#it's one of those things like. objectively certain things are better in regards to race gender sexuality and politics | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nopefun · 3 years

Text

Interview #494: Ryan Frigillana

Ryan Frigillana is a Philippine-born lens-based artist living and working in New York. His work focuses on the fluidity of memory, intimacy, family identity, and visual culture, largely filtered through the lens of race and immigration. Embracing its plasticity, Frigillana explores photography’s relationship to context as a catalyst for thematic dialogue.

His first monograph, Visions of Eden, was published as two editions in 2020, and is held in the library collections of the MoMA, Getty Research Institute, and Smithsonian among others.

We spoke to find out more about Visions of Eden, his love for photobooks, and photography as a medium for introspection.

Lee Chang Ming Ryan Frigillana

Thanks for agreeing to do this! As we’ve just arrived into the new year, I want to start by asking: how did you arrive at photography and how has your practice evolved so far? Your earlier work was anything from still life to street photography, but your recent work seems to deal with more personal themes.

It’s my pleasure; thank you for having this conversation with me! Wow, looking back at how I’ve arrived at this point makes me feel so grateful for this medium, and excited to think of where it will lead me from here. I came to photography somewhat late. I was initially studying to become a nurse and was set to start a career in that field, but I found myself unhappy with where I was going. My mother was a nurse and I know what goes into being one; it’s not an easy job, and I respect those who do it, but my heart wasn’t in it. I found photography as a creative outlet during that stage of my life, and I’ve clung onto it ever since.

My first exposure to photography (no pun intended) came in the form of street and photojournalism. I would borrow books from the library a lot, consuming works by Magnum and other photographers working in that tradition. At the time, it was all I knew so that’s what I tried to emulate. Even early on in my undergrad career, these modes of creation were reinforced by curriculum and by what I saw from my own peers. My still-life work branches off of that same sentiment: the only names that were ever thrown around by professors were Penn and Mapplethorpe, so that’s who I studied. Thankfully over the years, I’ve been able to broaden that perspective through my own research. Though I don’t necessarily pursue street or constructed still-lifes anymore for my personal work, I’d like to think my technical skills (in regard to timing, composition, light) owe a debt to those past experiences.

I suppose now I’m starting to explore how photography can be used as language, to communicate ideas and internal conflicts. I’m thinking more about the power of imagery, its authorship, its implications, and how photographs have shaped, and continue to shape, our reality. That’s where my work is headed at the moment.

I liked how you mentioned photography as a language, which calls into question who we are speaking to when we make images and what kind of narrative we construct by putting photographs together.

In your work “Visions of Eden”, you trace your family’s journey as first-generation Filipino immigrants in America. I was quite struck by how you managed to link together original photography, archived materials and video stills. To me, with the original photography there was a sense of calm and clarity, perhaps in the composition. But with the archived material it was like peering through tinted glass, and the video stills felt like an unsteady memory. What was the editing process like for you and how did you decide what to include or exclude?

For me, editing is the hardest part about photography. Shooting is the enjoyable part of course because it can feel so cathartic. Sometimes when I shoot it feels almost like muscle memory in the sense that you see the world and you just react to it in a trained way. But with editing, it’s more of a cerebral exercise. More thought is involved when you have to deal with visual relationships, sequence, rhythm, and spacing, etc. The real creation of my work takes place in the editing process. That’s where the ingredients come together to form an identity.

When creating this identity, I not only have to think about what I want to say, but also how I want to say it. It’s like speaking; there are numerous ways you can communicate a single sentence. How are images placed in relation to one another? How large are they printed, or how much white space surrounds it? Are the images repeated? What’s on the following page? The preceding page? Is there text? How are they positioned on the spread? All of these little choices impact the tone of your work. And that’s not even mentioning tactile factors like paper stock or cover material. I think that’s why I have such a deep love for photobooks because 1) they’re physical objects and 2) someone has obsessed over every aspect of that object.

I’m aware that my photographs lately have a quiet, detached, somewhat stripped-down quality to them. I think that’s just a subconscious rejection of my earlier days shooting a lot of street where I was constantly seeking crowded frames and complexity in my compositions. As I’ve grown older, I realize less is more and if I can do more by saying less, that’s even better. Now, the complexity I seek lies in the work as a whole and how all these little parts can form something fluid and layered, and not easily definable.

