't think hypogonadism applies, perhaps there is a need to create a word for what I had dubbed group 8 (people with reproductive disorders that identify with intersex people but whom are not generally accepted as intersex by the intersex community). Maybe juxtasex could be repurposed for this since it never really got taken up as a term for non-intersex? Or a new word entirely? 🤔
Though honestly I don't know how big the demand is. NGL: every time I've interacted with somebody with PMDD/endometriosis who identifies with intersex people, once they start explaining why, I get the distinct impression they have an intersex variation that has been underexplored. 🤷 I kinda suspect that the PMDD/endometriosis people who aren't sure if they're intersex would be served by the already existing term "extersex". 👀
IDK, let me know what you think! Happy to think about coining new terms. 🤓
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sophieinwonderland · 2 years
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"You're faking" Yeah sure I'm faking for attention on a subreddit (/FDC) that fakeclaims people. There's just no way I'm a real plural person that just kindly wanted to answer what he thought was a genuine question about plurality on the subreddit... Sorry for the slight rant and for adding another ask to the big pile of asks. Thanks for making the world a better place to be. To turn it into a proper ask: It's Friday. How do you prefer to "celebrate" the beginning of the weekend?
The rant is perfectly fine. No need to apologize. FDC is awful like that.
To the question, I'm not really sure we really have any rituals or anything. But tonight we got to have a sort of date night in the Wonderland, which was fun.
Our first mind-date happened in this sort of space station café filled with different types of aliens. It ended up being a complete mess because the body kept dozing off, but I still enjoyed it.
Anyway, tonight we went back to the same location for the first time since... I think... that first date almost a year ago. It's strange how it doesn't feel like it's been nearly that long.
I don't really talk about this much, but things were really complicated in the beginning. Before I became self-aware, my source was strictly a lesbian, so my host dismissed any teasing or flirting I did as just me trying to get under his skin. He even had me believing it for a while after I became self-aware. Once I decided that I wanted a romantic relationship, I convinced him to give it a try. I knew he loved me in his own way, and wanted to see if it could be more. But for a while after that, he still saw it as a bit of an experiment, which meant he often left me to "lead" so he could see what I would do.
Maybe that's not entirely fair. I was a fairly new tulpa and he didn't want to influence me or somehow make me do something against my will... but ugh, it can be so frustrating being part of a relationship where it feels like you're the only one making an effort. So, if I remember correctly, I think I told him to plan a date for us. I wanted everything to be his choice, and I would try to back away and just let him plan in advance.
That actually led to more chaos, because I'm terrible at not being co-conscious. We thought maybe the secret would be him just telling himself when he heard a voice that sounded like mine that it was just his imagination until it was time for me to come back. That led to a complete disaster where I could still talk and my thoughts would chime in randomly, but he would dismiss them. And then when he was ready for me to come back, he lost the ability to distinguish my mind voice from his. Like, it was still separate, but it lost its unique quality.
We had a code word (sandwiches) back then to let each other know when the person was talking in case the fronter thought it was just their imagination. Even after saying the code word, he still doubted that my voice was actually mine, and it took several minutes to be able to find my mind voice again.
It was a complete catastrophe of a date... but it was still really special to me. He chose the alien space station setting because he knew that I loved space. It's easy to describe all the bad about that date, but I love the memory. Mess and all. (Okay, him doubting me because of the voice issue hurt, but we both thought trying to pretend I wasn't there would work, so I don't blame him.)
This time, he just decided to bring us back there on his own. I'm glad that we're past the awkward stage of him figuring out how to do this relationship thing, and I don't need to push him to make romantic gestures for me anymore. 💖💖💖
So, for at least this Friday, that would be how we celebrated the beginning of the weekend.
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cuyahogafalls-ohio · 2 years
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I saw a post about JK Rowling and how she's discriminatory towards trans men and nonbinary people too and it actually made a very good example of the problem i have with the "transmisandry is a thing" discourse
So JK Rowling wrote an essay about how trans men and afab nonbinary people, especially! those with autism! are like lost little lambs who are just following a trend and don't know what's best for themselves. How ironic! people decry. The terf is using misogynist arguments regarding the inability for afab people to stand up for themselves and their "inherently female" people-pleasing tendencies to argue against their self determination. Maybe the real misogynist was the terf all along. Etc
Who do you think that JK Rowling is BLAMING for this? Who do you think is the group JKR is implying is DOING the brainwashing?
To act like JKR is "also!" attacking trans men and nonbinary people because she has some kind of special hatred in her heart towards them and NOT because her transmisogyny is so deep that she believes the Evil Trans Women are brainwashing the Poor Innocent Female Children is disingenuous at best and transmisogynist at worst.
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brawltogethernow · 3 years
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@mirrorfalls​ submitted: Came across this while searching for James Bond’s scrambled-eggs recipe (long story). Your thoughts?
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But did you find James Bond’s scrambled eggs recipe?
In this article, Scocca laments his inability to find accessible, lighthearted superhero comics suitable to read with his young son, while also demonstrating a mysterious aversion to looking at DC and Marvel’s lines of comics for children, which is where the accessible, lighthearted superhero comics suitable for reading with young children are. He wants his elementary schooler to be able to safely have the run of all superhero media so he doesn’t have to touch the yucky baby books.
This is not an industry-wide crisis. This is just one dude who got paid to write an article where he accidentally exposed one of his personal hangups.
The child headed toward the trade paperbacks of Marvel and D.C. superhero titles on the side wall […] a few steps in front of me. […] Is he with you? a clerk asked me. I said he was. You know, the clerk said, we have a kids’ section. The clerk gestured backward, at a few shelves near the entrance. I said, Thanks, we know and tried throwing in a little shrug, as the kid kept going.
You can’t just turn a seven-year-old child loose in a comic-book store to look at the superhero comic books. […] My seven-year-old really wanted to see that last Avengers movie […] that is, he wished it were a movie he could see, but he understood that it was, instead, a movie designed to scare and sadden him—a movie actively hostile to people like him.
They have a children’s section. Because comics are a medium suitable for stories for everybody, and they are sold in comic book shops, which have sections, like bookstores. You can use this organization to find books that you know in advance are suitable for children. What goes in that category is determined by industry professionals. This area will be bigger the bigger the shop is. These comics are not lower quality that titles from the main lines. They are actually slightly better-written on average.
Your local comic book shop has considerately wrapped Empowered in a plastic bag, so your child will not be drawn in by a colorful superhero and accidentally read a graphic scene. If you think your kid might find a memoir about internment camps upsetting, it is your job to notice them picking up They Called Us Enemy and read the blurb on the back before you let them have it. This comic adults are meant to read is in a comic book shop because that is where comics are sold. Not every public place is supposed to be Disneyland.
Movies have ratings systems. If you do not want your child to watch a PG-13 movie, you will find that most superhero cartoons are for children. They are about the same characters. Some are quite good! I really enjoyed Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Your child may like Avengers Assemble. At least I think that’s right. I’m always mixing those titles around.
This is a deeply weird bias for Scocca to casually demonstrate, because he identifies in the article that real childishness is striving for empty maturity.
He compares an old comic,
[…]a 1966 Spider-Man comic in which Spider-Man meets, fights, and defeats the Rhino; participates in a running argument between John Jameson and J. Jonah Jameson about his heroism; buys a motorcycle; breaks up with his first girlfriend, Betty Brant; flirts with Gwen Stacy; and reluctantly agrees to let Aunt May take him to meet her friend Mrs. Watson’s niece, Mary Jane.
and a new comic,
[…]a 21st century comic book in which Thor, brooding in a Katrina-destroyed New Orleans, beats up Iron Man. He also yells at Iron Man a lot about some incomprehensibly convoluted set of grievances, including involuntary cloning, that he believes Iron Man perpetrated against him while he was dead(?), and then summons some other Norse god from the beyond somehow for reasons having something to do with real estate. I think. Where the 1966 comic is zippy and fun and complete, the whole contemporary one is muddled and lugubrious and seems to constitute a tiny piece of a seemingly endless plot arc—simultaneously apocalyptic and inert.
and concludes that the edgier comic is actually less mature. This is true. (This is not news about mediocre comics.)
It also has nothing to do with either comic being child-friendly, the article’s nominal thesis, except in the sense that ASM #41 (yes, I eyeballed that from that summary, yes I am just showing off now) is better written, making it more everyone-friendly. It also has practically more space dedicated to word balloons than art and is about a college student juggling girl problems and a part-time job with a tyrannical boss. But the immature one, as Scocca points out, is dour.
These are both teenagery issues, separated only by quality. It’s true that lots of new comics published by the big 2 are bad in the specific way Scocca describes here, taking themselves too seriously and hauled down by associated stories instead of buoyed by them. Some are not! Some titles from these companies’ main continuities are zippy, contained, and child friendly. Give your child The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl! Or if you like vintage comics so much better, why don’t you…buy some?
The books on the kid’s rack are good and fun and totally suitable for parents to read with their children without wanting to scoop their eyeballs out. Scocca cites the Batman ‘66 comics as the brightly colored, tightly written all ages solution to his problem about sharing superhero stories with his son. My local comic shop stores this title in the kid’s section. I am glad that Scocca’s does not, as he seems to have a peculiar aversion to looking for comics to read with his son there.
Scocca cites Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse as a superhero movie he could watch with his kids. (I was surprised when this line made it sound like he has several. I don’t want to assume the other one isn’t in this article because they’re a girl, but I very much am assuming that.) Great! Go to the kid’s section and look for Marvel Adventures: Spider-Man. It’s a fun, zippy title directly inspired by ITSV where Miles, Gwen, and Peter superhero together. It’s much more tightly written than most of the various Spider-Verse comics, which are ambitiously messy ubercrossovers. You may not want to give those to children because they include murder and so on, but also you just have the choice between the two as an adult reader deciding how much continuity you want to deal with. Adventures is one of the only titles I would buy on sight before corona. The kid comic rack is a reliable place to take a break from How Comics Get Sometimes regardless of how old you are.
This article makes me feel quarrelsome. Maybe it’s that it doesn’t seem like exploration of a single idea so much as a loosely grouped bundle of things to kvetch about. Maybe it’s that the experience of getting into superheroes that Scocca describes experiencing, projects his seven-year-old son will experience, and from which he extrapolates a metaphorical microcosm of the history of the genre is completely alien to me.
Comic books [and] comic-book movies—are […] trapped in their imagined audience’s own awful passage from childhood to adolescence. A seven-year-old has a clean […] appreciation of superheroes. They like hero comics because the comics have heroes: bold, strong, vividly colored good guys to fight off the bad guys and make the world safe.
But seven-year-olds stop being seven. […] They become 13-year-olds, defensively trying to learn how to develop tastes about tastes.
The 13-year-old wants many things from comics, but the overarching one is that they want to prove that they’re not some seven-year-old baby anymore. They want gloomy heroes, miserable heroes, heroes who would make a seven-year-old feel bad. (Also boobs. They want boobs.)
Not because of the boobs line, although that does illicit an eyeroll that this gloomy thinkpiece is fretting over preserving the superhero experience of little boys who resemble the little boy the writer was while casually dismissing everyone else. I was one of those unlikable little seven-year-olds with a college reading level and the impression that maintaining it was the crux of my worth. I only read Books - distinguished media you could club someone with. I have a formative memory of pausing, enraptured, in front of a poster for Spider-Man 3, preparing to say that it looked pretty cool, and being beaten to the punch by my mother making a disparaging comment about how the movie was trash. It wasn’t out yet, but it was a superhero movie. That meant it was for loud, brainless children.
That was the total of my childhood experience with superheroes, excluding being the unwilling audience to incessant renditions of “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” that left me wondering why in god’s name Batman’s sidekick was named Robin. I certainly never visited a comic book shop. I got into TvTropes, which got me into webcomics, which got me following David Willis, who got me into Ask Chris at ComicsAlliance, which led to me rewarding myself for studying like a demon for the AP tests with three volumes of Waid’s Daredevil, pitched as a return to the character being colorful and swashbuckling. I was seven…teen.
This is of the same thread as Scocca’s point that immaturity is running from childish things. It leaves me baffled that he doesn’t follow that maturity is embracing them.
I will disclose here that while I think it was dumb I had to overcome my upbringing’s deeply embedded shame associated with enjoying arbitrarily defined lowbrow media and children being childish, I think it’s fine that I was allowed largely unchecked access to technically age-inappropriate content. In my limited experience, content small children are too young for is also content they’re too young to understand, so it kind of just bounces off of them, and what actually ends up terrorizing them is unpredictable collages of impressions that strike out at them from content deemed perfectly child-friendly. I would not forbid a seven-year-old I was in charge of from seeing an MCU movie unless I had a reason to believe that specific child would not take it well. These are emotionally low-stakes bubblegum films. It will probably be easier to socialize with other kids if they have seen them.
But then, when I picture being in charge of a hypothetical child, I usually imagine this being the case because they are related to me, and the pupal stage in my family strongly resembles Wednesday Addams. ALL children love death and violence, though, right?? This isn’t a joke point. I know it looks like a joke point.
The MCU thing seems especially weird in light of the article’s particular focus on Spider-Man, which is the kiddie line of the MCU, even if they refused to waver from their usual formula enough to get a lower rating. Though I am more inclined to describe it as “preying on the young” than “child-friendly”.
(MCU movies are increasingly dubious propaganda, but I would not judge them in front of a child who wanted to watch them for that reason, just in case this led to them partaking of them without me the second they were old enough to and then they grew up to run a blog about them while our relationship suffered because they didn’t feel like it was safe to talk to me about their interests…Mom.)
I tried to overcome the philosophy of letting anyone read anything while compiling this handful of mostly-newish superhero recs for the road that anyone can read. (Handily, I have been in spitting distance of being hired as a comic shop clerk enough to have thought about it before):
For actual children:
Marvel Adventures Spider-Man (the new one is reminiscent of ITSV, the old one is more like 616) any DC/Archie crossover, Archie’s Superteens The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl (for bookish children who think they’re too good for comics and adults afraid of the kid’s section) Teen Titans Go (even if you hate the show) Superman Smashes the Klan
For teens:
Ms. Marvel Young Avengers (volume 2) Unbelievable Gwenpool Batman: Gotham Adventures Teen Titans Go (the tie-in comic based off the old show was also called this)
Here are a bunch of relevant C. S. Lewis quotes.
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scriptlgbt · 3 years
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I’ve asked this elsewhere, but I want to cover all my bases: Me and another blogger are in the process of writing a story, and one of the main male characters has flashbacks from a recent abusive relationship, which was with another man. Is there any way we can show this without negatively stereotyping all gay relationships? As a note: all but one of the main characters are on the LGBTQ spectrum, and there is a canonical gay relationship that’s the complete opposite of the one I described above.
TW: Intimate partner violence, details relating to it.
This will be under a cut, because my response will involve more details, including describing specific real-life dynamics and experiences related to this.
I would appreciate if this specific post were NOT reblogged, to help protect the safety of those whose stories go into this response.
These are some general things that characterize the way I think about it, and issues I've faced with it that you may want to consider.
It's extremely difficult to come forward about abuse within the community. With some people, they may come forward to police. With people in the communities I'm part of, we have a sort of whisper network. Things like just normal word of mouth, talking with friends, but also private Facebook groups and things like that.
We are significantly more likely to take people for their word on these experiences, because we, more often than the periallocishet community, know what it's like to survive horrific abuses and not be believed. The issue with this, is that abusers who are in our communities and immersed in them, know these dynamics, and some find manipulative means of flipping the script and making their victims out to be abusers.
I have an anecdote from a friend (shared with permission, read over and fact-checked) on this sort of thing. (Put in an indent so folks can skip past it.)
My friend was in an intimate partnership with another queer person and there was a lot of abuse in that relationship. There were witnesses to this abuse (mainly two, also queer -- a roommate and a friend who visited for a little bit, but didn't know a lot of people locally in the community), and things related to it that were easily logged. Things like posts online, texts, social media messages.
Both my friend and their abuser had pretty heavy mental illness, and there were some other factors that made it hard to immediately recognize the relationship as abusive, like boundary communication being assumed to be a language barrier. (Although "no" was the same word in both my friend and their then-partner's native language, these things can feel easy to dismiss when you're right in them.)
A common thing the abuser did was react extremely poorly to boundaries being made. Sometimes my friend would be having a particularly hard time trying to get boundaries communicated to land, so they would eventually decide it was easier to part ways and have time to themself. Trying to make boundaries big enough for their partner to see was basically what this tactic was, and it didn't bode well for them. Because the partner would basically shut down mentally and be a suicide risk (not explicitly threatening, but repeating past patterns of behaviour for this sort of thing) for the next while, sometimes being unresponsive to texts and so on over the course of days. My friend would have no way to check in on them and felt coerced into taking back the boundary (they didn't, and it probably wouldn't have done anything anyway).
I think a lot of people of privilege tend to do things like call cops for "wellness checks" for this kind of thing. This is something a lot of marginalized people can't safely do, for one, and for another, it's not a thing anyone with any morals at all should be doing, anyway. IMO. Both my friend and their then-partner/abuser both had trauma related to the police, especially surrounding mental health. It just wasn't an option. (I wish I could link a transcript if one existed - but I rec looking up the You're Wrong About podcast episode for Kitty Genovese for this. It's graphic, but it does talk about how Kitty Genovese being a lesbian, and there being other gay neighbours in the witnesses, that plays into why people "didn't call the police" --- the police also later used her identity to claim that being a lesbian puts you more at risk for being murdered by a serial killer or whatever.)
Anyway. When my friend finally got out of the shitty relationship, the ex would make up lists of things that they had done to my friend, only, they claimed that my friend did that to them. For a long time, even up to 6 years after the fact, they would stalk my friend and get in contact with people that they interacted with to claim that my friend had done these things. There was one point my friend was convinced into not actually coming forward about anything anymore because their abuser had made a bullshit promise that they would stop spreading lies if only my friend never came forward. It was really gross. It didn't matter in the end that my friend kept a file filled with screenshots from all the sockpuppet accounts and IP addresses matching, it didn't matter that they had texts threatening my friend's pet. Because the abuser "came forward" first, grooming character witnesses.
My friend was further alienated and would find themselves blocked on social media and kicked out of spaces they needed as a survivor of intimate partner violence.
The moral of the story is not that we should *not* immediately believe survivors. We should believe survivors.
But:
- There is a difference between justice, and punishment.
- Transformative Justice, Restorative Justice, and similar, are things that we need to invest in setting up procedure for as communities. Community desire for justice requires actual justice, not just skipping straight to what is sentencing-adjacent. Carceral “solutions” do not actually uproot the sources of injustice nor do they commit to doing anything to facilitate healing in people harmed.
- People are not things to throw away easily, and we need to actually make efforts to understand the needs of survivors.
I may try and fill in an example of how TJ or RJ can happen later, but I advise doing research for this on your own. There is a police abolitionism textbook I’m forgetting the name of which provides examples of how people use community-based solutions for conflict outside of the justice system.
I do need to note that this isn’t a venue for this topic to be explored well. I just wanted to give a glimpse into how these things have come into communities that I am in and alternatives to the justice system, especially as people who are often targeted by police.
- mod nat
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danzinora-switch · 3 years
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Typing the Turtles (ROTTMNT) Part 3 - Leonardo
This started out as an investigation into the turtles’ insecurities, because one thing the show does so well is demonstrate that they are still teenagers. And being a teenager is a confusing experience - there’s angst, drama, exploring one’s identity, a lot of growth, and overall figuring out who you are. That’s a messy process, too! And we see this mess in our turtles: they mess up, they’re learning, they self-doubt, they have fears and insecurities, but they’re also discovering their strengths and how to overcome their inner obstacles.
So after thinking about all this way too long, here’s my psychological breakdown of each turtle (I’ll be referencing MBTI and the Enneagram a ton, but will include links for more general information on those if you don’t know what I’m talking about). 
Parts One and Two found on the links for Raph and Don.
Leo: ESTP, 3w2
The Achiever, the Entrepreneur, the Charmer, the Explorer
I’ve wanted to say this for a long time: Leo is such a 3, he is such a 3 it hurts, oh my goodness. Read this: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-3 and tell me that isn’t Leo to a T.
It took me a little longer to figure out the MBTI for him, but he has a lot of similarities with the ESTP. This does mean we need to step away from the ‘frat bro’ stereotype of ESTPs, though. They are a lot more keen than convention would suggest.