For Visions of Eden, I wanted the work to feel somewhat syncopated and wandering in thought. That meant finding a balance between my quiet static photographs and the movement and energy of the video stills, or balancing the coldness of the illustrations with the warmth of the family snapshots. The work needed to be cohesive but have enough ambiguity for it to take life in someone else’s imagination. Peoples’ lived experiences in regard to immigration and religion are so complex that they can’t be narrated in any one definitive way. Visions of Eden, hopefully, is a rejection of that singularity.

Yes, there’s definitely something special and intimate about flipping through a photobook! For your monograph, you recently released a second edition which is different from your first (redesigned, added images, etc.). Why did you decide to make it different? Was the editing mainly a solitary process?

The first edition was a partially hand-made object. Illustrations were printed on translucent vellum paper and then tipped into the gutter of the book. When you flip through the pages, those vellum sheets would overlap over certain images, creating a collage-like effect. That was my original concept for this book. Doing this, however, was so laborious and time consuming, and not to mention expensive! Regretfully, I wound up making only twenty copies of that first edition. I wanted the work shared with a wider audience so that’s why I decided to publish a second run.

The latest edition is more of a straight-forward production without the vellum paper. With this change in design, I had to reconfigure the layout. I took liberties in swapping out some images or adding new ones altogether. Also, a beautiful afterword was contributed by my friend, artist, writer, and curator Efrem Zelony-Mindell. I still feel so fortunate and grateful to have had my work seen and elevated by their words in my book.

For the most part, yes editing is quite a solitary process for me. But there does come a point when I feel it’s ready, where I share the work with a few trusted people. It’s always nice to have that outer support system. Much of Visions of Eden was created during my time in undergrad school so I had all sorts of feedback from peers and professors which I’m grateful for. But in the end, as the author, you ultimately have the final say in your work.

Given that Eden is a starting point and metaphor in the work, I was thinking about ideas of gardens, (forbidden) fruit, and movement of people.

How do you view yourself in relation to your place of birth? In your series, I see the most direct links in the letters, old photos where tropical foliage is present in the background, and the photo of the jackfruit (perhaps the only tropical fruit in this series).

I came to America when I was very young, about five years old. For my family and for many other families still living in the Philippines, America is seen as a sort of ideological Eden: a land of milk and honey, of wealth and excess. We all know that’s far from the truth. Every Eden has a caveat, a forbidden tree. Which leads me to ask: as an immigrant living in this country, what fruits were never intended for me?

I honestly don’t remember much about my childhood in the Philippines aside from fleeting memories of my relatives, the sounds of animals, the smell of rain and earth, the taste of my grandmother’s cooking. The identity that I carry with me now as a Filipino is not so much tied to the physical geography of a place but rather it is derived from a way of life, from shared stories, in the values we hold dear, passed on from generation to generation. This is a warm flame that lives on in me to this day as I write these words thousands of miles away from where I came.

Photographs have a way of shaping our memory and our relationship to the past, which in turn affects how we engage with the present. The family photographs and letters used in my book act as anchors in a meandering journey. They serve as landmarks that I can return to whenever I feel lost or need assurance so far away from “home”. They give me the comfort and affirmation that I need to navigate a space where I never really felt I belonged. The spread in my book that you mentioned—the jackfruit on one side, and the Saran-wrapped apple on the preceding page—was a reference to my duality as both Filipino and American. It’s a reminder and an acknowledgment that I am a sum of many things, of many people who have shaped me. If I flourish in life, it’s because my roots were nourished by love.

I like how you mentioned photos as anchors or landmarks. Isn’t that why we create and photograph? To mark certain points in our lives and to envision possible futures, like a cartographer mapping an inner journey. Do you feel like you and your relationships with those you photographed changed through the process of making your works?

When my parents took pictures of our family, it wasn’t done solely in the name of remembrance; it also served as an affirmation of ourselves and our journey—a celebration. Every birthday, vacation, school ceremony, or even the seemingly insignificant events of daily life were all photographed or video-taped as a way of saying to ourselves, “Here we are. Look how far we’ve come. Look at the life we’ve made. And here’s the proof”.