Really, a big thing with Leo is his need to be The Best. What that means, to him, is normally something physically-related. He needs to be the best at sports or performing certain moves, which we see in episodes like The Longest Fight where he bets he can pull off the impossible skateboard move, or Shell in a Cell where he asserts he can out-perform Ghostbear. Additionally, episodes like Air Turtle really showcase the ugly side of his competitiveness. But he also desires physical perfection. He is rather image-conscious, fretting about his body in Stuck on You, and routinely referring to himself as the team’s Faceman. The biggest example of this was his idea for a disguise in Hidden City Job: the Turtle Adonis. An adonis is considered the peak physical ideal, handsome and attractive to boot. If this drive doesn’t scream Enneagram Three I don’t know what does.
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Leo at his worst: Leo’s competitive side can certainly get the best of him. We see this in episodes like Air Turtle, where his ‘win at all costs’ attitude starts to alienate him from the group. Raph has also described him as a ‘poor winner’ which refers to his tendency to gloat when he does beat out the competition, or was proven right (Bug Busters, The Gumbus, You Got Served, LAIR GAMES). He’s smug, gloating, and when he does lose tries to wiggle out of it through technicalities. The one time he says something isn’t a competition is after Mikey beats him at Skateball (You Got Served). And when he ‘loses’ the Lair Games, Donnie’s win comes with a catch that Leo built in.
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Threes do this for approval and validation, though, and we see that underlying his need to be the team’s Champion in Minotaur Maze and Portal Jacked! “I’m nothing without them!” he cries to Hueso. “What good is a team with just a Faceman?” Threes have a need to distinguish themselves from others, to be admired, to have attention, so that they then feel valuable and worthwhile. Other people, then, are necessary. When Leo wants to get on the Wall of Champions in Minotaur Maze, his brothers factor in to his unmet needs. “...because what good is being a Champion if you can’t rub it in your brothers’ faces?” Leo doesn’t just need to be The Best… he needs others to acknowledge it, as well.
Average Leo: He’s got a practical eye for situations and the quickness to adapt and act as needed. The ESTP is known for being bold as well as perceptive. We see this in fight scenes such as Battle Nexus: New York when he is quick to determine that physical comedy is the key to making the sprite laugh and immediately changing his approach.
He also displays a remarkable amount of common sense when making decisions. In Origami Tsunami, as the guys discuss becoming heroes, he’s the one who shoots down ideas until they reach a more achievable goal: taking on paper thieves. And he’s got a point, can you imagine the turtles taking on a spine-breaker or mangler at that point in time? When everyone else is blinded by ideals concerning fixing the Mutant Menace, he’s the only one who asks “anybody down for staying home during the anti-mutant panic?” Of course, he still goes along with their adventure, because ESTP’s live in The Moment, so why not?
Something else that I want to mention is Leo’s appreciation for the Machiavellian. He has an incredibly intuitive grasp on it, and actively appreciates twists, turns, betrayals and deceptions. His love for magic probably stems from this (The Clothes Don’t Make the Turtle) and he is the only one enjoying the series of betrayals in Warren & Hypno Sitting in a Tree. Hidden City Job also expands on the fact that Leo doesn’t have a problem with betrayal, as he revels about brotherly betrayal happening all the time. He’s cool with being betrayed… just know that he can betray you back. It’s all fair game.
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This can have upsides and downsides. On the upside, his understanding of trickery can lead to brilliant plans and solutions such as what we saw in Many Unhappy Returns, where he was able to outsmart Big Mama herself. On the downside, this kind of behavior is not always the best move - his family does not appreciate being left out of the loop of his schemes, or actively being manipulated as part of them (Leo’s plan in Many Unhappy Returns worked, but he still left his brothers alone and exhausted, and did not consider the emotional effect it would have on Splinter being sent back into the arena). At that point it’s no wonder he asks “why does no one trust me?” Because you tend to have an angle, ‘Nardo. Be careful how you use that.
He is also incredibly persuasive. This is partly why I feel he is a 3 wing 2, ‘The Charmer’ because he knows how to communicate to get what he wants. When used for the right reasons, we see him settle discord such as cooling the mobs in You Got Served or apologize when he knows an apology is needed (Todd Scouts, Air Turtle, Hidden City Job). We see it used neutrally (and a bit skeptically) in Many Unhappy Returns when he declares he’ll just go to see Big Mama and “turn up the Leo”. It can also be used deceptively, however. Todd Scouts shows this when Leo is the one who convinces Todd that they’re ready to kick things up a notch by going out alone… when really they just want to get away from him. He’ll also use words to get under people’s skins: dismissing Warren Stone in Stuck on You, but also pointing out Donnie’s beach ball fear in Mind Meld. He knows which words will get the responses he wants, for better or for worse.
Leo at his Best: Leo is the team’s motivator. He’s the one giving the others the pep-talks and encouragement they need to continue (Origami Tsunami, Finale: Rise). Donnie said it best after Leo’s redemption in Air Turtle: “your confidence is giving me confidence!”
Because that’s the healthy thing about Threes: they strive to reach their own full potential, which also inspires others to reach theirs. Leo doesn’t like to fail/lose, but he won’t let anyone else succumb, either. He has the most confidence in each Mad Dog’s ability. “I knew you guys could handle it!” he says in Many Unhappy Returns, and points out with amazing accuracy just what his brothers are capable of. He not only believes in himself, he believes in those around him. And he’s able to inspire them when they’re feeling down about their own abilities or not enthused about the task (see his speech about standing up for the paper men in Origami Tsunami).
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This also includes encouragement and compliments in other areas. Regarding the Shell Hogs: “Donnie, these are amazing! And I know everything I say sounds sarcastic, but I’m being completely genuine this time” (Stuck on You). When Mikey isn’t sure Hypno will like him: “What? Of course he will, you’re adorable!” (Newsworthy). To Raph, “Does this place have smoke detectors? Because you’re on fire, Big Daddy!” (The Clothes Don’t Make the Turtle).
He’s also able to step in and take charge when Raph falls because he can see what action needs to be taken (that practical and observant, yet bold ESTP side coming in). When Raph gets separated in the sewers, Leo’s the one who doesn’t treat it casually and gets the others moving to find him (Man vs Sewer). When his older brother is hypnotized by Hypno in Stuck on You, he quickly reacts and tells Mikey and Donnie what the plan is and enacts it. We see this leader potential grow bit by bit, and his awareness of each individual’s role on the team allows him to step back from areas that he knows aren’t his forte: Raph can handle the ‘teamwork’ stuff, Donnie has got the technical know-how, and Mikey takes care of positive outlook for any situation. Leo can keep things fun and inspire confidence. His puns help lighten the mood, his jokes break the ice of tense situations, and he never stops believing in their own abilities, which keeps them all going (Donnie’s Gifts, Many Unhappy Returns).
Leo Relationships:
(While Leo has a competitive episode with each of his brothers: Shell in a Cell, Lair Games, and You Got Served, there is more going on than just that).
Raph: Both Leo and Raph have strong gut feelings that can be blindsided. Leo picks up immediately that Big Mama is not trustworthy while Raph is more than happy to believe her, but Leo is blinded by his fan-love for Jupiter Jim to realize that Marcus Montcrief is a crazy and suspicious adult, which Raph becomes aware of early on (Bug Busters, Jupiter Jim Ahoy!). They both can be a little too head-first when diving into plans, such as checking out the creepy bus in One Man’s Junk or doing their best to help April in Hypno: Part Deux. But they do trust each other to have each other’s backs, and there’s (thankfully!) no Leo vs Angst in this version of their characters. It really allows them to be comfortable with each other (and egg each other on with more than just missions: see the pizza pigeon in Mind Meld).
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Donnie: In some ways Leo acts like a foil for Donnie. His own natural confidence counterbalances a lot of his twin’s insecurities. They butt heads over it, sure, with Donnie perhaps taking things too seriously and Leo seemingly not taking them seriously enough, but I like I said in Donnie’s typing: one’s chill and one’s uptight. There’s a ton of back and forth between them: they are the epitome of siblings fighting one minute and getting up to no good together the next (Example from The Mystic Library: Leo grooves out with Donnie’s rap one moment and tries to get him kicked off the team in the next scene). They may antagonize each other in Lair Games, Smart Lair, the beginning of Snow Day and Hidden City Job, and so much more, but also demonstrate brotherly love (and antics) in Operation: Normal, the end of Hidden City Job and Smart Lair, and, of course, Battle Nexus: New York. “For Donnie’s honor!”
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Mikey: Leo sticks up for Mikey a fair amount, especially to Raph. He supports Mikey trying to open the portal in Mystic Mayhem, and going out on his first solo mission in Hot Soup: The Game. We actually need more Leo and Mikey episodes; of the two we have one is a competition episode (You Got Served), and The Gumbus has Leo tag along intent on proving Mikey wrong. It seems they like to hang out during the down time a lot, as they play in the arcade and skateboard off-screen in episodes such as Mrs. Cuddles, You Got Served, Mind Games, and Sparring Partner. And of course, we have the gripping image of Leo protecting Mikey’s shell with his own in Battle Nexus: New York. I’d really like to see them get up to more shenanigans, though. (hint, hint @nickelodeon​, @netflix​).
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Ultimately, Leo is a confident, competitive turtle striving to reach his full potential. He is normally great at encouraging his brothers to do the same, and devising grand strategies, but tends to forget the emotional effects his actions can have on them, especially if he gets carried away on his quest to be The Best. He’s still learning, and these traits will likely flesh out as he grows into a more leader-like role.
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For more information on the ESTP and Enneagram 3 personality types, click here:
https://www.16personalities.com/estp-personality
https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-3
https://www.crystalknows.com/enneagram/type-3-wing-2
https://ih0.redbubble.net/image.155775924.2701/flat,800x800,070,f.u5.jpg
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anonthenullifier · 3 years
Note
I have a quote prompt, actually it’s from the first issue of the 1985 Vision and the Scarlet Witch Comic. “The Scarlet Witch is never helpless”
I love this quote! My mind went through so many options that were all really different. Hopefully you enjoy the one I settled on!
——
The cave smells of sulphur and the air is swamp-like, her hair bunching into curls with each additional minute in the humidity. “Hey, Vizh,” Wanda keeps her voice low, as calm as possible, hoping the only attention she rouses is Vision’s and not the transdimensional lava demon clomping back and forth across the cavern. Neither of them stir so she tries again, a touch louder, “Vision.” Under normal circumstances she would reach out not only to his mind but also send a tendril of scarlet to dance along his jaw, except said demon has apparently been studying them, devising vices to limit the use of their powers. Without the freedom of her hands, she finds it hard to channel her powers with enough finesse to only alert Vision, leaving her able only to feel the outermost furling of his thoughts. This is not enough for her to determine that Vision is okay, especially in his current state, his body suspended so that it is leaning forward, arms uncomfortably hoisted behind him to eliminate the chance he can turn his head and sear away the chains with the Mindstone. It reminds her of the nightmare that was aerial battle yoga with Natasha. Wanda tries to nudge his mind while defaulting to conversation in the hope he’ll respond. “I don’t know about you, but my arms are tired.”
Without even opening his eyes, he provides an autopiloted insight to her discomfort, “That would be due to the gravitational field of this planet being almost three times that of Earth.” Two seconds is all it takes before his mind seems to catch up to his surroundings, voice trembling with realization as he raises his head to look at her, “Wanda...when did you get captured?”
Time is meaningless down here, mainly because she can’t access her handheld device to determine how long it’s truly been. “Maybe half an hour ago?” This shouldn't be the point of conversation, however, her own capture not accidental by any means, but she can’t risk alerting their captor to that. “How are you holding up?”
“Rather uncomfortably, as you can no doubt observe.” If his response were a wine, she’d be puckering. At least his spirits are still intact enough to be sardonic. “Are you unharmed?”
His swing from sarcasm to unfettered anxiety dictates she give more than a nonchalant I’m fine. Unlike him, she is in a pretty basic prisoner-in-an-evil-lair position—ankles shackled to the stone wall and shoulders screaming at being suspended by the metal glove encasing both her hands. Even if she’s been here a couple hours less than him, all blood has already drained from her hands and forearms causing pins and needles to colonize under her skin. “Other than my arms, I’m not hurt.” Relief sags his body as much as the restraints allow, maybe a millimeter, but it’s enough, along with his shaky breath out, to convey his ever present concern for her over himself. It’s why she redirects to the real concern here: him. “I assume your powers aren’t working?” The chains attached to Vision’s wrists and ankles jangle morosely as he demonstrates phasing for her. The second his body flickers it is consumed by an electrical shock that sizzles along the edges of the vibranium. She finds herself wincing just so someone acknowledges how agonizing it looks. “You could have just said yes.”
The resounding clink of metal this time is due to his attempt at a shrug, “I felt it pertinent to test the efficacy of the power destabilizer in case it had malfunctioned.”
“Looked like you were trying to win the pitiful award.”
His breathy, contained snort very briefly eradicates the twinge she’s developed in her lower back. “I presume you are either a fellow victim or,” hope enters his question with a little vocal uptick, “here to enact a daring rescue?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good...good,” they lapse into a moment of silence, “and that plan is?”
The plan was for her to get captured, as it’s the only known way into the deepest cavern and then either wait for the others to find a way to infiltrate (not even Strange’s portals capable of getting in) or she has to identify a weakness from within. It’s not a great plan but it’s what they have to work with since she refused to go another minute not knowing if Vision was okay. “Um, still finalizing it.”
“Ah, well, looking forward to it then.” If anyone else was down here with him they would likely have overlooked the subtle undercurrent of sass, assuming he was just being anticipatory, but she knows every rise and fall of his voice, every carefully planned cadence and right now he is being an ass. A very handsome ass, but an ass nonetheless.
“But now that I’m here, it’s kind of nice,” it’s not, it’s hot, it’s muggy, it’s dripping with molten rock and peppered with vents puffing up noxious gases, “like one of those spas with the hot stone massage.”
Vision does his best to examine the hellscape, neck only able to crane so far due to the angle of his suspension and the increased gravity, not even his attempts at lowering his density are successful in alleviating either impediment, “I would temper your excitement. The attendant,” he nods towards the demon who is currently pacing in front of an iridescent oval, “informed me they are fresh out of those little cucumber slices for your eyes.”
Without thinking, Wanda allows a single syllable laugh to escape her lips, an action that causes the horned, amorphous head of their captor to turn towards her, its eyes burning like two embers hanging on for life at the end of a campfire. Wanda quickly puts on a pathetic whimper, giving her chains a few good rattles and a pitiful, “Please let us go” and then waits until the demon has returned its attention to guarding the prismatic holding container before responding. “I’m knocking a star off their rating then.”
“That seems fair.”
Having confirmed Vision is relatively fine, Wanda lets them lapse back into silence, a recommendation from Carol to not be overly loquacious in case it stirred suspiciousness towards their still forming grand rescue plan, which is usually fine, one thing she loves about Vision is how easy it is to feel comfortable in silence, the gentle thrum of his mind a soothing, harmonious white noise. Except currently she can’t get deep enough into his thoughts to find reprieve. All she can experience is the echo of evenly spaced though labored breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and the clenching of his teeth anytime he attempts to shift his density to counteract the angle of his imprisonment. Wanda tries to tamp down the rising worry of what failure would mean, instead directing all of her own attention to feeling out the options for escape.
First she has to figure out her powers. Not only are her hands bound together in the metal glove, her fingers have been forced into fists with no room to expand. It’s uncomfortable and aggravating but also a grave misunderstanding of her abilities because sometimes finesse isn’t necessary. As controlled as she can manage, Wanda collects her powers into one concentrated ball centering in her chest, holding it steady in case she needs to utilize what Vision has lovingly deemed her supernova. No matter how impressive, however, it’s a dangerous maneuver, one she can’t risk in unstable environments, like a potentially active alien volcano. Which is why she needs to channel the man next to her and be patient. Assess everything. This would be easier if her arms didn’t feel like they were about to fall off.
“Um Wanda…”
Her Yeah? shrivels into terrified nothingness the second she raises her eyes, the lumbering form of their captor oozing over towards Vision. Behind it the shining oval and prismatic container are blindingly bright. That’s never a good sign. Neither is the way it reaches a coal colored hand towards Vision. “Don’t touch him.” There’s a snort, dismissive and loud and like a million steam engines erupting all at once If Wanda had her hands free, she’d use them to cover her ears, the world around her muffled now, even her own breaths sounding distant and unconnected from her.
The demon doesn’t listen to her, a solitary finger delicately (as delicately as a monstrous entity can) touching the Mindstone. The stone lights up in response. Based on the shock spreading across Vision’s face and rippling through his body, he is not in control of it. She has made the stone betray him before, and still lives with that guilt, still remembers the way he described it to her, the suffocating realization that he lacked control over such an integral aspect of himself. She’ll be damned to allow anyone else to make him feel it again.
“Stop!” Horrified, she watches the demon ignore her, beckoning the Mindstone energy forward in a docile beam, inching it along with malicious encouragement even as Vision thrashes against his restraints. Clearly the time for planning is over. “I said stop!”
The demon's head swings towards her and she almost screams, the crackling skin of their captor close enough for her to gaze into the smoldering eyes studying her. She imagines standing in the middle of a raging forest fire would be more comforting than the depths of hell in its pupils. “Accept your fate, little witch.” The words spoken are not the ones she hears, its voice akin to the shattering of an entire hutch of china during a tornado, a tinkling of shards as they get whisked away in the howling wind, and yet she understands it, likely some form of mental translation Dr. Strange told them existed in other beings. It’s awe-inspiring while also being a complete ass.
Wanda meets its eyes and glares. “Only if you accept your fate.”
It laughs, wings expanding out across the entire cavern, shaking as if it has heard a joke for the first time in eons. “You,” it bends low, the heat of its body drawing droplets of sweat along her forehead, “are helpless here.”
“You are going to regret that.” For a man who only seconds ago was fighting for his life, Vision’s gleeful taunt enlivens in her the last bit of strength she needs.
Wanda siphons his confidence into herself, unlocking the core of her power as she sets up her daring rescue at last. “You made two mistakes today.” The transdimensional demon lacks hair and any sort of eyebrows, but that doesn’t stop the distinct feeling of it raising them in disbelief. “First,” Wanda leans forward as much as the chains allow, “you kidnapped and tortured the love of my life. And second,” scarlet begins seeping through her body, crackling along her skin as she speaks, “you assumed I was helpless,” the plan was to cause as little harm as possible, the terrain unstable, the power of this demon unknown, but that’s too soft a punishment for a being that doubts her might, that thinks it can control her, that tried to take from her and think she wouldn’t fight back. Wanda makes sure the demon is looking directly at her when she invokes its fate . “The Scarlet Witch is never helpless.”
As the last word falls from her lips, she allows her powers to erupt.
Oiled hands knead up and down Wanda’s arm, applying the perfect amount of pressure to alleviate the last of her aches. There’s a lovely waft of chamomile each time she breathes in and a soothing melody of some nondescript instrumental track. Even more peaceful is the ebb and flow of Vision’s thoughts, her powers greedily deep in his mind. It’s why she’s able to smile in anticipation of his next comment.
“I agree with you.”
Wanda stays face down, far too relaxed to even think about moving, “Obviously,” a little snort comes from her left, guiding her lips up higher into victory, “what specifically?”
“I just finished the report,” only Vision would consider mission reports a comfort read, “Dr. Strange is still perturbed with your methods.”
In her mind there was no inkling of doubt their de facto mission leader was seething, mostly due to the forty minute lecture she received on excessive use of powers, but rarely does he allow it to seep into ink for everyone to read. “I think he’s jealous.”
What she expects is an airy laugh and then a gentle rebuttal, instead she is delivered a treat, “I do believe that is part of it.” Wanda apologizes to the masseuse as she props herself up to look over at Vision, tickled at the unadulterated relaxation before her. He’s engulfed in a snowy white robe while reclined in a chair, a hot towel wrapped around his head with two little cucumber slices on his eyes that look like lifeboats in the waves of the clay mask slathered on his face. When he talks it forms little cracks in the mask, “You achieved a feat he could not, anyone would experience at least a speck of jealousy.”
“Even you?”
“If I had been in his position?” the cracks splinter in six different branches as he contemplates. “Yes, even me. But,” gingerly he reaches up and lifts a cucumber, allowing her to see the swirling gear of his iris, “given I was not in his position, I, instead, am able to appreciate how very fortunate I am to be loved by such a stunningly powerful woman.” A flirty little wink is sent her way before the cucumber drops back into place.
Wanda grins, cheeks rising high enough to hurt a little, as she settles back into the massage table. After all these years that little boyish grin and wink of his urges her heart to beat a hair faster. Maybe she lied in the cavern, overstated the level of helplessness she can experience, because no matter the circumstance, she will always be helplessly in love with Vision. A fact that doesn’t weaken her, can never tame her, one instead that challenges her to understand and harness her powers even more because the universe will never stop trying to take from her, will relentlessly pursue her happiness. This she won’t stand for anymore. Whatever comes next, no matter how intimidating or powerful, she will be ready to yet again prove that the Scarlet Witch is not so easily crossed.
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lokidrabbles · 4 years
Text
Stop, And Think of Me (Loki x Reader)
After an incident at work, Loki provides reader with his own comforting methods
A/N: Another quick oneshot dealing with some work related stress, Loki fluff and smut. Again, thank you all for the follows and likes on my little stories :) As always, Gender Neutral Reader!
Warnings: Implied smut, lewd imagery, but fluff n’ stuff too!
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A worker, the one Maria Hill, who still held some ambivalence towards Loki, was the one to inform him of what had happened earlier that day and why you had been dismissed.
The details of the situation were scattered. Your workplace at the facility had provided you with a sudden wave of paperwork, meetings, drills and overtime needed after another inter dimensional threat was discovered. Luckily no catastrophic worldwide panic was caused, as the Avengers meticulously took care of business. Through the midst of it all, there was some ongoing entanglement between the lower departments of the facility, with certain protocols having gone ignored and undetected by supervisors and authority figures. Whatever, or whoever had majorly fucked up, had decided to use you as a scapegoat to evade any type of consequences, throwing you in as the ‘newbie’ who had gone over everyone.
Loki admired your ability to defend yourself well with your own ability of verbal intervention, using your sharp tongue as weapon against anyone wronging you or him. You were quick witted, confident, and unafraid to speak your mind towards anyone. Whatever fool had wanted to try at you in this way wouldn’t have gotten the chance to defend themselves.
Never did he actually expect you to have utilized you own physical strength to justly give this person a broken nose.
Hill described the brawl being very brief as security was immediately called in to break you up. Luckily, no charges were pressed and Mr. Stark took the situation casually, finding it normal for seeming coworkers to punch the crap out of each other in this line of work. A good way to say no one was fired.
You were promptly sent home to ‘think about your actions’, but most importantly to cool off as you had become quite shaken up. Normally a situation like this wouldn’t have warranted his attention as it seemed things worked out on their own. You were an adult, who was more than capable of taking care of themselves, and probably wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon in privacy.
Despite these thoughts, Loki knew he’d find you in your home, and a certain obligation tugged at him endlessly. After all, what type of man would he be if he didn’t?
He would soon make way to your home (entering with complete disregard), and would find you shriveled up in your bed. From your dampened hair, he figured you had taken a much needed, life altering bath. The pressure of it all must have been to much for you to bear. Loki had noted how your gaze became hollowed, barely looking up to see him enter your bedroom.
“I guess you heard about my little episode.” You said flatly.
“Indeed. I have to admit, I’m quite impressed at the damage you left behind. Remind me to never get on your bad side.” He said while sitting at the edge of your bed.
You groaned, turning around for your back to face him. “What was I thinking? I totally lost myself back there.”
Loki inched up closer to you, beginning to meticulously straighten out your wet locks of hair. “You were defending yourself, were you not? I know you to be a level headed individual most of the time. I’d take it this person really hit a nerve.”
“Yeah, they were totally out of line! Calling me out in front of our department supervisor and calling me a ‘newbie’. Dickhead.”
“Oh, how I much I would have loved to see your pretty little knuckles land on this fool’s face.” He said teasingly, while still threading his fingers through your hair.
“It was totally awesome, don’t get me wrong. But I still feel like garbage.”
“Care to elaborate?”
He felt your chest rise with a deep inhale, and slowly fall down as you released. “Because, I shouldn’t have done that. I lost control over my temper again. I mean, it’s been a while but I didn’t think it would go like this.”
He noticed how your voice became smaller. This was something more than having an altercation with a coworker. This was something much more internalized, and Loki had come to know and understand your telltale signs very closely. You’d turn away, avoiding to see him in the eyes. You’d begin to take in deep inhales to control your breath. And your voice would begin to crack as the discomforting lump in your throat began to rise.
Loki wasn’t alien to comfort. In his childhood, Frigga would be his stone and the bearer of his doubts and worries. There were still times where Loki would remind himself of her sweet aroma and soft hair, caressing him dearly with intent and love. The memories of the late queen would forever linger with him, perhaps as a lesson for whoever would capture the Asgardian’s fondness.
A sniffle broke his thought process, and soon he saw how your body wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears.
There was instinct which rose within Loki, a mixture of fury, protection, hesitation and warranted worry. His first flashing thought was to find the person responsible for causing you this pain, and swiftly burying a sharp object into their neck, but due to ‘certain restrictions,’ this would only make things much more difficult. Instead, he would provide you with what you needed at the moment.
“(Y/N),” He began, speaking carefully. “Turn around.”
You did as you were told, and you turned around to come face to face with the dark haired prince. Giant droplets dripped downwards, falling almost beautifully at the edge of your jaw. Uncontrollable sobs made it difficult for you to breath and articulate any type of explanation to him. Loki didn’t need you to explain however, as he knew exactly the conflict going within you. Loki understood sadness and shame very well. And perhaps, these were the most human emotions to use in efforts to connect to you.
He cradled your head justly into the crook of his neck, unbothered by the wetness coming from your face and nose. His arm cradled around your shoulders, holding you tightly and secure against his chest, close enough for you to feel the heavy beating in his chest. He encouraged you to drape your legs over his lap to support your whole weight onto him, as well as leading your arm around his shoulder. Your shudders continued, and he allowed you to experience everything within his embrace. He tenderly kissed your temple, murmuring sweet nothings and words of protection until your sobs stabilized.
“I don’t like seeing you this way.” He whispered into your ear, as if it would be only confessed to you.
“I'm sorry.” You said in between trembling lips.
“Stupid human. Don’t apologize for being upset.” He snarled.
“Ugh.” You let out an unappealing groan. “I c-can’t go back like this.”
“You won’t, because you will only show your vulnerability with me. Understand?”
He meant it. It made him physically uncomfortable to see you in this state, however it also sickened him to the core at the possibility of someone else wrapping their arms around you and allowing you to pour your tears onto them. For you, to have to resort to someone unworthy to bring you contentment? Unthinkable. As far as he knew, Loki was the only one who would witness this, and the only one who would provide you with the tenderness and care you needed. 
“This individual was fortunate enough to only obtain a bloody nose from you.” He continued. “I’m sure I would be back in handcuffs and some type of cell if I was there.”
“Hmm?”
“I would have murdered them.”
You chuckled in between sniffles, and Loki could only imagine a small smile forming over your cheeks. “That’s horrible to say.” “Perhaps.”
You shifted within his embrace, just enough for your tear stained face to come close to his own. Loki felt your lips softly brush past his, and then return for a much needed kiss. He felt your small hand push the back of his head deeper into your taste, to which he eagerly reciprocated. You coaxed him to lay over you, and soon he would lean forward into you, pushing you softly onto your bed. You wrapped your arms justly around his neck as moans of contentment escaped the corners of your mouth. He returned these with his own guttural groans, taking in the sweet nectar of your mouth. He felt the heat rise in your face and his mind began to cloud with lewd details of his drippings all over your bare body. Indeed, no other individual would be able to bring this level of pleasure to you, or even begin to comprehend just exactly what your body needed. Only he was capable of such comprehension, and only his fingers, hands, lips and body were good enough to draw out the poison in you and replace with pure ecstasy and reverence.
He broke the kiss temporarily, catching his breath. He gazed at your glassy eyes, full of desire, and practically begging him to resume exploring your mouth.
“Feeling better, are we?” He asked with a satisfied smirk.
You nodded slowly, licking your lips over his remaining spit.
“Do you wish for me to continue? You know once I begin, I won’t stop.” He said, as if warning you for what was about to come.
“I know.” You responded self-assuredly. He loved it, your willingness to completely be pleased by his own doing and allowing whatever carnal desire he held back to be released onto you.
“Little human.” He began, trailing kisses from your salty cheek, and then all the way down your neck. “You will forget about all your troubles from today. I will fuck you endlessly, because you deserve a good fucking.”
“Loki, I-” You began, but he interjected immediately.
“No. Listen to me well. There will be no more hesitation with any of that. All I want to hear from you are those obscene sounds coming from your lips as I bury myself deep in you. Do you understand?”
“You’re gorgeous.” You said in a breathy manner.
Loki took you for the remainder of the day, lovingly and longingly. Your two bodies would join each other, sharing each other’s heat and sweat, providing you with the necessary distraction from your own turbulence, and providing Loki with a self-fulfilling deposition. You were his and no other man or woman could even possibly come close.
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macabretrees · 3 years
Text
When his inhibitor chip malfunctions, Sinker finds himself stationed on an Imperial Star Destroyer, tasked with experimenting on captured Jedi for the purpose of researching their Force count.
His current subject: Former General Plo Koon.
tw: medical torture, ao3 version available
Pls consider reblogging!
----
Sinker comes back to himself in between the threshold of the holding cell back to the medical wing of the Star Destroyer he’s currently stationed on. It’s like the worst migraine of his life, so much so that it stills him in his tracks. With a hand braced against the smooth wall, the former clone sergeant groans deeply as the pain radiates through his temple, all the way to the back of his skull.
He crouches low, precisely aware of the bright fluorescent lights bouncing off of the pristine steel floors beneath him. It’s nauseating, and he clamps his eyes shut just to shield his eyes from the blinding rays. It does little, and the nausea blossoms in his stomach. Out of instinct, he smashes a hand to his mouth as his gut wretches, and immediately is  assaulted with the taste of something putrid and acridic, seeping through the gaps of his fingers.
What...the...hell…
It’s not vomit--at least not his. And upon further inspection, he takes note of the black and yellow-ish liquid staining his white gloves, the substance extending up to the fabric of his elbow.
“Trooper, is everything alright?” Despite the question, there is little concern behind the harsh, Coruscanti accent. It sounds like General Kenobi on a bad day, and with great effort the Sergeant draws his gaze away from his hand, and to the man standing squarely above him.
He looks through crescent  lids, the halo of light behind the officer agitating his growing migraine.
“Trooper, I asked if everything was alright. You are needed in the medical wing, those samples need analyzing now.” There is growing agitation in the man’s voice, tight lipped tone indicating that he is on an even tighter schedule, “the junior researchers have not seen you for the past fifteen minutes.”
Still, the clone cannot speak or will himself to move.
It’s all too much. Suddenly he was a drone, a mindless trooper just following orders. Now he is Sinker.
He must have looked like a spectacle, dry heaving on the ground and avoiding the light like some sort of vampire.
“I thought your kind couldn’t get sick.” Disdain still evident, there’s a tone of curiosity in the man’s voice as he inclines forward, his blond hair and beard coming into view. He certainly isn’t a clone, but Sinker knew that already.
Even with his body and mind stolen from him for the past...what? 10 years? 15? 20? He’s been afforded bits and pieces of information, past the “initiate Order 66” past the “Good Soldiers follow orders”, Sinker has weaved a net of sparse information together.
He’s in the Empire, the Jedi are all gone, killed by him and his brothers, and he’s a medic again. That explains the liquid on his arms, but what was it? And why did it taste like that? It's non-human, that’s for certain. But why ? The Empire doesn’t employ non-humans, do they?
And certainly not Kel Dor.
Time stops for Sinker in that moment, and not even the white noise of the ship registers to him. Nor, unfortunately, the officer above him growing clearly more and more agitated with him. The substance on his arm--the blood literally on his hands--captivates his conscious. He knows this blood. He knows it very well. Has tended to it on the battlefield, has washed it from his armour after his General had thrown himself atop of him, had watched in horror as it had oozed out after the General had taken a rather nasty shot to his side.
This is Kel Dor blood on one hand. In the other--Sinker looks, and bites his tongue as he staves off the sharp wave of nausea--is the sample.
“You must be going absolutel--”
Sinker rises with the grace of a still mind-controlled clone, masking the absolute horror building in his gut as to not tip the officer in front of him off.
“Apologies sir. I had a bad reaction to a gas from one of the subjects lungs. A bit too much helium.” He lies, inclining his head forward as he excuses himself, “Won’t happen again.” He brushes past the man, previous schedule melding with his conscience.
Things begin to come back to him like building blocks. Where he is. What he’s doing--what he has been doing. It’s all coming back. But this time, he has control.
He needs to analyze the sample--brain tissue. Scan it for midichlorian counts, see if it can be liquidized and transferred to others--to humans. This will take him about three hours. Then he will take his break, eat in the mess hall, and return to the subject to collect another sample.  Only today he will skip his lunch, see his subject earlier, and board the nearest ship and get the hell away from here.
He’ll get himself out. He’ll get his General out, and if he’s lucky get his brothers out too. But he doesn't know if they’ve been freed like he’s been, if they’ve gotten back to themselves, or if the Chancellor's orders are still ringing in their heads.
He doesn’t even know who’s on the ship. Who’s still in the Empire or who deserted.
--
The work is completed mechanically, and despite being thrown into the midst of a shit-show, his memory continued to trickle in the gaps. Every new revelation is another punch to the gut. In summary he was promoted to the head medic of the Star Destroyer, which for all intents and purposes is primarily a research vessel. Though the weaponry and guarded halls say otherwise.  
Sinker was a medical sergeant during the war, often making split second decisions to save his brothers and his General, as well as starting the first encyclopedia of medical field treatment across species. While Plo was his primary General, he’d opted on missions with the 501st and had often worked his way around Commander Tano’s complicated biology. Following that, he and the others had gotten together to come up with a rather large encyclopedia of their alien Generals and Commanders. And on his offtime, Sinker studied it like a hungry dog.
The Empire had put him to work immediately, his knowledge of Force sensitives aliens used on captured Jedi.
The Empire was trying to create a new army of force sensitives, trying to see if the Force could be transplanted into individuals. Sinker was tasked with making the concoction, and led the project since the rise of the Empire.
He’s the most brilliant researcher in the Empire, but his research stands on the bodies of captured Jedi.
He’s gotten good enough so that he has his own lab, but junior nat-born researchers are stationed everywhere, wide eyed students studying his samples, asking him questions. He takes note that none are clones. And a small part of him fears he’s the only one left on the station.
Still he answers the researchers questions, comments on their work, and offers them input when he can. Anything to appear normal, to appear kept together. To steady his shaking hands and throbbing heart and aching head.
When his three hours are up, he makes a beeline to the holding cell, dismissing invites from other researchers to lunch with a smile and the typical, “You know how I feel about my work.” They laugh and call him a workaholic, and Sinker wants to cry at the irony of the situation. If all goes well, he won’t be working here.
Not anymore.
When he gets to the cell, he’s greeted by the plain white armour of two stormtroopers, inclining his head as a quick greeting before punching in the keycode.
“It’s popular in there, today.” The trooper jokes, just as he steps in, “Looks like a family reunion.”
But before Sinker can say a word, the door zips closed behind him. He’s too tired to linger on what was said for longer than necessary, though one look at the scene unfolding before him tells him he doesn’t have to.  
He’s met immediately with the sound of shuffling and cursing.
“How the hell did he get him stuck on here? I don’t want to pull him off, it may hurt him.” That sounds like--
“Wolffe! At the door, it’s Sinker!” And that’s certainly Boost, quick to concern and worry as usual.
Elation is too small of a word to describe the emotions that run through him. Because before him are his brothers--Wolffe and Boost, alive in well, albeit rather agitated and flustered at being caught attempting to remove Plo from his binds.
Though the elation is short lived.
He can’t see the General, and part of him is grateful for that. But it’s only temporary, he’ll have to face his fears if he wants to undo Plo from his binds. He’ll have to face what he did to the man if he wants to save him.  It’s no simple lock, and Sinker is the only one who can undo it. Not only that, but Wolffe is right, removing him may hurt him. Sinker did not create the medical bed with the intent of comfort. Plo is--was--an experiment to him, and up until now believed to be a traitor. He treated him accordingly.
“Boost, Wolffe, it’s--”
He doesn’t get the word out, as a fist immediately connects to his uncovered head.
And unlike the other two, he’s not wearing armour. Sinker staggers, but draws on his years of combat training and exercise. He may be a researcher now, but he can outfight Wolffe and Boost on any given day, armoured or not. He’s always been the superior fighter, and he’s taken a lot worse than a sneak attack from Wolffe and Boost.
It’s messy and too long, but within a minute he has Wolffe under one arm, and a knee to Boosts’s backgrounding hm in place
“You two need to stop, or they’ll hear us and we’ll never be able to get him,” he whispers, low.
“Sinker...you’re..you’re free?” Boost gasps, “How-when?”
“We’ll catch up later, but I'll need to report back to the lab in under an hour. We need to get him loose now.”
Sinker releases them, and Wolffe gasps for breath while Boost groans in pain. He’ll apologize later, but for now the General’s life is at stake. With urgency he turns to the back of the cell, where his General stands attached to an upright medical bed, bound to it with metal braces. Sinker gasps, and with every step he takes towards him fights the urge to scream and run.
The General is lacking all color, and where he was once a healthy burnt orange, he is now a mix of white and greys. The white extends to his half-lidded eyes, which are now dull and near  unseeing, and absent of their protective goggles. Throughout his body are large, thick metal piercings. Used to keep the Force at bay in particularly strong, Force sensitives. Sinker had invented them himself, and remembers with great accuracy the care he took into placing them in his General’s body.
They will need to be removed when he gets him off of the station.
There are scars and bandages all over his body, burn marks and more discoloration. The newest scar is above his temple, where Sinker took the brain sample from earlier that day. Sinker isn’t even aware that the soft tips of his fingers have brushed over the scar, tracing it gently as his eyes begin to sting with tears.
It’s still raw, and the bandage is yellow with blood.
Sinker doesn’t apologize, lest he break into violent sobs there. Rather he inputs the code into the keypad, bracing himself for his General’s body as it falls forward. When he embraces the taller creature, he takes note of how thin he is, how light he is. As their General, Plo Koon had been strong and sturdy. Even with his thick robes and gowns, his strength positively radiated off of him. The General took care of himself.
Sinker had ruined him in a matter of years.
The holding cell is not a generic one. And due to his position as head researcher, Sinker has made it a point to move certain medical supplies into the cell should he need access them. He thanks the Force that he’s left a wheelchair. Even with Plo’s height, it’s easy to settle him down into the chair, and Sinker straps him to it by the arms and waist. Then Sinker takes a glance over at his vitals, displayed on the screen.
The General is sleeping, now. Or, more correctly, had passed out during the removal of his brain tissue. He’ll wake later. And he’ll wake in pain.
Sinker takes an injection from one of the trays, and winces at how large and sharp the needle is. Unfortunately there’s no getting around the General’s incredibly thick skin, and even in the Clone wars, penetrating it was an uphill battle.
Though at the sight of an injection, Wolffe is summoned to his side.
“What are you doing with that?” His former Commander speaks as he places a hand over Sinker’s, ready to fight the man again if he has to.
“It’s to keep him sleeping, Wolffe. He’ll wake up if I don’t give it to him, and he’ll be in pain.” Sinker jerks his arm away, and sticks the general with the needle. Part of Sinker is hurt...hurt that Wolffe can’t trust him. Hurt that he thinks he’d do anything to harm his General of his own accord. Hurt that he can’t understand that it’s not Sinker’s fault. That he was under control of someone or something else.
The Kel Dor makes no indication that he’s been stuck, and instead his unseeing, half lidded eyes look forward into the distance.
“We need to put his goggles on, right? Do you know where they are, Sinker?” Boosts asks as he looked around.
“Yeah, I do.” He says flatly, wondering if at all he’ll be able to justify giving his test subject goggles or any other form of comfort, “they’re in that cabinet over there.”
Wolffe wastes no time in snapping them on the General’s face. All the while Sinker gets what medical supplies he can from the cell, and makes a note to collect more in the lab. Where there going will likely not be a medical facility, and if they’re going to keep Plo alive, they’ll have to make do with what they have.
“We’ll need to stop by the lab.” Sinker says aloud, “I just need a few more things and we can get out of here, assuming we make it to the platform without being caught or stopped with a test subject.”
Now it’s Wolffe’s turn to sound guilty, and a dark blush colors his face, “That..shouldn’t be a problem?”
“Why? Buddy buddy with the General or something?”
“I am the General, Sinker.” He admits, raising a hand when Sinker makes to ask more, “It’s a long story. The Empire promoted those of us who were good on the battlefield to Generals, me included. Do what you need to do,  and I’ll keep the other officers off of your tail until we’re ready to leave. But make it quick, because I have to check in with the navy in less than an hour. And If any of these brown nosers tip the Empire off that Plo’s missing, there’ll be an all out mutiny.”
“Nat-borns aren’t as loyal as we were,” Boost fills in, tapping his fingers on his biceps, “and aren’t happy about having to listen to a clone. They’ve been trying to take Wolffe down since he first got promoted.”
“You can tell them I gave the order to move him to the lab for another procedure. You take it from there--Boost, we need to get out. Get ready.” Wolffe commands, “I’ll meet you in landing bay seven in thirty minutes. Do not be late.”
Wolffe leaves with Boost in tail, leaving Sinker alone with more questions than answers.
Below him, General Plo is limp. Though his pulse is steady and his heart beating fast. He’s alive. He’s safe. Wolffe is alive, Boost is alive, safe. They’re all safe.
With luck, they can keep it that way.
Check it out here on ao3!
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dindooku · 3 years
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Now you’d had your fair share of tense meetings and interrogations before, but this one definitely takes the cake.
rating: E (swearing)
word count: 5,236
You stood in the middle of a large, circular room, surrounded by beings of similar attire to Kenobi. Some looked to be human, whilst some most definitely did not. Kenobi had given you a brief rundown of some of the council members on your way over, but the only two names you could remember were Windu and Yoda. He’d also advised you to address all as master, and that Yoda was referred to as the grandmaster, although he wasn’t too strict on formalities — which relieved you…a bit.
Before you had the chance to say anything, Obi-Wan introduced you.
“Council Members, this is Amy. She is a Commanding Officer for the 118th SAS forces from a planet named Earth. Unfortunately, we have never heard of the planet Earth, and Amy has found herself in an unfortunate circumstance. Amy, please can you explain to the Council Members how you arrived at Coruscant?”
Kenobi was being incredibly punctual towards the council members, and you got the hint. So, you tried your best to return the formalities in your response, using your Officer tone should do the trick.
“Council Members. Unfortunately, I would not call my presence to Coruscant expected, as to which you are most probably aware. On my planet, Earth, I am a commanding officer in our Special Services, who operates specialist operations and undertakes highly strenuous, dangerous, and tensile missions, including counter-terrorism, sieges, reconnaissance, and more. My most recent mission, however, is the cause for my attendance on Coruscant today.”
“My mission was to lead a command group of 6 into a classified area of uncharted forestry within the Amazon Rainforest. Upon entering the target co-ordinates close proximity, we happened upon an ancient temple, of sorts — which was decorated in the same symbols which line the pillars of this temple. Upon breaching the ancient temple, it became apparent that it was abandoned, or had not been interfered with for centuries. Upon reaching the center of the temple, I made my way through and into the middle of the room, in which I found myself blocked by an invisible force…a wall of sorts — it was nothing I had ever encountered before. I made the fatal mistake of touching this…wall, and if I remember correctly, it… it electrocuted me. It was odd… the whole room was static beforehand, and there was a significant shift in the temperature too — but what was even more abnormal was the fact that I was the only one that felt it. Anyway, after touching the…wall, I found myself waking up on the floor of one of the streets here, on Coruscant, and the rest is history.”
After finishing your little speech you took a deep breath in, and out. You needed to relax, your nerves were getting the best of you. You chanced a look over to Obi-Wan, who gave you a comforting look and a small, friendly smile.
“Unusual, this is. Heard of, it is not…” the little green frog thing spoke, and you quickly recognized this to be Grand Master Yoda.
“Yes, I agree. Say, you said you’re from a planet called, Earth?” Another Master asked.
“Ugh, yes, Master…” you stutter, realizing you didn’t know his name.
“Master Windu, but you can call me Mace,” Windu replied. He was just as stoic as Obi-Wan, however, his presence seemed to be darker, more stern, less patient — not necessarily a bad thing, but you knew you couldn’t give this guy shit, you had to be straight with him.
“Mace, um, yes, my planet is called Earth, from the Milky Way Galaxy,” you re-iterate.
“And you say you…you touched this invisible wall? And it electrocuted you?” He asked, leaning forward slightly on his chair, now resting his chin on his hand which was situated on one of the armrests.
“Yes, Sir, it… I could see my reflection, even though there was no mirror or ‘wall’, I can’t really describe it, it’s nothing I have ever experienced,” you mutter the last part of the sentence, you’re still just as puzzled by the strange events as you were as they happened.
“Interesting, this is,” Yoda chimes in again, his big ears drooping slightly as he rubbed his chin in thought. You glance back to Obi-Wan, who again meets your gaze with his, this time however he seems more concerned, his face wasn’t graced with his smile, and instead, it spoke of uncertainty. This certainly didn’t make you feel any better.
“And, you say that you felt a change in the feeling of the place?” Mace pressed.
“Yes, Mace, it…when we first entered the temple. The first thing I noticed was the temperature change, it felt hot, stifling even. But the biggest shift was odd, there was electromagnetic interference, my intercom stopped working, making a static sound from my mic piece. It also seemed to have an effect on my thought processes…everything became clouded almost like I was in a haze. Then, once I entered the central room, the temperature shifted to ice-cold, and the static grew even louder, to the point that when I was close to touching the wall, I couldn’t hear my men shouting at me. They…they were…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, the look of pure fear in their eyes had ripped you open. Now that you look back at the memory, you can feel the brutality of what has transpired in the last 24 hours. Their screams were hoarse, terrified. You’d never heard them like that, and the pure horror on their face, as if you’d just disappeared, it terrified you. Sensing your distress, Obi-Wan interjects.
“I think it’s wise we come up with a contingency plan, Masters,” he suggests. You hear his words but you’re still in a haze, the gravity of the situation was pressing down on you with an unbelievable weight.
“Hmm, stay with you, she must. Protect her, you will. Trained, are you, in combat?” Yoda asks.
“Uh, yes, Master Yoda. I have over 10 years of SAS operations experience. I’m specially trained in hand-to-hand combat and tactical assault.” You confirm. You were proud of your experience within the Army, but not necessarily proud of all the things you’d done…some haunted you, and those were secrets, admissions you were not yet ready to face.
“Great, this is. Accompany Master Kenobi on missions, you will help each other, you must.”
A wave of comfort and relief rolled over you. You’re glad that you know that you won’t be separated from the one person you trust on this god forsaken planet. If it means being escorted everywhere, you’d rather that than be left on the street, trying to find your way back across the Galaxy, home… if that was even an option anymore. You turned to Kenobi, who once again greeted you with a smile, this one wider than the others. It was infectious, and before you could control yourself, you were smiling giddily back at him. Jesus, what was this guy doing to you?!
“Master Yoda, may I ask where Amy will be staying? Surely there is a spare block or room she can—,”
“Padawan room, do you not have, Kenobi?” Yoda asked, interrupting Obi-Wan.
“Y-yes, Master Yoda?”
“Then stay there, she will. A close eye must be kept on young Amy, dangerous times this is, odd circumstances we find ourselves in. Time for doubt, there is not.” Yoda sternly replies. He really is one grumpy frog.
“Yes, Master,” Kenobi replies, keeping himself civilized despite his clear questioning of the living arrangement.
And with that, the council meeting was adjourned. Masters instantly began to filter out, obviously having places to be. You waited to be dismissed, as was habit, and after waiting you found yourself drifting into a distant trance of concentration — reliving the haunted events of your last mission.
Again, cutting you from your thoughts, Obi-Wan places a hand on your shoulder. His touch makes you jump, and you instantly crane your neck up to his, your eyes searching his for a hint of emotion other than pain and fear. And with a little quirk of his lips, he brings you out of your stupor, returning the feeling of giddy happiness you had felt only minutes ago. You relished in his ability to read you like a book and pull you out of your own mind, bringing you to the present moment, layering positive, good emotions over your soul. He was helping you in more ways than you could imagine, and you were helping him in more ways than he could, too.
“Come, let’s go get some food. I know a place,” he smirked, and you couldn’t resist the giggle which tickled your throat, so you caved, relishing in the moment. You followed him out towards the exit of the temple.
_____
Words simply could not describe what you were feeling right now. Maybe going to Dex’s on your first day was a step too far.
The complete multitude of emotions you were feeling was unfathomable. You’d compiled a mental list of things you’d never thought you would ever see in your lifetime:
* Flying cars: check
* Aliens: check
* Floating buildings: check
* Actual motherfucking wizards: check
These were just a few, and unsurprisingly it was the last one that caught you off guard.
“So I'm going to start calling you Gandalf now… or Potter…actually, space Jesus suits you better,” you chuckle from the diner seat of Dex’s restaurant. Obi-Wan had insisted that this was the best diner in town, and it was odd really, giving off a homely vibe - American diner aesthetic. This, you could get behind.
“Gandalf, Potter, Spa—Space Jesus? Who in Maker's name is Jesus?” Obi-Wan laughs heartily, these names really were something — he was truly awestruck in your imagination, the depths of your mind, and its ability to pull off wild stunts and stories like this.
“Well, Jesus is some guy from Earth, he’s from a Religion called Christianity. He’s the son of God, who some believe created all things. Kinda crazy if you ask me but each to their own, I don’t blame them. Potter is a wizard, he’s a kid’s book character who is basically going through what I am right now. Gets sucked into a world of magic and has to find his way through it, learning along the way. But Gandalf, he’s the real legend—,”
“Legend? Now, tell me about this Gandalf guy,” Kenobi chimes, leaning forwards in his seat, placing his head further over the table. He was completely and utterly enthralled by your descriptions.
“Well, see, Gandalf is known as Gandalf the Grey. He was a fine man, who was quick to anger, but just as quick to laugh. He had incredible wisdom, something he earned over his time in middle earth along Valinor. He was a mighty warrior, but also a gentle creature, who cared for all creatures of good-will and took pity upon those who were weak,” you scrambled. Finally being able to express your inner nerdy bookworm was therapeutic, especially when the one listening was as invested as dear Obi-Wan.
“Go on, don’t stop!” He nearly shouts, leaning closer in, his smile pulling an infectious grin from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.
“Well, Gandalf had immense power, but he would only use it to protect the innocent and good-willed. He fought for himself and himself alone, he was a server of Justice and Morality, no matter the consequences. Gandalf was a wise, wise man — funnily similar to Dumbledore, in fact,—”
“Who is the God’s name is Dumbledore?!” Obi-Wan laughed, completely dumbfounded that there was, even more, to go by. He loved his life on Coruscant and wouldn’t change it for anything, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t envy your experiences or knowledge of said wisdom-full wizards.
“Don’t even get me started on Dumbledore!” You laughed, leaning even further into the table. Never in your life had you gotten along with someone so well. It was weird, it almost felt like you’d known each other forever, and where just catching up after a long vacation. You were instantly best friends, and you certainly wouldn’t complain about being best friends with a man like Obi-Wan. The higher powers were certainly shining down on this boy when he was brought into the Galaxy. Something just clicked between you both, and you couldn’t feel more alive if you tried.
But, before you could give your hour-long prepped speech on why Dumbledore was the best wizard of them all, a robot had rolled over to arrive with your meal.
“Here’ya’are Darlin, ya new around here, aren’t ya?” The machine asked.
“Ugh, yeah, yeah I am, how could you tell?” You asked, slightly uneasy by the clear Artificial Intelligence of the robot.
“Honey, I would have remembered that pretty face of yours if I’d seen it before, sweetheart. Ya stunnin”,” she exclaimed. You instantly blush at the compliment. Even though she was just a machine, you felt like you were talking to a living being, and you didn’t mind that if all droids were this nice. You chance a look at Obi-Wan, only to see him nervously tugging with a loose chord at the end of his sleeve, although he couldn’t hide the smug blush that was plaguing his cheeks, bless.
“Thank you for your compliments... and the food looks delicious, thank you!” You chime back, eyes now glued to the incredibly crunchy-looking fries in front of you.
“Corellian taters’ are the best darlin’, enjoy!” She jingles before scooting off to serve the next customer.
You both quickly delve into your meals. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you were, and you couldn’t remember the last time you had any food of some sort of sustenance. You lived of ration packs in the Army, and a specially cooked hot meal was like Christmas for you. But, curiosity still has you in a bitter grip, so you pause for a moment and peer up to Obi-Wan.
“What is a Jedi?” You ask, now completely and utterly interested in understanding who exactly he is.
Obi-Wan stops mid-mouthful, slowly putting the fry he was about to devour back into the basket. He clears his throat and straightens up a little as if he’s about to give some sort of memorized speech.
“Well, my dear, Jedi are warriors of the Light, we are a force of good upon the land we live in. We are protectors who are united in our ability to utilize the Force, and maintain inner tranquility through seeking balance, avoiding emotions of anger and hatred, as those emotions lead to the Dark Side—,”
Whoa, whoa, hold your horses, Hercules. The Force? Light side, Dark side… elaborate,” you interject. This was all a bit crazy.
“Well, the Force is what gives a Jedi their power. It’s an energy field created by all living things, it surrounds us and penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together.” He exclaims. The worlds roll like honey off of his tongue, and you can tell you’re already addicted to his voice.
“…continue”
“Well, the Light Side of the force is the path that Jedi choose to walk, making ourselves vessels to the Force. The Dark Side is quite the opposite. Those that choose the path of the Dark side are considered Sith, and their intentions are solely individual, profitable.” He finishes. You can feel his emotion rolling off him in swathes. As soon as he mentioned Sith, his emotions dropped, the smile that once graced his handsome face is all but banished, instead, a hurt frown cripples his emotions. Trying to pull him out of his stupor, you blurt out the first question that comes to mind.
“So what powers do you have?” You ask, blunt as a knife.
“Well, for starters, I can do this,” he chuckles, and without moving a muscle a single fry starts to hover in the air right in front of your face.
“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper in astonishment. The fry drops immediately, and you bore a daring stare in Obi-Wan.
“How many times have I got to reprimand you on your language?” He chides, placing a hand out to quickly pick up and munch on the chip that had just been ceremoniously dangled by some invisible strings in front of your face.
“Do it again,” you demand, you have to see this again, just to make sure you’re truly not seeing things.
“If you insist,” he chuckles and points to a speeder parked just outside the window. And without even a hint of strain, the speeder lifts precariously in the air and swivels slowly around on an axis. You glance back at Obi-Wan, who is intently staring at the speeder. You look back, only to watch him gently place the speeder back down, now facing the opposite way from before.
“This is some Matilda bullshit right here,” you mutter, eyes plastered open in awe. You couldn’t imagine this man to be any better. He was incredibly handsome, so kind to an extent it hurts your heart, and now he’s just revealed he’s some sort of telekinetic space God. But your thoughts are cut short but the firm grip on your chin. Your eyes dart back to Obi-Wan, who is now glaring daggers your way.
His grip is firm on your chin, and he brings his head in closer to yours, maintaining strict eye contact.
“Stop. Swearing. Or I will have to make you.” This wasn’t an aggressive threat, not one that is meant to scare you or frighten you — no…this was something else. Obi-Wan Kenobi was flirting, and God’s… did he know how to press your buttons; all the right ones at least. And he seemed to have done the trick because now you’re completely and utterly breathless. All you can do is stare intently at the man you are now absolutely, one hundred percent reeling for right now. Fuck, you love space wizards, especially ones named fucking Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“I can read minds too, darling,” he mutters, slowly removing his grip on your chin, satisfied that he’s made his point…obviously pleased with the results.
“Hold up, you can read minds!? So you know what I’m thinking all the time?”
“Not all the time, only if I pry, but you are incredibly loud sometimes, dear,” he counters, getting back to eating his fries before they turn cold.
“…loud?” Okay, now you’re genuinely confused.
“Your thoughts are loud, but only sometimes. Yours is an odd case, sometimes I can hear what you’re saying, and sometimes I can't. Your energy in the force is…unstable. See, everyone has a Force signature, and when you have a large affinity of Midichlorians, you’re able to harbor the Force in greater ways, however, with you, it seems…the opposite, like you...repel the force, sometimes -- when your emotions are getting the better of you. This is something I haven’t seen before, and I think that is why Master Yoda wanted us to stay together, to make sure that we keep this under control,” He confesses, he begins slowly rubbing his chin in thought, clearly perplexed by whatever theory that was running around in that incredible head of his.
“Well, okay, Midichlorians? Force signature… I, I’m sorry but I don’t understand what you mean…and, maybe…could you maybe teach me to not be so…loud?” You ask, trying not to show your hesitation. Force signature? Did he say I repel the Force? As exciting as being next to Obi-Wan, it was also quite terrifying to know that, or to feel like there was something wrong with you, and that they had no idea how or what to do…and that for the meantime you’re just going to have to sit around and make yourself useful. But, thinking about the incredible telekinesis you’d just witnessed, excitement at the possibility of living out an actual dream gripped you again. Maybe he could teach you a few tricks, in return for you teaching him?
“I don’t see why not?” He replies, that beautiful smile of his returning to his lips. It truly was marvelous, and you knew you’d never be able to get enough of it. “Come, finish up your food and we’ll head back, you need sleep, you’ve had a busy day.”
______
 For the second time today, you found yourself stood outside of Obi-Wan’s flat…apartment…condo…whatever it was. Pressing a button like before, the door whooshes open and you both walk in, with it closing with another electronic hum behind you.
Obi-Wan instantly heads into the kitchen to switch on what you assumed was the kettle. Not knowing what to do with yourself you stood like a lost child in the middle of the living room, rolling on your feet a little and swinging your arms. This whole day was incredibly overwhelming, and you couldn’t, even in your wildest dreams, even begin to imagine what you’d experienced…and even though your circumstances could be seen as quite horrific and terrifying, you couldn’t help but feel happy to be here, happy to be in the presence of Obi-Wan and other incredibly magnificent beings, in this huge temple, on a grand planet, in the middle of another motherfucking Galaxy. The pure scale of your circumstances isn’t comprehendible, and you don’t think it ever will be.
“Tea, darling?” You hear faintly, like a whisper from deep within your mind. Odd, you don’t remember thinking about Tea…Tea isn’t really a deciding factor in your circumstances right now, why are you thinking of —
“Hello? Amy, my dear, where have you gone?…she was here just a second ago…” you hear, turning around you see Obi-Wan, walking from the kitchen and walking around his apartment. He was…he was looking for you? But you’re right here, can’t he see you?
“Obi-Wan, stop playing I’m right here,” you say, but no sound leaves your lips. Huh, that's weird. You go to take a step towards him to pat him on the shoulder but as you go to touch him, your hand falls through his shoulder as if…as if you don’t exist. Okay, this was starting to freak you out, this was like back when you were on Earth when the Boys couldn’t see you. You quickly glance around the apartment, remembering that you left your backpack in the bedroom. You rush into the bedroom and try to dig through it but like before, your hands just slip through the objects in front of you. You need to concentrate, center yourself. So, you close your eyes, control your breathing and reach out, again, trying to touch the bag. As soon as you make contact, something shoots through you like ice, and before you know it, you’re touching your backpack in the bedroom, for real.
“Oh! There you are, I didn’t hear you creep off, would you like some tea, my Dear?” Obi-Wan asks, leaning on the doorframe casually. You don’t have the mental capacity to admire it right now, you’re still trying to process what exactly just happened. “Are you…are you okay?” He asks, now slipping off the doorframe and heading towards you, clearly concerned over your sudden change in demeanor.
“Yes, yeah, I’m fine, thanks, just…I think the events of the last day or so are starting to catch up on me..aha,” you say, laughing awkwardly towards the end in a sorry effort to convince him that you’re just tired and not absolutely shitting it at the fact that you just disappeared for a minute or so.
“If you’re sure…Tea will help, come,” He says, holding out his hand to you. You go to take it but hesitate slightly, and he notices but doesn’t let on. You take his hand, and you make your way into the kitchen.
_____
 “So what Tea would you like?” He asks as he sets two cups out on the counter.
“Um, well, just regular…Tea?” You reply, completely unsure if Tea here is the same as Tea at home.
“Well, I’ve got Corellian, Naboo special, Coruscant special blend…” he says, but before he can finish his sentence you remember something.
“Wait, gimme a sec!” And before he can process what you've said, you’re bounding into the bedroom once again to grab your food pack. Once back in the kitchen, you open the tin and pull out a Teabag. “Tetley's will do—” you say, grabbing one of the cups and placing the teabag inside. Then, you grab a sachet of sugar from the tin and pour it in.
“…Tetley’s, I can’t say I’ve heard of that kind of Tea before?” Obi-Wan mumbles.
“Well, it’s alright, not the best and not the worst, but still good ol’ British tea!” You laugh. Tea was your savior during excursions, it was one of the only homely comforts you could bring with you, having possessions and trinkets just wasn’t an option, but Tea? Everyone has time for a cuppa. Just as you finish the kettle goes off and you make a move to grab it, pouring the hot water into the cup. Next, you take one of the spoons Obi-Wan layed out and twirl the teabag in the cup, making sure to get the most out of it. “Do you, um, have any Milk?” You ask.
“Milk, I mean, I have blue milk in—,” he says as he fills his cup of tea up too.
“Wait…Blue. Milk?” You chuckle, dumbfounded by what you’re hearing.
“Yes…Blue milk,” Obi-Wan reiterates, almost in a way as if to say are you crazy? What, you don’t know what blue milk is?
“I—I think I'll pass on the Blue Milk—,” you chuckle, today couldn’t get any weirder. Instead, you fish out the teabag from the cup and place it on the small plate before you, and then you grab the small sachet of condensed milk from your rations tin and pour it in, swirling the mixture with the teaspoon from before.
“Wait, you put milk in your tea?” He asks, again absolutely dumbfounded by what’s going on in front of him. Milk…in tea? That's criminal!
“Ugh…yeah? Here, try this,” you say, fishing once again through the ration tin to grab a small bag of malted milk biscuits. You dunk one into your tea and quickly fish it out again, then hand it over to Obi-Wan. He looks at you hesitantly before slowly taking the biscuit, giving it a small sniff before taking a small bite. You watch him patiently with eager eyes, hoping that hell enjoy it.
“Oh…My God’s,” He mutters, his eyes blown wide at the new experience. “This…what is this?” He asks again, before sticking the whole biscuit into his mouth, practically hoovering it up.
“It's a malted milk biscuit, and this is British tea…on Earth, were pretty much the Godfather's of Tea” you laugh, enjoying the show of emotional turmoil playing out on Obi-Wan’s face.
“Malted Milk, British—Godfather?” He asks, completely and utterly lost to his own train of thought.
“You wouldn’t get it…” you say, taking a sip of your tea, but still maintaining eye contact with him as he revels in this new experience. And with that, the two of you sit and chatter on until both your pots of tea have gone cold, but neither of you cares, you’re both too enthralled in the conversation you’re both having to even realize a whole hour has yet again passed.
You chance a look at your watch only to see it's sitting comfortably at 11:48 PM. “Christ it’s late…” you mutter, blinking your eyes again to make sure you’re seeing it right.
“What is that?” Obi-Wan cuts your gaze, leaning over slightly and taking your wrist. He examines your watch intently, watching as the second-hand jumps around the watch face.
“It’s a watch,” you say, a little confused as to why it’s such a question. Surely they have clocks here?
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it, um, what are the three little spikey things? And what do the symbols mean?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“Well—,” you say, leaning further in so your heads are only centimeters away as you both peer down at the watch on your wrist, “The spikes things are called hands, and they sit upon the watch face. The one that is jerking now is called the second's hand, as it counts each second. This hand,” you point to the biggest hand, “is called the minute hand, and this one, the smallest one, is called the hour's hand,” you finish, but Obi-Wan stays silent, like he’s in a trance of sorts, so you continue, “And, and these symbols, they’re called Roman Numerals, they’re an ancient form of literate numeracy used by the Roman’s, who were fierce warriors who existed thousands of years ago on my planet. They were incredibly intelligent for their time, I mean, all things considered. They invented many things, but they destroyed many, too.” You finish. And you just sit there, intently watching the metaphysical cogs turn in that astronomical mind of his. Normally manners would dictate it is rude to stare, but you can’t help yourself. Something about him is just so…right, so pure and genuine, innocent yet, violent, powerful, wise. People say that God’s and beings of mystical nature never existed, that it's just a hypothetical way of education and hindsight that humanity uses Legend and Fairytales to demonstrate the lessons of life; but at this moment you know that you’re in the presence of a truly, incredible being and that isn’t a fairytale, this isn’t legend, this is real, and you’re sat right next to him.
He slowly peers up from where he’s leaning over your wrist, and you lock eyes, once again, but now closer than you’ve ever been. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin as it twists and curls around your lips, kindly caressing and making your breath hitch uncomfortably in your throat. But you welcome this discomfort, for you cannot believe you have lived life, thinking yourself happy, only to not have known Obi-Wan; and now you question few moments of your experiences on Earth, knowing that you would trade anything just to spend another second under his spell.
“We should, you…you should get some sleep. We have training tomorrow.” He quickly snaps, shaking his head slightly as he stands from his seat and grabs both cups, leaving them in the sink. He…did he not feel the same?
You cringe at yourself a little, silently kicking yourself for being so foolish and letting someone get under your skin like this. You’re better than this, for Christ’s sake! No, if he doesn’t feel the same, then you won’t force it. You’ll keep to yourself, and you’ll be respectful, no matter how much you want to be closer. And just like your previous thoughts, the tales of Legends burn a painful pinch of hindsight into your conscience — like Icarus, you flew too close to the sun.
“…You need your sleep if you’re to have any chance against me…” Obi-Wan mutters from the sink. And with that you instantly laugh, the titanic of emotions finally capsizing as you break your self-deprecative destruction.
“I could say the same for you, Master Kenobi,” you giggle, and before he has time to counter you’re skipping off to the Padawan bedroom which you’re now to call home…for the foreseeable future.
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jessicajonesrp · 4 years
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Another victim goes out in flames
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It had been several days now since Jessica’s brother made his sudden and stunning reappearance in her life, and into her general understanding of his actual being alive. She still wasn’t quite used to this as reality. Every time the words or phrase “my brother” entered her thoughts or left her lips, it didn’t feel like she could be talking about her own life. It didn’t help that she had not actually seen him since he showed up at the door. Spoke to him, yes, briefly, because brother or not, Jessica was not a phone person. Texted him, yes, although not as frequently as she had the thought to do so. But she hadn’t actually seen him again. A part of her was almost worried that if she tried to make arrangements to, it would turn out that she had drunkenly dreamed or hallucinated the whole thing.
So when Phillip called, suggesting they go out for dinner together, Jessica was anxious even as she agreed. It was lame and probably stupid to stress out over going to dinner with your own brother, even if he had risen from the grave, sort of, and she hadn’t actually known him as her brother for over 15 years. But she was anxious, enough that she had to finish a few bottles of whiskey and hole herself up in her office to research her current case several hours before he was scheduled to come pick her up.
Yeah, apparently her brother was a gentleman. He had insisted on picking Jessica up, choosing where to go, and that he would pay for it too. Jessica didn’t know what the hell was up lately with the men she had been encountering. Luke, Danny, Phillip all seeming to know manners, being men in NYC, seemed more far fetched than Phillip’s semi resurrection.
So far the case against the death-fire doctors was slow going, but she had picked up enough information to begin drawing some interesting parallels. Each of the men who died had been hailed as especially accomplished and revolutionary in their field, and each had specialized in something slightly different- neurology, surgery, and orthopedic works. They didn’t primarily work in the same building, but all were located in the same general county, and Jessica had traced that each spent one day a week working at the same hospital. Each also were noted to do “volunteer” surgery and works, some of which were undisclosed to public in specifics. Jessica also had done enough interviews with family and coworkers to note that each had described the man as of a similar personality type- driven, ambitious, singular in focus, and very efficient at work, to the point of having little time spent on personal life matters. Only Dr. Heath White, the person whose death had instigated Jessica’s investigation, was married, and none had children. They were all definitely far too fixated on their work- possibly a factor in their deaths?
Jessica had also noted that although most coworkers had not known the men well personally, and none of the family indicated spending considerable time with them recently other than Karen White, each person she spoke to maintained that the doctors had not seemed suicidal. Secretive, yes, preoccupied, and driven to the point of unhealthy, but not depressed or suicidal.
She was pretty sure that her biggest break would be found once she had finished looking through all the files that Malcolm had managed to pull together from the hospital’s system, once he hacked into it. She had noticed just in a brief skim that the three appeared to all be involved in what looked like similarly filed cases, each which were assigned numbers rather than patient names or even preheadings of John or Jane Doe. Malcolm had told her in an email that the files he had retrieved had been very hard to get to, deeply hidden within the system and not accessible to most of the hospital employees for retrieval. Whatever it was that all three men appeared to be working on together, it was not something that they wanted everyone to know about.
She pushed aside her lingering theories and thoughts on the case as her a knock sounded at her office door. Standing, stretching, and taking a final swig of whiskey, Jessica stood to greet her brother, awkwardly making a gesture somewhere between an effort of a hug and a playful punch on the arm that ended up getting their arms tangled. She flushed, laughing uncomfortably, and then hugged him, marveling again at how very different it felt to do so now with him taller than she was than it had when he was still wearing super hero boxers.
“Hey,” she said somewhat redundantly, stepping back. “You got a car? Or are we doing subway or taxi? That’s what I do, mostly, if I can’t walk. I don’t like driving much. Guess maybe you don’t, considering our history.”
“Subway, if you don’t mind,” Phillip said easily. “I don’t have a car. As you can imagine, that makes moving difficult, so it’s lucky I travel light.”
“Oh, speaking of that, Luke says he probably does have a job for you, if you want to try it out,” Jessica said as she followed Phillip out the door, hands shoved into her jacket pockets as they made the way to the elevator of her building. “Might not be your dream job, it’s a warehouse job through a friend of his. But if Luke’s offering it, I’m sure the pay and hours are decent, and it’s a start, right? Better than part time.” She smirked. “Besides, you tell them you’re Luke’s brother-in-law, and they’ll be intimidated enough to treat you right. Or just tell them I’m your sister, I’m pretty sure a lot of people are more scared of me than him.”
“Yeah?” Phillip said curiously, eyeing her. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t imagine people being scared of you. The most scary thing about you is your makeup during your grunge phase.”
“Says the kid who wore the same t-shirt with a stupid cartoon alien on it for four days in a row until Mom forced him to change it,” Jessica shot back. “Yeah, it’s kind of a thing, people get scared of you when you kill people. Or when you knock them around or lift cars in front of them.”
“But that’s still ridiculous,” Phillip insisted. “Whatever you’ve done, or can do, you have good reasons for it. There’s no reason to be afraid of someone who does things because they’re right. You only do those things to people who earn it. And you wouldn’t have your abilities if you didn’t deserve them.”
Jessica eyed him, her brow furrowing. “I didn’t earn them, Phil. People don’t get superpowers because they deserve them, they just have them. Look at Kilgrave, did he deserve his? Besides, just because you have good reasons for doing things doesn’t always make it right. He thought he had good reasons for what he did, and he was a monster.”
She is twitchy now, as she usually is when the mention of Kilgrave comes up, and bolts out abruptly when the elevator lands in the parking garage of their building. Phillip puts a hand on her arm, apologetic.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just…I believe in you, that’s all. I think it’s pretty amazing, who you are, what you can do. And what you can do with it.”
“You sound like Trish,” Jessica muttered, rolling her eyes. “You guys should get along great, she’s always “ra ra, Jessica the super hero” too.”
Phillip’s eyes flicker briefly when she mentions Trish, and he shrugs. “Maybe. Doesn’t seem to me like we’ll have a lot in common, from what I’ve read about her. Drinking is one thing, but hard drugs? And she’s been to rehab more than a few times, right? They says addicts are liars, just by nature of the addiction. I’ve known a few, had a few as foster parents. I always questioned how much of what they said was real and how much of it was an act.”
“Hey, that’s not who she is anymore,” Jessica said sharply, his words cutting deep. He wasn’t just implicating Trish, but herself as well with his declaration, although he had dismissed alcoholism as being different than drug addiction. “She’s been out of that life for a long time now. Hell, between the two of us, I’m the one people should be less willing to trust.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Jessie,” he said, shrugging. “You’re her friend, you know her. I wasn’t trying to cut on her. I’m just telling you what my experience has been. Like I said, I had foster parents into drugs, and a lot of kids in the foster homes and group homes too. It could really make life hell sometimes, living in that when there’s nothing you can do to get out of it.”
Jessica, having come to a pause in her walking to face him in Trish’s defense, blinked, uncomfortable and guilty at his second referral to his experiences in foster home. Every time she remembered growing up privileged, with all her basic needs met if not her emotional ones, in the Walker’s home, she felt almost personally responsible to know that her brother had not had the same experience. She exhaled, looking away.
“It’s okay. So, um….subway. Let’s get to it.”
Jessica started to resume walking to the parking garage entrance, stopping as a weathered gray mini-van entered to let it pass and park. She rolled her eyes, recognizing it as belonging to the Morrisons, a couple who lived on her hall and whom she avoided whenever humanly possible. The Morrisons had six kids, and Jessica knew them to be foster kids not because of their variety of ethnicities but because of the multiple obnoxious bumper stickers plastered over the mini-van, each some variation of declaring Nicole Morrison as being a “foster mom.” It reminded her of the fuss Dorothy Walker had initially made over being an adoptive mother when Jessica first came to live with her- only in public, of course. Although the woman had barely spoken to her, the public declaration of being a foster parent, which Jessica viewed as an invasion of the children’s privacy, coupled with the strangely quiet nature of children whenever she passed them, had made her suspicious of Nicole’s motives for having them and just how she may treat them behind closed doors.
Whatever. She was just glad she hadn’t been stuck in the elevator with her.
She hurried her steps towards the entrance of the parking garage, wanting to avoid eye contact as she heard Nicole Morrison get out of her car and lock it, and definitely wanting to avoid any kind of forced small talk. She heard the woman’s heels clicking as she started to walk, presumably towards the elevator or stairs, and wondered what kind of mother of six kids still felt the desire to wear high heels, and noticed that Phillip’s softer footsteps behind her had slowed in pace. She was starting to turn back towards him, to order him or tease him about hurrying up, when she first smelled the smoke.
Jessica frowned, thinking at first that either Phillip or Perfect Foster Mom was smoking, which was not only something she hadn’t though either engaged in, but was also not allowed in the parking garage, as several large signs declared. She didn’t actually see the fire until Nicole Morrison’s shrill screams pierced the air.
Jessica pivoted sharply, the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck standing up in spooked recognition of what she was hearing. She recognized the sound of anguish mingled with terror. She had heard it too many times to ever be able to forget.
Nicole Morrison stood in between the rows of cars, writhing, arms flailing in panic. Her entire body was engulfed with flames, so brightly heated that Jessica could actually see hints of blue in the parts closest to the woman’s rapidly charring body. From over fifty feet away Jessica could still feel their heat, and the combination of smoke mixed with burning flesh made her cough, almost choking, before she forced her stunned, wire-tight muscles into action.
“Drop down! Stop, drop, and roll!” she shouted at the woman, but the woman was too far gone in pain and fear to probably hear or comprehend.
Jessica’s eyes darted, looking for some source of water, a blanket, a tarp, anything that might smother the flames, but there was nothing. It was a fucking parking garage, all she could see stretched before her was miles of useless vehicles. It occurred to her briefly that Dr. Heath White had also been burned to death in a parking garage, just before she sprung forward to try to help the suffering woman.
Tearing off her own leather jacket, she used it both as a protective cover for her hands and as a shroud over the woman as she pushed her down, then used her jacket to beat at the flames. It didn’t fully extinguish them, but they did reduce in volume enough for Jessica to be able to grasp the woman and roll her back and forth, smothering the rest. She choked, almost vomiting, when part of the woman’s skin peeled off into her hand, and tried to ignore the stinging burn of smoke irritating her eyes, throat, and nose. Her own hands were beginning to grow singed before she managed to fully put out the flames, but none of this was bothering her. Nicole Morrison had ceased making any sort of noise at all, not so much as a whimper, and what was left of her features and body was so horrific she barely seemed recognizably human.
Remember Phillip suddenly, Jessica tore her eyes from the woman that she wasn’t quite certain was even still living, barking out an order to him sharply.
“Phillip! Call 911, fucking hurry!”
But when she received no verbal affirmative, and whipped her head over her shoulder to repeat the direction, she saw that Phillip was nowhere within her view. What the fuck, where was he? Had he left? Had he been so frightened he bolted?
She couldn’t worry about that now. Hands shaking, she fumbled for her own phone, then, remembering it was in her jacket pocket, cursed vividly, reaching into the badly damaged garment for it. The phone cover and screen were burning hot to the touch, but otherwise appeared possibly still in working order. She dialed 911 with still unsteady hands, explaining the situation in a voice she didn’t quite recognize as her own, then looked down at the woman she was still kneeling in front of, knowing even before checking her pulse that she was dead.
Eyes tearing in what Jessica told herself was entirely due to the smoke, she stood, backing several feet away, and dialed Phillip’s number in between coughs. When he didn’t answer her, she dialed him again, then a third time, until he finally picked up, his voice almost as small as the child Phillip’s that she remembered when he said hello.
“Where the fuck are you, where the fuck did you go?!” Jessica almost screamed, the hand not holding the phone clinching into a fist and accidentally breaking the skin of the blisters forming on her palms.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice still small, shaken. “I just…that woman, and…it was just so…I haven’t seen anything like that. The way she sounded, and the smell…I’m sorry Jessie, I couldn’t deal. I couldn’t do it.”
“You ran away? You just left?” Jessica said, incredulous, although this was what she already knew to be true. “How could you just leave her dying like that?”
“I’m sorry….I couldn’t deal with it, it was….I couldn’t be there,” he whispered, taking a shaking, audible breath. “I couldn’t have helped her. I knew it, and I guess I just…I panicked. I’m sorry.”
“It’s…it’s okay,” Jessica exhaled, the action invoking another coughing fit for a few seconds before she could catch her breath enough to continue. “Don’t…don’t do that again. Just…just go back to where you’re staying, okay? We’ll have to do this hang out thing later. I have to stay with her until the ambulance come. And probably the fucking police too. Fuck.”
She hung up, breaking into another coughing fit, and leaned back against the wall of the parking garage, as far from Heather’s body as she could be while still being able to see her. Closing her eyes briefly, she fought off a threatening panic attack for several minutes before dialing Luke’s number.
“Luke,” she said, her voice hoarse and strained, and interrupted with another cough. “I need….I need you to come to my office. No, not there, I mean the parking garage to it. I’m about to be asked a shitload of questions by the police, and I may need a lawyer.”
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tinyshe · 3 years
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Witchcraft 101
by Michelle Arnold  • 7/1/2008 Catholic Answers
What springs to mind when someone mentions “witchcraft“? Three hags sitting about a cauldron chanting “Double, double, toil and trouble”? A pretty housewife turning someone into a toad at the twitch of her nose? Or perhaps you think of Wicca and figure that it is witchcraft hidden beneath a politically correct neologism.
Witchcraft has become a hot topic in recent years. From J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books to self-described witches agitating for political and social parity with mainstream religious traditions, Christians have had to re-examine witchcraft and formulate a modern apologetic approach to it.
In an age of science and skepticism, it may be difficult to understand why intelligent people would be drawn to witchcraft, which encompasses both a methodology of casting spells and invoking spirits and an ideology that encourages finding gods and goddesses both in nature and within the self. In her “conversion story,” self-described Wiccan high priestess Phyllis Curott, an Ivy League-educated lawyer who was raised by agnostics, describes her journey from secular materialism to Wicca as a rejection of the idea that humans are made for mammon alone:
I discovered the answers . . . to questions buried at the center of my soul . . . How are we to find our lost souls? How can we rediscover the sacred from which we have been separated for thousands of years? How can we live free of fear and filled with divine love and compassion? . . . How can we restore and protect this Eden, which is our fragile planet? (Curott, Book of Shadows, xii)
These are indeed important questions that deserve answers, answers that can be found in their fullness in Christ and in his Church. In a homily then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger gave at the Mass just before his election to the papacy, he famously observed:
How many winds of doctrine have we known in recent decades, how many ideological currents, how many ways of thinking. The small boat of the thought of many Christians has often been tossed about by these waves—flung from one extreme to another: from Marxism to liberalism, even to libertinism; from collectivism to radical individualism; from atheism to a vague religious mysticism; from agnosticism to syncretism and so forth.
Witchcraft has been around for centuries, perhaps even millennia, but is emerging once more from the shadows as one answer to skepticism, to materialism, even to self-absorption. It is, so to speak, the wrong answer to the right questions; it is, as the Catechism of the Catholic Church says, “gravely contrary to the virtue of religion” (CCC 2117). Catholics should not discourage these questions but must be prepared to offer the only answer: Christ and his Church.
Witchcraft’s apologists like to claim that they are the misunderstood victims of centuries of religious prejudice. Unfortunately, all too many Christians make such claims credible when they misunderstand witchcraft and craft their rebuttals of it based upon those misconceptions. If someone you know is dabbling in witchcraft, here are five things you should know before starting a conversation with him.
Witches do not believe in Satan.
If there is one belief common to witches everywhere, it is that they do not believe in Satan and that they do not practice Satanism. Witchcraft’s apologists are quick to point this out.
Denise Zimmermann and her co-authors of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Wicca and Witchcraft emphasize, “Witches don’t believe in Satan! . . . The all-evil Satan is a Christian concept that plays no part in the Wiccan religion . . . Witches do not believe that negativity or evil is an organized force. . . . Neither do Wiccans believe there is a place (hell) where the damned or the evil languish and suffer” (13).
Christian apologists should acknowledge that witches do not consciously worship Satan and that they do not believe he exists. But this does not mean that Satan needs to be left entirely out of the conversation. A Christian apologist should point out that belief in someone does not determine that person’s actual reality.
One way to demonstrate this is to ask the witch if she believes in the pope. “No,” she’s likely to answer. “The pope is a Christian figure.” True, you concede. But there is a man in Rome who holds the office of the papacy, right? Your belief or disbelief in the papacy does not determine whether or not the papacy exists. Put that way, a person will have to acknowledge that something or someone can exist independently of belief in its reality. That’s when you can make the case that Satan exists and that he does not require belief to determine his reality or his action in someone’s life. In fact, disbelief in him can make it easier for him to accomplish his ends.
In the preface to The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis notes that “There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. They themselves are equally pleased by both errors and hail a materialist or a magician with the same delight.”
While it is true that witches do not directly worship Satan or practice Satanism, their occult practices, such as divination, and their worship of false gods and of each other and themselves—which they explain as worshipping the “goddess within”—can open them to demonic activity. To make the case though, it is imperative to present it in a manner that won’t be dismissed out of hand.
Witchcraft and Wicca are not synonyms.
Wicca, originally spelled Wica, is the name given to a subset of witchcraft by its founder Gerald Gardner in the 1950s. Although some claim the word Wicca means “wise,” in her book Drawing Down the Moon, Margot Adler states that it “derive[s] from a root wic, or weik, which has to do with religion and magic” (40). Adler also says that the word witch originates with wicce and wicca. Marian Singer explains the difference between Wicca and witchcraft this way: “Witchcraft implies a methodology . . . whereas the word Wiccan refers to a person who has adopted a specific religious philosophy” (The Everything Wicca and Witchcraft Book, 4).
Because witchcraft is often defined as a methodology and Wicca as an ideology, a person who considers himself a witch but not a Wiccan may participate in many of the same practices as a Wiccan, such as casting spells, divining the future, perhaps even banding together with others to form a coven. This can make it easy for an outsider to presume that both the witch and the Wiccan share the same beliefs. But, if someone tells you he is not a Wiccan, it is only courteous to accept that. The Christian case against witchcraft does not depend on a witch identifying himself as a Wiccan. (There are also Wiccans who reject the label “witch,” but this is often a distinction without a difference. Even so, use the preferred term to avoid alienating the person with whom you are speaking.)
Several strands of Wicca attract followings, including: Gardnerian, Alexandrian, and Georgian, which are named for their founders; Seax, which patterns itself on Saxon folklore; Black Forest, which is an eclectic hodgepodge of Wiccan traditions; and the feminist branch known as Dianic Wicca after the Roman goddess Diana. Knowing the distinctions among these traditions may not be important for the Christian apologist, but he should keep in mind that there are distinctions and that he should not make statements that start out with “Wiccans believe . . .” Rather, allow the other person to explain what he believes and then build a Christian apologetic tailored to that person’s needs.
Witches question authority.
When dealing with self-identified witches, remember that no two witches will agree with each other on just about anything. Witches are non-dogmatic to the extreme, with one witch apologist suggesting “[s]ending dogma to the doghouse” and claiming that “[r]eligious dogma and authority relieve a person of the responsibility of deciding on his or her own actions” (Diane Smith, Wicca & Witchcraft for Dummies, 32).
Generally speaking, witches prefer to give authority to their own personal experiences. Phyllis Curott, author of a book titled Witch Crafting, puts it this way: “Witches, whether we are women or men, experience the Goddess within us and in the world all around us. I love what Starhawk [witch and popular speaker and writer] said about this: ‘People often ask me if I believe in the Goddess. I reply, Do you believe in rocks?’” (121, emphasis in original). In other words, witches know “the Goddess” exists because they can experience her by at least one of their five senses. Faith in such a material deity calls to mind the demon Screwtape’s longing for hell’s “perfect work—the Materialist Magician” (Lewis, The Screwtape Letters, 31).
Throwing a bucket of cold water on a witch’s “personal experiences” will not be easy, particularly since one of the frightening.aspects of witchcraft is that some witches do have, and blithely report, extraordinary preternatural experiences. Incidents that could and should scare away many dabblers from playing with forces beyond their control are recounted by witchcraft’s apologists as affirmative of their path. Curott tells of a man who once dreamed of “being prey” of a monstrous creature; ultimately, in the dream, he was captured by the creature. Rather than taking this as a sign he should reconsider the path down which he was heading, he awoke “deeply transformed” by the dream’s ending because he believed “tremendous love” was felt for him by the creature. He eventually became a Wiccan priest (Witch Crafting, 154–155).
How can a Christian argue against a belief like that?
Ultimately, it may be that a Damascus-road moment might be necessary to sway someone that deeply entrenched in traffic with preternatural creatures. To those who are not as enmeshed, a Christian can point out that sometimes apologists for the occult have warned their readers not to be taken in by their experiences with spirits.
In a section of his book titled “Practicing Safe Spirituality,” author Carl McColman gives a checklist of “some common-sense precautions” occultists should be aware of “while meditating, doing ritual, reflecting on your dreams, or doing any other spiritual work that may involve contact with spirits.” The first item on the list is “Don’t automatically believe everything you hear. Just because a spirit says something doesn’t make it so” (The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Paganism, 129).
Witchcraft is an inversion of Catholicism.
Observers of witchcraft have claimed that it is remarkably similar to Catholicism. Catholic journalist and medievalist Sandra Miesel called it “Catholicism without Christ” (“The Witches Next Door,” Crisis, June 2002). Writer and editor Charlotte Allen noted that “Practicing Wicca is a way to have Christianity without, well, the burdens of Christianity” (“The Scholars and the Goddess,” The Atlantic, January 2001).
It’s easy to see why the assertion is made. Allen notes that as witchcraft cycles through its “liturgical year,” many of its adherents honor a goddess who births a god believed to live, die, and rise again. Fraternization with apparently friendly preternatural spirits is encouraged and eagerly sought. The rituals of witchcraft call to mind Catholic liturgies, particularly the libation and blessing ritual alternately known as “Cakes and Wine” and “Cakes and Ale.” Like Catholics collecting rosaries, scapulars, statues, and prayer books, witches have their own “potions, notions, and tools” as Curott calls them —some of which include jewelry, statues and dolls, and spell books and journals.
But to say that witchcraft has uncanny similarities to Catholicism is to understate the matter. Witchcraft is an inversion of Catholicism: Catholicism emptied of Christ and stood on its head. This is most readily seen in witchcraft’s approach to authority.
In his book Rome Sweet Home, Scott Hahn compares authority in the Church to a hierarchical pyramid with the pope at the top, with all of the members, including the pope, reaching upward toward God (46–47). With its antipathy to authority and its reach inward to the self and downward to preternatural spirits, witchcraft could also be illustrated with a triangle—every adherent poised at the top as his own authority and pointed down in the sort of “Lower Command” structure envisioned by Lewis’s Screwtape.
Witchcraft is dangerous.
In my work as an apologist, I have read a number of introductory books to various non-Catholic and non-Christian religions. Never before my investigation into witchcraft had I seen introductory books on a religion that warn you about the dangers involved in practicing it. The dangers that witch apologists warn newcomers about are both corporal and spiritual.
In her book, Diane Smith includes a chapter titled “Ten Warning Signs of a Scam or Inappropriate Behavior” (Wicca & Witchcraft for Dummies, chapter 23). Her top-10 list includes “Inflicting Harm,” “Charging Inappropriate Fees or Demanding Undue Money,” “Engaging in Sexual Manipulation,” “Using Illicit Drugs or Excessive Amounts of Alcohol in Spiritual Practice,” and “Breeding Paranoia.” Smith claims that such a need to be wary is common to religion: “[U]nscrupulous or unstable people sometimes perpetrate scams or other manipulations under the guise of religion, and this situation is as true for Wicca as for other religious groups” (317).
However true it may be that there can be “unscrupulous or unstable people” involved in traditional religions, most practitioners—Christian or otherwise—do not experience problems with these behaviors to such an extent that religious apologists see the need to issue caveats to proselytes. That Smith does so suggests that these problems are far more widespread in witchcraft than in traditional religion.
We noted one paganism apologist who warned his readers to “practice safe spirituality.” McColman goes on to caution that the “advice” of spirits “must be in accordance with your own intuition for it to be truly useful.” He goes on to say, “You remain responsible for your own decisions. Remember that spirit guides make mistakes like everybody else!” (Paganism, 128).
Catholics concerned about loved ones involved with witchcraft may not be attracted to witchcraft themselves, but there is danger for them in pursuing dabblers down the road to the occult in hopes of drawing them back. In preparing themselves to answer the claims of witchcraft, they may feel the need to read books like those mentioned in this article. If they are not fully educated and firm in their own faith, such Catholics may find their own faith under attack. Three suggestions are in order.
Not all are called to be apologists. If you are not intellectually and spiritually prepared to answer the claims of witchcraft, leave such work to others. Search out knowledgeable Catholics with whom your loved one can speak.
Prepare yourself. Common sense indicates that if you are about to rappel down a cliff, you do so with safety ropes firmly attached and in the presence of someone you trust who can help you if you are in danger. Don’t even think of rappelling down a spiritual cliff without seeking to fortify yourself intellectually and spiritually—particularly spiritually. Inform your confessor or spiritual director of your plans to study and answer the claims of witchcraft. Ask trusted Catholic friends to pray for your work. Regularly receive the sacraments of confession and the Eucharist. If you need to stop or take a break from this area of apologetics, by all means do so. And, most importantly:
Pray. Whether or not you are called to personally minister to those involved in witchcraft, the most fundamental thing you can do to help witches and other dabblers in the occult is to pray.
Saints whose intercession you can seek include Bl. Bartholomew Longo, the repentant former satanic priest who returned to the Church and spent the rest of his life promoting the rosary; St. Benedict, who battled pagans and whose medal is often worn in protection against the devil; St. Michael the Archangel (Jude 1:9), invoked especially by the prayer for his intercession commonly attributed to Pope Leo XIII. And, of course, there’s St. Paul, who reminds us: “For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:38–39).
SIDEBARS
The Catechism on Witchcraft
There are a great many kinds of sins. Scripture provides several lists of them. The Letter to the Galatians contrasts the works of the flesh with the fruit of the Spirit: “Now the works of the flesh are plain: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissension, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and the like. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things shall not inherit the Kingdom of God.” (CCC 1852)
God can reveal the future to his prophets or to other saints. Still, a sound Christian attitude consists in putting oneself confidently into the hands of Providence for whatever concerns the future, and giving up all unhealthy curiosity about it. Improvidence, however, can constitute a lack of responsibility. (CCC 2115)
All forms of divination are to be rejected: recourse to Satan or demons, conjuring up the dead or other practices falsely supposed to “unveil” the future. Consulting horoscopes, astrology, palm reading, interpretation of omens and lots, the phenomena of clairvoyance, and recourse to mediums all conceal a desire for power over time, history, and, in the last analysis, other human beings, as well as a wish to conciliate hidden powers. They contradict the honor, respect, and loving fear that we owe to God alone. (CCC 2116)
All practices of magic or sorcery, by which one attempts to tame occult powers, so as to place them at one’s service and have a supernatural power over others—even if this were for the sake of restoring their health—are gravely contrary to the virtue of religion. These practices are even more to be condemned when accompanied by the intention of harming someone, or when they have recourse to the intervention of demons. Wearing charms is also reprehensible. Spiritism often implies divination or magical practices; the Church for her part warns the faithful against it. Recourse to so-called traditional cures does not justify either the invocation of evil powers or the exploitation of another’s credulity. (CCC 2117)
Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel
St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
Further Reading
Charlotte Allen, “The Scholars and the Goddess,” The Atlantic, January 2001 (Available online: www.theatlantic.com)
C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters (HarperCollins)
Sandra Miesel, “Who Burned the Witches?” Crisis, October 2001 (Available online: www.catholiceducation.org)
Sandra Miesel, “The Witches Next Door,” Crisis, June 2002
Catherine Edwards Sanders, Wicca’s Charm: Understanding the Spiritual Hunger Behind the Rise of Modern Witchcraft and Pagan Spirituality (Shaw Books, 2005)
Donna Steichen, Ungodly Rage: The Hidden Face of Catholic Feminism (Ignatius, 1991)
Alois Wiesinger, O.C.S.O, Occult Phenomena in the Light of Theology (Roman Catholic Books)
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the-silvr-speedster · 3 years
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The Totally Crazy Adventures of the Astro Ambassadors
After they return from their six-month mission in space, Daisy, Daniel and Kora want just a bit of peace and quiet before they are shipped off on another space adventure. But Mack has other plans for them since they are needed for one more short mission. However, things might not go according to plan and without the extraction team, they have to rely on a teleporting device they've never used before.
Chapter 1: Just One More Adventure on AO3 or tumblr
Chapter 2: Welcome to Berhert on AO3 or here ↓
Hey guys! I hope you had a nice week. As promised, here is a chapter 2 of my story. Sorry for any mistakes.
I hope you like it. 
It was over sooner than she thought. When the light around them dissipated they were met by a lush green flora surrounding a small square in front of a…palace? Daisy wasn’t sure. The building was definitely huge but it wasn’t overly fancy.
“Welcome to Berhert,” Adlynn said with a friendly smile.
“I will see you to the meeting chamber where you will be joined by the Princess and some of her most trusted advisers,” Brodin informed them and led the way into the palace.
The three agents were looking around with wide eyes drinking in everything around them as they walked down the halls. Daisy also noted the number and positioning of the guards as they passed them on their way.
“Everything is so green,” Kora mumbled quietly. “They have plants everywhere.”
When they reached the meeting chamber, Daisy realized they lost Adlynn somewhere along the way. What a pity. She was starting to like her.
“Please wait here. Princess Daydra will join you shortly,” Brodin instructed them, offering them seats at the table, and then he left.
The trio sat down, Daniel by Daisy’s right hand and Kora by her left, as they looked around the chamber.
“What are we gonna say if they ask about our experiences with other timelines?” Daniel asked, furrowing his eyebrows in thought.
Daisy let out a long sigh. She wasn’t really sure about what to say and what to keep to themselves. Some people might be against time travel or meddling with a timestream. There were two people sitting next to her, people she loved dearly, that were taken out of their respective time period and she didn’t want to risk their lives by revealing too much in case Sagittarians would be enraged by such bold actions.
“I think…I think we could mention our time traveling missions,” she said at last, “but I don’t think it would be a good idea to mention that you two are actually from another time…or timeline for that matter.”
“Alright,” Daniel muttered giving Daisy’s fingers a gentle squeeze.
“How long will the meeting last?” Kora mumbled with her head placed on her folded arms on the table.
“You are always asking the same question, Kora.” Daisy said with an eye-roll. “How am I supposed to know that, I’m not a clairvoyant.”
“I just want to go back to bed,” she whined.
“Did you have a company in it or what? Surely you have to have enough sleep after four days off,” Daisy looked at her sister with interest.
“Just three days off. We spent nearly one whole day being debriefed by Mack and getting the reports ready,” she complained.
“Whatever. You are evading my earlier question? Did you have a company?” Daisy asked her again with a teasing grin and a raised eyebrow.
Kora mumbled something incoherently into her arm.
“What was that?” Daisy demanded, moving closer, her smile growing bigger.
But before she could actually get any coherent answer out of her, they were interrupted by the arrival of four Sagittarians. These were dressed differently from the members of the Royal Guard. Their clothes were more formal. The small group consisted of two men and two women. They remained standing in the doorway without a word of acknowledgment towards the three humans.
Daisy stood up, Daniel and Kora following suit, and was already contemplating speaking to them when a fifth Sagittarian entered the chamber, closely followed by Captain Brodin. This one was dressed in something one could only describe as a dress combined with an armor. Her black locks were falling freely almost to her waist in deep contrast to the fabric of the dress that was of red color. It made her look…royal. There was just one little thing that shocked all three agents. The woman wearing that dress.
“I am truly sorry for the little lie,” she told them while beckoning the rest of the group to have a seat at the table. “I just really wanted to have a peek at your world before we took you to ours.”
“So, I guess your name isn’t Adlynn,” Daisy commented, already knowing the answer.
“No, it is not. I am Princess Daydra. But Adlynn really is Captain Brodin’s second-in-command. I just borrowed her identity for a little while,” the princess explained with a welcoming smile. “Anyway, these are my advisers, Tobis, Desmon,” she motioned her hand towards both male advisers, then moving to the females, “Anahi and Thalira.”
All four of them nodded in greeting before sitting down at the table just across from Daisy, Daniel and Kora. The Princess took a seat in the middle of her advisers and motioned for the humans to sit down, too.
“I have to apologize one more time for not letting you land on our planet the other week. As I said, there was a misunderstanding. The military controlling the landing docks made that decision, not me. They forgot to let me know about your request to land and talk about an alliance,” Daydra explained with a hint of frustration.
Daisy shared a quick look with Daniel. Could it be that Daydra’s uncle made that decision? Did he not want her to meet up with them?
“We understand that…things like that can happen,” Daisy replied cautiously.
“So,” Daydra sighed contently dismissing the subject, “having that resolved, I think we can move to the discussion of our potential alliance. And, of course, our servants will get you anything to drink.”
As on cue, two servants stepped into the room and placed three glasses in front of the agents.
“Water?” Asked one of them.
“Yes, please,” Daniel said and the servants poured the liquid into their glasses. Then they moved to the other side of the table to offer the same for the advisers and the princess.
“With that out of the way,” the Princess announced, “let’s talk.
   ⁂
The meeting was going on for hours. They talked about so many subjects. The Princess was very interested in learning more about humans as well as the trio of humans was interested in Sagittarians. “What is Terra like?” “How many planets belong to your empire?” “For how long have you been exploring space?” “No offense, but does all men have a fin on their head?” (“Kora no!” “It’s alright to be curious. And yes, they do.”) They asked about technology, history, science, religion, politics, and then they slowly shared parts of their own stories, encounters with other alien races, and shared dislike towards some of them. They discussed time travel and multiple timelines or dimensions. With every passing minute, the alliance was becoming more and more real. All three humans warmed up towards the Princess as well as she and her advisers towards the humans.
“Which aliens had Terra the most problems with?” Daydra asked curiously.
“I would say that with the Kree,” Daisy replied, and tried to ignore the shiver that ran along her spine at the mention of them.
“The Kree like to cause problems,” the Princess sighed, “or wars. They even like to meddle with the internal politics of other empires.”
“To destabilize them?” Daniel joined in.
“Mostly. Their spies are very well trained. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether the person in question is one of your own…or them,” Daydra muttered, a dark look crossing her eyes for a fragment of time but Daniel didn’t miss it.
“Seems like you are talking from an experience,” he commented, leaning forward in his seat.
“Terra is not the only planet that has an issue with them. But let’s move on some lighter topics,” she dismissed the ongoing conversation quickly.
Daniel realized that there has to be more to that. Whatever issue they had with the Kree, it might have been bigger than what Daisy and the team had to deal with in the past. And for some reason, Daydra didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to ask more because they were about to become allies, therefore they needed to know more about the potential threats. If there was a possibility that their alliance could bring bigger problems with the Kree Empire to Earth, they had the right to know. He was just about to voice his concerns when the door into the meeting chamber flew open and another Sagittarian stormed into the room.
“What is this?!” He yelled unhappily, filling the room with nervous energy.
“Oh, hello to you too, uncle,” Daydra said casually, not even bothering to look his way. “We are just discussing the alliance between us and Terra with their emissaries from S.H.I.E.L.D. You certainly remember them. They stopped by over a week ago.”
“Why wasn’t I informed!” His voice rumbled through the air.
“Why should you be? You are not a leader of this empire. I am,” the princess finally looked at him with authority. “And you weren’t interested in hearing them out last time.”
Daniel shared a nervous glance with Daisy. So that was the ‘misunderstanding’ Daydra was referring to. Her uncle wanted nothing to do with them so he refused to let them land since the military is controlling the landing docks.
“Because I know they have nothing to offer us. They are just a nuisance that brings more problems. Just look at how many threats their planet received in the past years,” he kept talking angrily. Then he suddenly shifted his tone to a curious one. “So small, so insignificant, and yet a target of beings that are far more superior than them. I wonder, what makes them so special.”
Daniel caught how Daisy’s hand grabbed Kora’s under the table as it was starting to glow and whispered to her: “No.”
“They are far more advanced than we thought, uncle. Since you are already here, you may as well join us and see for yourself. But we are making the alliance official,” Daydra informed him sternly.
The man grumbled something angrily under his breath, pulled a chair from under the table and sat down, an unhappy scowl remaining on his face.
“Sorry,” Daydra said towards the agents. “Now, where were we?” She paused for a second, thinking. “Oh, right. I wanted to ask- “
“I heard a rumor,” Daydra’s uncle cut her off rudely, his gaze fixed on his hands. “A rumor about Terrans with superpowers. I thought that must be someone’s drunken fantasy, but…,” he paused and looked straight towards Daisy, “…is it, really?”
Daniel gulped and curled his hand into a fist under the table. He knew he wasn’t feeling anxious about this mission just for nothing.
“It’s true,” Daisy answered matter-of-factly, still holding Kora’s hand.
The advisers started to talk over each other in surprise, worry and excitement. Daydra’s uncle sneered, clearly satisfied. ‘Rumor my ass, he already knew about it,’ Daniel thought.
“Quiet!” The Princess ordered. “So, you really have super-powered individuals. How many?”
“Uh, we don’t know. Some people are just genius inventors and billionaires, some underwent an experimentative treatment, some were in an accident involving a radioactive substance whether it was man-made or alien…and for some…it’s genetic,” Daisy exhaled, trying hard to keep her voice neutral. “One way or another it is hard to know how many powered individuals we have.”
“That is interesting,” Daydra said carefully, “and exciting. Wow. Such a small planet with so much potential.”
“Yeah, the bad guys figured that out, too,” Daisy mumbled grumpily.
“So, Quake is really a Terran?” The Princess asked, leaning forward on her elbows. “I heard some stories but I know better than to believe everything I hear. Mainly when I don’t trust the source,” she added pointedly.
Daisy looked at Daniel anxiously and he moved his hand to grab hers, anchoring her.
“Yes,” she said moving her gaze towards Daydra, “Quake is from Earth.” Daisy paused, deciding what to say next. “As you can see, we are not so…insignificant.” She looked at Daydra’s uncle for a lingering moment.
“I heard Quake is quite dangerous,” he kept looking back at Daisy with an interest and knowing grin.
“Only when provoked,” Daisy let him know with a glare. Daniel smiled proudly.
“I think she’s cool,” Daydra spoke up and everyone turned to her questioningly. She just shrugged. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, I believe I wanted to ask which alien race did help Terra the most? Who are your best allies?”
“Probably Asgardians. Thor is a part of a group called the Avengers. They consist of different people…powered or not. They protect the Earth as well as S.H.I.E.L.D. does,” Daisy explained. “He helped us a lot and everyone loves him. That’s why we let them all stay after Asgard got destroyed.”
“Huh, so Asgardians now reside on Terra. Interesting,” the Princess said, lost in thought.
When it seemed like no one is going to say anything, Daniel decided to change the subject. “Uhm, the director was really interested in that teleporting device of yours. Could you maybe tell us more about it?”
“Ah! The interstellar and interdimensional teleportation device! That’s really something, isn’t it,” Daydra’s uncle joined the conversation enthusiastically.
Daniel could see how Daydra shot her uncle a warning glare which he seemed to completely ignore and continued, smiling triumphantly.
“Did you know that we hadn’t actually come up with the technology of it? No?” He asked with a raised eyebrow like he was expecting an answer. But he wasn’t, not really. “That is a great story to tell, isn’t it, my dear Daydra?”
“What are you doing?” She demanded keeping her voice level.
“Entertaining our dear guests,” he told her before his focus shifted to the three humans in front of him. “The device is modeled after a really old artifact that somehow came into our possession hundreds of years ago. It was Asgardian,” he whispered mysteriously like he just revealed some huge secret.
The agents shared a surprised look.
“It took us years to understand at least a bit of how it worked and when we did- “
“You stole their tech,” Kora spoke up, cutting him off. Some of the advisers seemed offended by the accusation.
“Which a friend of ours did, too,” Daisy tried to save the situation, looking from Kora to the Princess. “Honestly, we wouldn’t be able to travel through space if we didn’t get our hands on the jump drive from a crashed Confederacy ship. Our scientist then created his own version after he found out how it worked.”
“But Confederacy was destroyed by Chronicoms, right? And the jump drive is the most used tech in the universe for crossing long distances between planets. There’s no harm done in salvaging something from a crashed spaceship,” Kora tried to explain the difference. “Asgardians are still out there and they lost everything. Their planet, their friends and families, their homes, their tech. When they arrived on Earth, their only belongings were the clothes they were currently wearing,” she paused for a moment studying her hands. “I…I know how that feels…and now you say that you have something that belongs to them.”
“We didn’t steal it, Agent Kora,” Daydra was defending their past actions. “We came across it by accident.”
“Maybe, but you had it in your possession for hundreds of years and have never returned it,” Kora pointed out. “That…doesn’t sit well with me.”
Daniel could see the reasoning behind her words.
“And you were withholding the fact that you have powered individuals,” one of the advisers, Tobis, protested. “That does not sit well with us.”
“We would get to that point and tell you,” Daisy said, trying to remain calm.
“Really? Would you?” Daydra’s uncle asked doubtfully. “Then why haven’t you revealed your full identity, Quake?”
At that moment the advisers started to shout over each other in frustration and outrage. Daniel tensed up, looking at Daisy and Kora in alarm, getting ready to bolt if Daisy decided to do so. Then he was hit by a dark thought – they have no way to get off this planet if things go south. Sagittarians brought them here and only they can bring them back to Earth. This was a really stupid idea.
“How did it go this bad this fast?” Daisy mumbled, mostly to herself.
The Princess was trying to calm her advisers down but at that point, it wasn’t very likely. Her uncle on the other hand looked like he was enjoying the scene before him. Leisurely seated in his chair, he wasn’t doing enough to hide that satisfied grin on his face. Daniel was sure he was planning to disrupt the meeting and destroy the chance of alliance from the beginning.
“This,” his voice boomed in the chamber as he stood up, “is exactly what I’ve been telling you all along. My niece is not a good leader to our people. Just look at her reckless decisions. Allying us with Terrans? People, who can’t even be honest and who send a weapon of mass destruction on a diplomatic visit!”
“I beg your pardon!” Daisy raised her voice, offended.
“Augus is right!” Desmon called, hitting his fist into the table with force.
“No, he isn’t! This is what he always wanted. To turn our back on Daydra. He’s manipulating us!” Thalira tried to reason with him.
“But he has a point!” Anahi joined in.
“We can’t ally with Terrans!” Tobis spoke up angrily.
“No. No, we can’t. And we can’t let them leave, either. You told them too much,” Daydra’s uncle, Augus, declared.
“Is this a good time to start to panic?” Kora muttered quietly, leaning towards Daisy.
“We have no way to get out of here,” Daniel informed them, his brain running a hundred miles per hour trying to find a solution.
Daisy stood up and so did her two companions. She was staring at something behind the arguing group of Sagittarians. Daydra was talking to Captain Brodin hurriedly, clearly giving him some orders. A minute later he disappeared quietly through the door and she sent a small nod of reassurance towards the three humans.
“Will you really listen to him? The one who is secretly teaming up with our enemies just to have his way?” Daydra spoke to her advisers urgently, before looking over to her uncle. “Did you really think I won’t find out? After all those years?”
“I really didn’t want to be caught in the middle of this,” Daisy groaned, but stayed on high alert, waiting for any signal from the Princess.
“Tell me, uncle, what did the Kree promise you?”
But Augus just sneered at his niece. Then the doors burst open. Ten Sagittarian soldiers marched in and took their place at Augus’s side, waiting for his orders. The trio of agents took a small step back, calculating their chance at getting out of this.
“That doesn’t matter because they will give me even more when I deliver them Quake,” he revealed, sending a quick look towards Daisy. “They have some kind of obsession with her.”
Daniel looked worriedly at her, fighting with his instinct to shield her from danger. She can take care of herself and he would be just getting in her way. But he couldn’t miss the way she paled for a brief second at the mention of Kree.
“What gives you the impression you are going to catch me?” Daisy remarked with a self-conscious smile.
Few things happened in a span of seconds. Augus, with his lopsided grin, motioned for his soldiers to arrest the humans. The side doors flew open. The soldiers started to march towards Daisy, Daniel and Kora. Daisy raised her hand ready to quake them away. Captain Brodin and some of the royal guard came running into the chamber. The three agents finally received a signal from Daydra, who mouthed “run”.
They ran towards the side door where they were met by the Princess and the Captain.
“Follow us,” Daydra spoke and darted through the door. They complied without a second thought, being followed by Captain Brodin, who left his men to deal with the soldiers. However, they didn’t run far. When they turned the corner of the first corridor, they were met by another five soldiers. They immediately raised their guns at the group but didn’t get the chance to fire. Before their fingers pulled the trigger, they were hit by Daisy’s quake which left them flying into a wall.
Daydra turned around to look at Daisy, her mouth open in surprise, and a look of admiration in her eyes. “I really am a fan,” she said.
“Thanks,” Daisy replied with a smile. “So, what now?”
Daydra just motioned to follow her and started down the corridor.
“We are gonna get you home,” she said after a moment of walking. “We can deal with them. I have far more people on my side than my uncle has. I was kind of expecting him to stab me into the back, sooner or later.”
“I don’t want to doubt your decision, but we can help you,” Daisy offered as they neared another corner.
“We can handle this. I still want the alliance between us to happen, so I need you to get home safely,” the Princess paused, cautiously looking around the corner,” so we can discuss it again when things calm down.”
Daisy wanted to protest more but was distracted by a loud banging of boots on the floor of the corridor. She turned around so fast she almost got whiplash. There were almost twenty soldiers coming their way. Kora crouched down, sending a wave of fire along the floor. After the first four soldiers caught ablaze, Daisy sent a quake that knocked another eight. It was like bowling. But in this case, the cones were being replaced by the new ones more quickly as other soldiers poured towards them.
“We’ll hold them off!” Daydra announced readying her gun and checking her daggers. “Go!”
“There’s too much of them,” Daisy protested and caught a movement coming from another corridor. Two guards were coming to help them.
“I mean it, go! Straight ahead, the second corridor to the left,” she paused as she fired at incoming soldiers, while Kora set another two on fire, “and fifth door to the right. You won’t miss it. It’s double doors. When you get there take the teleporting device, it will get you home,” she continued and when Captain and the guards attacked the soldiers, she pulled the agents aside to give them specific instructions how to operate the device. “Good luck,” and with that, she readied her gun again and turned the corner.
Daisy, Daniel and Kora sprinted down the corridor in search of the device. They turned the corner of the second corridor as Daydra told them but as they reached the door four soldiers emerged at the end of the hall.
“Was it the fifth door on the right or the left side?” Daniel asked hurriedly.
“She said it was double doors,” Daisy said as she dismantled the guns of the soldiers with her powers.
“Well, there are two double doors on opposite sides,” Kora observed. “I think it was the left side.”
“Well, it better be ‘cause we won’t reach the other one,” Daisy muttered, seeing as more soldiers joined the fight.
“We are surrounded,” Daniel informed them. “They had to know we’ll come this way.”
Daisy opened the double doors and all three of them stormed inside the room. Daniel closed them quickly as Daisy and Kora hauled a table to block it. Daniel found a metal rod and put it through the handles.
“That’s not gonna hold them for long,” Kora said. “I have an idea.” She jumped on the table and proceeded to melt the door wings together.
“Kora that won’t help. There’s glass in the door. They can break through,” Daisy told her, trying to catch her breath.
“Right,” Kora mumbled sheepishly.
Meanwhile, Daniel inspected the room they found themselves in. It looked almost like some sort of a lab. But it was too clean like it wasn’t used in many years. No tools lying around or anything, really. At the other end of the room, just over one of the workstations was another sliding glass door. He was startled from his thoughts by loud banging on the door behind him.
“We don’t have much time,” Daisy told him, standing close to his side.
“Let’s check there,” he pointed towards the door.
“This really wasn’t how I expected today to go,” Daisy said sadly, walking next to him.
“None of us did,” Daniel noted as he stepped through the door, which opened automatically. “Just another day at S.H.I.E.L.D.” He looked at her with a small smile.
“Yeah,” she sighed, running her hand down her face, before turning around and calling out for Kora to join them. “That’s the device, right?” She pointed towards a sphere-shaped object on the table.
“Looks like it. Although this has a different color,” Daniel remarked, stepping closer to it.
“Maybe they design it in different colors, you know. Sort of like ‘This one is not matching the armor I am wearing today, so let’s take the green one, instead’,” Daisy grinned at Daniel, who smiled back at her.
“Or like ‘This is not matching with the mood I have today so I think we have to fabricate it in black too’,” Kora added, joining the two agents in the small room.
Both Daisy and Daniel shook their heads at the younger agent, amused smiles still playing on their lips. Daisy then picked the device carefully and Daniel and Kora got closer, forming a tight circle. The sphere reacted to her touch and blue lines appeared on it, almost looking like veins.
“So how does it work?” Kora asked curiously. “I wasn’t really listening before.”
Daisy rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “Just think of going home. That’s what Daydra said.”
They were interrupted by a loud crash. The soldiers finally broke through the door. The agents were running out of time.
“Okay, so, now or never,” Daisy said nervously, looking from Daniel to Kora.
“Home?” Kora asked unsure, her voice trembling a little as she could hear the approaching soldiers.
“Home.”
And everything disappeared in the blue light.
Next Chapter →
End note: Some chapters will be shorter and some will be longer depending on the particular story within the chapter. I am currently working on multiple chapters at once.
Anyway, that's it with the "intro" into the story. Next week we are diving in deep. So, until then, bye! Stay safe, guys! And as always, every comment, kudos or a reblog will make me very happy.
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thescispot · 3 years
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I had difficulty recognizing C when she arrived.
We had agreed to meet at the on-campus burger joint and I was early. Sitting in a booth in the corner, I finished up some statistics homework as well as the last of my coffee, and although I expected C at any moment, I was nevertheless startled when she peered over my shoulder, an enthusiastic grin painted on her face.
“Hi!” she chirped cheerfully, wrapping an arm around me. I returned the hug hesitantly, partly because I was in the awkward position of sitting while she was standing, but also because it had not yet registered to me that this was, in fact, C - the very person I had been waiting for.
She slid into the seat across from me and we launched immediately into comfortable conversation, exchanging pleasant greetings, and speaking to one another with a familiar ease I had not expected. We might as well have been meeting up after two weeks, when in actuality, it was nearly two years since we last spoke.
She was wearing a sunny yellow top and had her hair tied up sloppily on top of her head, revealing a pale face with large, doe eyes and a friendly disposition. I entertained the idea that her lack of makeup was what caught me off guard and explained my difficulty in immediately recognizing her but I quickly dismissed this theory as absurd; we had once been living together, after all, so her bare face could not feasibly be considered an unfamiliar sight for me.
She apologized profusely for her inability to meet up with me for the interview on two previous occasions and I assured her it was not a problem. We lamented the difficulties of school life, such as busy schedules, relentless deadlines, and the general fatigue that accompanies the Sisyphean struggle of adulthood. She complained about how much time her job took out of her day. I complained about how the lack of a job left too much time in mine. We both agreed that we could not decide if we were grateful for the looming shadow of graduation on the horizon or not; did it promise much-needed reprieve or threaten even greater distress?
I remembered when C and I had first met, moving into our dorm in late September four years ago. After a few lazy and unsuccessful attempts at unpacking, the two of us decided to seek out cold drinks at the neighboring dormitory building, Lothian, in a desperate attempt for relief from the encroaching heat. To our chagrin, we were hopelessly lost within a matter of minutes and were left wandering in circles around the campus, the sun attacking us the whole while as if driven by a personal vendetta. The two of us trudging across the fields, full of regret, must have been a funny sight, only exacerbated by the fact that we looked to be complete opposites of one another; she pale and I tan, she short and I tall, her hair a sleek curtain that brushed her shoulders, mine waist-length and frizzy. I was average-sized but she was very, very thin.
“When did it start?”
I finally worked up the courage to begin the interview. I felt I was being invasive despite her insistence that she was perfectly happy helping me with my assignment. We had spoken about this subject many times before, but something about the academic lens I was peering through felt disrespectful somehow. Almost alienating.
“In hindsight,” she said thoughtfully, “it started when I was fifteen years old. I . . . stopped finishing my dinner.”
C claimed she had always had a large appetite growing up, that she always cleaned her plate. But as her sophomore year of highschool approached, she had fallen into an insidious routine - she made sure to always leave a little bit of food behind, to never completely finish a meal. An innocent enough habit, or so she thought at the time.
“It spiralled out of control from there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
C nodded. She related her actions from that time in her life the way one might analyze the motives and psyche of a fictional character, like she was discussing the mental health of someone else. She had a great deal to say, but her voice and manner did not betray even the slightest hint of anguish at being reminded of her troubled past.
“The eating disorder takes control of everything it can,” she said wisely.
Anorexia, in C’s experience, was not something she felt she was “suffering” from as she underwent its horrors. She was not punishing herself by not eating, it was quite the opposite. Not eating made her feel better. Invincible, even.
“I felt superhuman,” she explained. “I felt like I was honing a skill and it made me feel good about myself, that I could go to school and handle all these things in my life without needing food. It was an accomplishment.” She paused for a moment. “Really says a lot about how our culture conditions teenage girls, huh?”
We both sighed with tacit understanding.
“What if you ate more than you intended?” I asked. I tried to hide my discomfort about the whole conversation. I felt like I was trying to play the part of a therapist and it would be painfully obvious to any third party that I was woefully unprepared to do so.
“Then it was a bad day,” she said. “I felt like I failed.”
I suddenly recalled something she had mentioned often back when we lived together. She never went into great detail, and had a way of minimizing the despair this subject caused her. But it was clear to me, and probably our other hallmates as well, that her illness was not a result of merely deciding to eat less one day. It was obvious since that night she watched a music video entitled “Till it Happens to You”, drank copious amounts of vodka, and promptly had an emotional meltdown that something more significant triggered her eating disorder.
“What about your boyfriend?” I asked. “Would you say he was the cause of all this?”
“He was definitely a factor,” C replied hesitantly. “ He was older than me and the relationship was kind of, like, secret, you know? My parents didn’t approve. He would always tell me ‘fat girls are so ugly.’ And I wanted to be pretty for him, you know?”
We were both silent for a while, trying to process how something as simple as the desire to impress a boy could derail one’s adolescence so disastrously.
“One time I called myself fat and he said ‘No, babe, you’re so pretty - I could eat cereal out of your collar bones.’” C seemed embarrassed by how much pride she had once taken out of this disturbing remark.
“He wasn’t the source,” she chose her words carefully. “But he was definitely . . . the spark.” She fell quiet and I decided this avenue of conversation had extinguished itself.
“So when did people notice?”
“We were moving,” she explained, “and my parents noticed the self-harm scars I had running up my legs. They put me in therapy for a while. Eventually, I told the therapist I was, you know, done. Just done. I told her I was going to swallow a bottle of pills that night. I thanked her for trying to help but I was just over it. I was resigned about the whole thing, didn’t have any strong feelings about it one way or the other. ”
C was immediately taken to the emergency room following this therapy session. At this point in her life, she described herself as having skeletal shoulders and no stomach. She had taken to loose, baggy clothes and was especially partial to sweatshirts, even in the summertime. She only weighed eighty seven pounds.
“And the therapist didn't notice?” I asked dubiously.
“She had her suspicions, I’m sure,” C said. “But she admitted to me later that she felt unqualified to handle the severity of my condition.”
I balked at the idea that no one would see their own daughter, sister, friend, disappear steadily in front of their eyes.
“There was one person,” C remembered suddenly. When she was fifteen years old, a classmate she never spoke to slipped a book onto her desk, a book about eating disorders. Inside the book was a note, encouraging her to seek help.
“I was offended at the time. I didn’t think anything was wrong with me.”
“You were in denial.”
C reached into her bag and fished around inside for her wallet. She slipped out a piece of paper but did not offer it to me. My gaze only captured the name “Lauren” scrawled at the bottom in feminine script.
“I keep the note with me everywhere I go now,” she said soberly.
C was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and major depression, as well as obsessive compulsive tendencies in regards to her weight. She was in the hospital for a miserable two months, which she described as being like “solitary confinement.”
She believes attending “Program” saved her life.
“It finally started to make sense to me that I was sick,” C said, sounding more upbeat. “The eating disorder, it distorts a person’s thinking. I was finally educated on my condition and realized it wasn’t my fault.” Learning the science behind “ it”changed her perspective.
She happily relayed to me the structure of Program, and how she felt it helped her the most during her recovery. It was an outpatient program and she was given a meal plan as well as access to therapy for her and the people in her life. “Family night was on Tuesday,” she noted. I didn’t have to ask her to elaborate.
“My mother could be . . . unforgiving of imperfection,” she looked at me searchingly, trying to make sure she had used the right words.
“Did you feel ashamed of your condition?”
“Oh yeah, big time,” she said. “I felt like I was a burden for my family.”
C recalled how she began forcing herself to eat in an effort to gain weight as soon as possible; the hospital and subsequent program, she decided, were costing her family too much money and now that she knew what was wrong with her, why not just, you know, stop?
She threw up many times as her body was not yet adjusted, not yet ready to let go of its trauma. There were two separate occasions where her nasogastric tube was displaced as a result, an experience she implied was excruciating. An especially compassionate nurse was the one to hold and comfort her during the ensuing mental breakdowns.
“The disease pulled my family together,” C claimed. Her relationship with her mother improved significantly. Guilt was something they all had to confront.
“It was hard, but it was worth it,” C said with a smile.
According to C, stigma against mental illness was a huge factor in the initial conflict with her parents. Their words likely echo in the minds of every mentally unhealthy child of color who has made the mistake of displaying such a vulnerability:
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
C insists now that both she and her parents understand that it was the eating disorder that did this to her.
Program was run by a man named Dr. Marr, a leading researcher in eating disorders and mental health among youth, and it  took place in Rancho Cucamonga. I noted how strange it was to realize that while I was learning precalculus and writing essays on Shakespeare, a girl I would one day live with was recovering practically next door, missing out on such a formative part of her life.
C and I both reached the conclusion that while the hospital helped her physically get her weight back up, all the emotional work was done in Program.
“I grew up a lot,” she said and then added, uncertainly, “I feel indebted to it, you know? It let me see parts of myself I didn’t before. I’m stronger now and I can endure so much more. Like if I could make it through this, I could make it through an algebra test.”
“And what about your identity? Did your mental illness impact your conception of yourself?”
She thought about this for a great deal of time. “Who I was and who I was meant to be...are intact. I’m sensitive, blunt, empathetic, loud, funny, I’m so many things. The eating disorder tried but it could not warp the core of who I am.”
Recovery, C believes, is all about accepting yourself.
“This is something that’s always going to be at the back of my mind,” she explained. “It’s chronic; but I’m getting better. It’s going to get better. I know it is.”
The conversation drifted. We discussed school life, working, friends, etc. She told me about her boyfriend, Ian, and how happy he makes her. I reminded her how the two of them fell asleep while video-chatting with one another one day during freshman year. She told me about an infuriating roommate she had had to deal with the previous winter. I told her about a fight I’d had with my former best friend. She told me about her cat and I told her about my dog. She told me about the time a customer pulled a gun out at her job. I told her why I quit mine. A meetup I expected to take no more than thirty minutes managed to eat up five hours.
Finally, I thanked her for her help and willingness to share with me for my assignment.
“No problem,” she shrugged. “I’m spreading awareness, you know? I’m kind of like, the best case scenario.” She laughed and I agreed. We said our goodbyes.
I was halfway home when it finally occurred to me why I couldn’t recognize her earlier. It wasn’t a haircut, or a new wardrobe, or the lack of makeup that changed C’s appearance in the last two years.
It was the fact that she had, to my utter delight, put on quite a bit of weight since we last met.
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96thdayofrage · 3 years
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The anti-racism consulting industry does deserve both some sympathy and some credit. Its intention, to prod white Americans into more awareness of their own racism, is beneficent. And their premise that white people are often unaware of the degree to which racial privilege has enabled their success, which they can mistakenly attribute entirely to merit and effort, is correct. American society is shot through with multiple overlapping systems of racial bias — from exposure to harmful pollution to biased policing to unequal access to education to employment discrimination — that in combination sustain massive systemic inequality.
But the anti-racism trainers go beyond denying the myth of meritocracy to denying the role of individual merit altogether. Indeed, their teaching presents individuals as a racist myth. In their model, the individual is subsumed completely into racial identity.
One of DiAngelo’s favorite examples is instructive. She uses the famous story of Jackie Robinson. Rather than say “he broke through the color line,” she instructs people instead to describe him as “Jackie Robinson, the first Black man whites allowed to play major-league baseball.”
It is true, of course, that Robinson was not the first Black man who was good enough at baseball to make a major-league roster. The Brooklyn Dodgers decided, out of a combination of idealism and self-interest, to violate the norm against signing Black players. And Robinson was chosen due to a combination of his skill and extraordinary personality that allowed him to withstand the backlash in store for the first Black major leaguer. It is not an accident that DiAngelo changes the story to eliminate Robinson’s agency and obscure his heroic qualities. It’s the point. Her program treats individual merit as a myth to be debunked. Even a figure as remarkable as Robinson is reduced to a mere pawn of systemic oppression.
One way to understand this thinking is to place it on a spectrum of thought about race. On the far right is open white supremacy, which instructs white people to fight for their interests as white people. (Hence the 14-word slogan, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”) Moving to the left, standard-issue conservatism tends to discount the existence of racism and treat all problems in pure color-blind terms, as though racism has been banished. To the left of that is standard liberalism, which acknowledges the existence of racism as a problem that complicates simple race-neutral solutions.
The ideology of the racism-training industry is distinctively to the left of that. It collapses all identity into racial categories. “It is crucial for white people to acknowledge and recognize our collective racial experience,” writes DiAngelo, whose teachings often encourage the formation of racial affinity groups. The program does not allow any end point for the process of racial consciousness. Racism is not a problem white people need to overcome in order to see people who look different as fully human — it is totalizing and inescapable.
Of course, DiAngelo’s whites-only groups are not dreamed up in the same spirit as David Duke’s. The problem is that, at some point, the extremes begin to functionally resemble each other despite their mutual antipathy.
I want to make clear that when I compare the industry’s conscious racialism to the far right, I am not accusing it of “reverse racism” or bias against white people. In some cases its ideas literally replicate anti-Black racism.
Glenn Singleton, president of Courageous Conversation, a racial-sensitivity training firm, tells Bergner that valuing “written communication over other forms” is “a hallmark of whiteness,” as is “scientific, linear thinking. Cause and effect.”
This is not some idiosyncratic oddball notion. The African-American History Museum has a page on whiteness, which summarizes the ideas that the racism trainers have brought into relatively wide circulation.
“White” values include things like “objective, rational thinking”; “cause and effect relationships”; “hard work is the key to success”; “plan for the future”; and “delayed gratification.” The source for this chart is another, less-artistic chart written by Judith Katz in 1990. Katz has a doctorate in education and moved into the corporate consulting world in 1985, where, according to her résumé, she has “led many transformational change initiatives.” It is not clear what in Katz’s field of study allowed her to establish such sweeping conclusions about the innate culture of white people versus other groups.
One way to think through these cultural generalizations is to measure them against its most prominent avatar for racial conflict, Donald Trump. How closely does he reflect so-called white values? The president hardly even pretends to believe that “hard work” is the key to success. The Trump version of his alleged success is that he’s a genius who improvises his way to brilliant deals. The realistic version is that he’s a lazy heir who inherited and cheated his way to riches, and spends most of his time watching television. Trump is likewise incapable of delayed gratification, planning for the future, and regards “objective rational thinking” with distrust. On the other hand, Barack Obama is deeply devoted to all those values.
Now, every rule has its exceptions. Perhaps the current (white) president happens to be alienated from the white values that the previous (Black) president identified with strongly. But attaching the values in question to real names brings to life a point the racism trainers seem to elide: These values are not neutral at all. Hard work, rational thought, and careful planning are virtues. White racists traditionally project the opposite of these traits onto Black people and present them as immutable flaws. Jane Coaston, who has reported extensively on the white-nationalist movement, summarizes it, “The idea that white people are just good at things, or are better inherently, more clean, harder working, more likely to be on time, etc.”
In his profile, Bergner asked DiAngelo how she could reject “rationalism” as a criteria for hiring teachers, on the grounds that it supposedly favors white candidates. Don’t poor children need teachers to impart skills like that so they have a chance to work in a high-paying profession employing reasoning skills?
DiAngelo’s answer seems to imply that she would abolish these high-paying professions altogether:
“Capitalism is so bound up with racism. I avoid critiquing capitalism — I don’t need to give people reasons to dismiss me. But capitalism is dependent on inequality, on an underclass. If the model is profit over everything else, you’re not going to look at your policies to see what is most racially equitable.”
(Presumably DiAngelo’s ideal socialist economy would keep in place at least some well-paid professions — say, “diversity consultant,” which earns her a comfortable seven-figure income.)
Singleton, likewise, proposed evolutionary social changes to the economy that would render it unnecessary to teach writing and linear thought to minority children. Bergner writes:
I asked whether guiding administrators and teachers to put less value, in the classroom, on capacities like written communication and linear thinking might result in leaving Black kids less ready for college and competition in the labor market. “If you hold that white people are always going to be in charge of everything,” he said, “then that makes sense.” He invoked, instead, a journey toward “a new world, a world, first and foremost, where we have elevated the consciousness, where we pay attention to the human being.”
Whether or not a world along these lines will ever exist, or is even possible to design, is at best uncertain. What is unquestionably true is that these revolutionary changes will not be completed within the lifetime of anybody currently alive. Which is to say, a program to deny the value of teaching so-called white values to Black children is to condemn them to poverty. Unsurprisingly, Bergner’s story shows two educators exposed to the program and rebelling against it. One of them, Leslie Chislett, had to endure some ten anti-racism training sessions before eventually snapping at the irrationality of a program that denigrates learning. “The city has tens of millions invested in A.P. for All, so my team can give kids access to A.P. classes and help them prepare for A.P. exams that will help them get college degrees,” she says, “and we’re all supposed to think that writing and data are white values?”
Ibram X. Kendi, another successful entrepreneur in the anti-racism field, has a more frontal response to this problem. The achievement gap — the long-standing difference in academic performance between Black and white children — is a myth, he argues. The supposed gap merely reflects badly designed tests, he argues. It does not matter to him how many different kinds of measures of academic performance show this to be true. Nor does he seem receptive to the possibility that the achievement gap reflects environmental factors (mainly worse schools, but also access to nutrition, health care, outside learning, and so on) rather than any innate differences.
Kendi, like DiAngelo, argues that racism must be defined objectively. Intent does not matter, only effect. Their own intentions are surely admirable. But the fact is that their insistence on denying that America provides its Black children worse educations inhibits working toward a solution. Denying the achievement gap, like denying the gap in how police treat white and Black people, seems to objectively entrench racism.
It’s easy enough to see why executives and school administrators look around at a country exploding in righteous indignation at racism, and see the class of consultants selling their program of mystical healing as something that looks vaguely like a solution. But one day DiAngelo’s legions of customers will look back with embarrassment at the time when a moment of awakening to the depth of American racism drove them to embrace something very much like racism itself.
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artsy-hobbitses · 4 years
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Because my nostalgic ass had been wanting to do this for a SUPER long time, have some Humanized!Mighty Ducks! It’s funny to see how far I’ve kinda come, because I had a strong love for this and most other anthro shows back in the 90s bc they looks excellent but also because I couldn’t draw humans worth a god damn and ended up anthro-ing all the humans, but now I can human the anthros :’B Also because I have no self-control, actual human names and backgrounds below. I might actually have to write this AU at some point. 
WILLIAM ‘WILL’ FLETCHER ie. ‘WILDWING’
30yrs
Canadian (Eh)
Half-brother to Nate Fletcher (Same father, different mothers). Despite this, they have a generally good relationship with each other.
It doesn’t mean they don’t have their issues however; Will believes his father chose Nate as the man stayed with Nate and Nate’s mother, while Nate believes Will is the favorite because they never hear their dad stop comparing their accomplishments as a troubled teen to straightlaced Will.
A decorated ice hockey player in his youth, won several state championships.
Formerly a member of the Canadian Armed Forces, did a security stint in Afghanistan from 2009-2014.
Returned to Canada, opened a youth hockey camp to leave behind his old life before the Saurian threat at which point he was called up by his absentee military father to help spearhead a team of saboteurs.
Initially reluctant, however the death of his best friend and former army comrade, Connor Tiberius, during a rescue of captured citizens spurns him to accept on his terms in which he picks the team members.
Responsible, dependable, good-natured, more bookish than his size and stature might suggest, some self-esteem issues and very much a wary but bleeding heart. In his baby brother’s affectionate words, a “Major Dweeb”.
Trilingual; Canadian-French, English (fluent), Pashto (intermediate).
His codename ‘Wildwing’ came from Connor, who affectionately gave it to him as he was the best ‘wingman’ a soldier could ask for on the field and his habit of going from bookish to ballistic when faced with any injustice. His civilian outfit includes a bomber jacket with wings decorated over the back to commemorate his best friend.
Literally the only member of the team to actually be associated with ice hockey. The others picked it up gradually as a way to bond with each other and discuss battle tactics.
NATHAN ‘NATE’ FLETCHER ie. ‘NOSEDIVE’
20yrs
American
Half-brother to Will Fletcher, unofficially the ‘team baby’ which is something he tries hard to break out of.
Seen as a delinquent in his youth and battling with ADHD, his father strongarmed him to enlist with the Air Force when he was 17 to try and ‘shape him up’ and while he absolutely bucked under the chains of command, he proved to be a natural at flying which both amazed and frustrated his officers when he would ace their flying exams but often break out to fly the planes when he wasn’t suppose to.
Due to perceived attitude problems, he was dismissed much to the anger of his father, but was quickly roped into the same role by Will who saw his potential in combating Dragaunus’ forces.
Hotheaded, impulsive and immature but also loyal, gregarious and friendly to a fault.
Will not stand for anyone badmouthing Will. That’s his brother and only he’s allowed to joke about them.
Codename ‘Nosedive’ was chosen because of the stunts he used to pull in the plane and also as a take-that moment to his father who would often complain about how everything good they tried to do for ‘this kid’ would ‘nosedive into shit’.
Oscillates between loving Will as the only family member to have really given a damn about him and see any potential in him at all and resenting Will for in his eyes, being everything he felt he couldn’t be.
Often in charge of flying the team jet.
Bilingual; English (fluent), Canadian-French (beginner. For Will, he’s trying).
MALLORY MACKENZIE
27yrs
Irish-American
A former cop who idolized her Sergeant mother who was killed helping to defend NYC from Dragaunus’ marauding forces.
She knows Will as a good friend through Connor Tiberius who was an old boyfriend prior to his death.
Has been tracking Duke’s movements for some time prior to the invasion, dead-set on bringing the jewel thief to justice. Not particularly enthused about his way of life, but does care for him in her own way as it was during their little chases that she would have conversations she couldn’t have had otherwise with someone she believed would have no role to play in her life outside of prison time.
When he consoled her after the death of her mother and she had to tend to him after he was gravely injured during a rescue, a strained friendship grew as they defended NYC together for a while with her banding together the remaining cops of the Central Park precinct and him putting together a coalition of small-time criminals who turned their tricks to beat off the alien invasion until Will called her up as a member of his new saboteur team.
In a spur of the moment, she asked Duke to come with her, vouching for his set of skills to Will and despite their back-and-forth snarking (mostly snarking from her, mostly teasing from him), they work with each other the best out of the team.
Her hatred for Draganus is strongest out of all the team and of all of them, she’s the most adept at hand-to-hand combat.
Has no use for code names—-the people she loves are dead or on the same team as her so she sees no point to it.
Pugnacious, Black-And-white view of the world and judgmental but also confident, decisive and fiercely determined. If she has her mind set something, she’s Terminator levels of terrifying to see it through.
Speaks only English but understands Arabic and French to an intermediate degree even if she can’t trust her tongue to speak it, if only to understand what Duke is saying at times (as he unwittingly tends to jump between his three ‘fluent’ languages in conversation).
DULQUER LATEEF ie. ‘DUKE L’ORANGE’
35yrs
French-Algerian
A renown jewel thief (simply known as the ‘Duke’) with a knack for stealing blood diamonds from diamond barons to channel their proceeds back to the communities they were pilfered from. Actually thinks the diamond industry is a huge joke, but it’s a joke some morons pay insanely dangerous amounts of money for. Prefers other jewels on a personal basis (fond of rubies and amethysts)
Ran his own gang back in France called the Brotherhood of the Blade, got caught up in the invasion when he decided to work his heists in New York.
His codename came from the inability of people to properly pronounce his name in his youth and so ‘Dulq’ became ‘Duke’ in due time. ‘L’Orange’ was what happened when having to come up with a surname on the spot during a heist in the States, he blurted out the first vaguely-French word he could remember which was ‘L’Orange’ ie. ‘duck a l’orange’ which was what a former target of his ordered and when his gang brethren found out, it amused them so much they talked him into keeping it as a full part of his nom de plume. He keeps it, because it helps his remaining family stay safe that no one knows his real name and he prefers it that way.
He and Mallory had something he likes to describe as a ‘dance’, with her continuously tracking him down and him escaping her clutches at the last moment. He’s absolutely tickled that they’re now on the same team.
Cares for the team the deepest due to having run his own back home and missing the brotherhood and his own family, always aware of everyone’s emotional and physical condition to the point he disregards his own at times.
Seriously, hurt his new family and you die.
The most streetwise of the team and adept with any form of blade-play and stealth/subterfuge.
Lost his eye and gained the scar on his face fending off ‘Wraith’ for as long as he could from a geologist with knowledge of Beryllium crystals.
The cybernetic eye he hides behind his eyepatch was given to him by Mallory who came across it while evacuating scientists (Including Tanya) from a lab under siege. She obtained it as willing ‘payment’ from them and had them help install it on Duke, claiming that he was only as much use to the rebellion as the clarity of his depth of field. (In truth, was well aware of how shaken he was from the loss of his eye). Cybernetic eye has x-ray and heat-seeking capabilities.
Fond of Mallory (who he may or may not be harboring feelings for but is also aware that he’s greying, a criminal and damaged, like who’s he kidding), Tanya (something of a younger sister to him especially since she’s the scientist who helped install his new eye) and Will (who he treats like a little brother he gotta teach the workings of the streets to).
Egoistical, questionable morals and unconcerned with ‘the big picture’ of global invasion but also surprisingly compassionate, open-minded and does his best to see the good in everyone (He’s a thief eh?)
Something of an omniglot due to his background and the different people he ends up having to work with; Fluent in French, English and Arabic, intermediate in Mandarin, Spanish and Italian, beginner in Japanese and Russian.
TANYA VANDERBILT
30yrs
German
A scientist working mostly with cyberkinetics who also made use of Beryllium crystals (the same the Saurians are coveting) in her technology and upon the invasion, her entire lab and research became a target.
She was rescued by Mallory and has since then tagged along with the fiery redhead who sees her as a sister, augmenting her gear and weapons where needed and even providing Duke with his energy sword.
Absolutely not a combatant, has no field experience and is most often found back at the base playing her role as Command central or guarding the ship while the group go on their recon missions.
Sees herself as deadweight sometimes though her comrades will always attest that they’d probably be dead out there if not for her tech and in-depth knowledge.
Meek, easily terrified and a bit of a pushover, but also innovative, multi-talented in diverse sections of science and always eager to help.
Speaks English and German, understands intermediate Japanese due to most of her lab co-workers.
CASSIUS ‘CASH’ HARDING ie. ‘GRIN’
40yrs
African-American
Originally a pro-wrestler working the circuits, he was caught up in the Saurian invasion and captured as a test subject in order for the invaders to figure out the biological weaknesses and breaking point of humans at their prime.
Was the subject of multiple experiments, but strove to keep up the spirits of his fellow prisoners by way of story, meditation and keeping a genial facade.
Was among the prisoners Conrad attempted to free before they died, led the prisoner rebellion and immediately joined up as a member of Will’s team upon finding out that he was Conrad’s best friend—-paying off his dues, as it were.
Unfortunately for the Saurians, their experiments had been in the midst of testing out how much augmented strength a human body could take before breaking, which left him with well, augmented strength to go with an extremely high pain threshold from both his old job and his ordeal. That said, the strength comes with a caveat that prolonged use of it could lead to organ failure due to the strain he has to put on them and thus he’s only able to work with it for short bursts of five to ten minutes depending on the task.
Despite his size, is generally the pacifist of the group more concerned with keeping people safe than facing down Dragaunus’ hordes—he leaves that to the actual soldiers. If you pissed him off in some way, you have fucked up super bad.
Bonds with Will and Nate quickly, rather like a stable older brother or uncle figure who realizes these two worlds-apart siblings have issues and are way over their head with these new responsibilities and tries his best to keep them grounded.
Hesitant, tendency to shy away from confrontation and almost on an emotional lockdown but also amicable, stoic and uncannily perceptive.
Speaks mostly English with a strong smattering/understanding of Jamaican Creole.
The codename ‘Grin’ came from his tendency to ‘grin and bear it’ when it came to punishment or altercations.
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