Now, holding a camera and photographing my family through my own lens still carries all of that celebratory joy, but with so much more possibility. Before I really took photography seriously, I never realized its potential as a medium for introspection, but that’s ultimately what it has become for me. In taking pictures of my family, I not only clarify my own feelings about them, but the act of photography itself informs and builds on my relationship with each person. The camera is not a mere recording device, but a tool for understanding, processing, and even expressing love...or resentment. Though I may not be visible in my pictures, my presence is there: in my proximity, my gaze, my focus.

Does all of this impact my relationships? Absolutely. Photographing another person willingly always demands some degree of trust and vulnerability from both sides. There’s a silent dialogue that occurs which feels like an exchange of secrets. I think that’s why I often don’t feel comfortable photographing other people unless we’re very close. Usually my family is open enough to reveal themselves to me, other times what they give can feel quite guarded. That’s a constant negotiation. After the photograph is made though, nobody ever emerges the same person because each of us has relinquished something, no matter how small.

Being self-reflexive in photography is so important. I agree it should be a constant negotiation, but it’s something that bothers me these days – the power dynamic between the photographer and photograph, particularly for personal and documentary projects. More significantly, after the photograph has been made, who is really benefiting. But I guess if we are sensitive to that then perhaps we can navigate that tricky path and find a balance.

Right, finding that balance is key and sometimes there are no clear-cut answers. That power dynamic is something I always have to be mindful of. As the photographer, you are exercising a certain role and position. At the end of the day, you’re the one essentially “taking” what you need and walking away. There’s an inherent violence or aggression in the act of taking someone’s picture, no matter how well-intended it may be. This aggression carries even greater weight when working, as you say, in a genre like documentary where representation is everything.

I remember an undergrad professor of mine, Nadia Sablin, introducing me to the work of Shelby Lee Adams—particularly his Appalachian Legacy series. Adams spent twenty-five years documenting the disadvantaged Appalachian communities in his home state of Kentucky, visiting the same families over a long period of time. Though the photographs are beautifully crafted, they pose many questions in regard to exploitation, representation, and the aestheticization of suffering. He is or was, after all, an artist thriving and profiting off of these photographs. Salgado is another that comes to mind. This was the first time I really stopped to think about the ethics of image-making. Who is benefitting from it all?

I think the search for this balance is something each photographer has to reckon with personally. Though each situation may vary with different factors that have to be weighed, and context that must be applied, you can always ask yourself these same ever-pertinent questions: am I representing people in a dignified way, and what are my intentions with these images? Communication (listening), building relationships, acknowledging your power, and respecting the people you photograph are all foundational things to consider when exercising your privilege with the camera.

Well said! The process of making photographs can be tricky to navigate yet rewarding. Any upcoming projects or ideas? What’s keeping you busy these days?

Oh, let’s just say I’m constantly juggling 3-4 ideas in my head at any given time, but ninety percent of the time they don’t ever lead to anything finished haha. This past year has been tough on everyone I’m sure. I’ve been dealing a lot with personal loss and grief and the compounded isolation brought on by the pandemic, so for months I’ve been making photographs organically as a subconscious response to these internal struggles. It’s more of an exploration of grief itself as a natural phenomenon and force—like time or gravity. Grief is something everyone will experience in life and each of us deals with it differently, but in the end we have to let it run its course. I see these photographs as a potential body of work that could materialize as a zine or book one day, so we’ll see where that goes.

Other than that, I’ve been working on an upcoming collaboration project with Cumulus Photo. Speaking of which, I saw your photograph featured in their latest zine, running to the edge of the world. Congrats on that! It’s beautiful. But yeah, just trying my best to keep busy and sane, and improving myself any way I can.

Thanks! Looking forward to your upcoming projects! Last question: any music to recommend?

I feel like my answer to this question can vary by the week. I go through phases where I exhaust whole albums on repeat until I get tired of them. So I’ll leave you with the two currently on my rotation: Angles by The Strokes, and Screamadelica by Primal Scream.

Thank you for your time!

Thank you for a lovely discourse. I had a lot of fun!

his website and Instagram.

Get more updates on our Facebook page and Instagram.

#Ryan Frigillana #nope fun #new york #photographer interview #artist interview #Contemporary Photography #Visions of Eden #PhotoBook

330 notes · View notes

ignisnocturnalia · 3 years

Note

Ushdhsjdhei those Nokris hcs had me SWEATING they were so good! I’m not sure if you’re taking requests currently, but if you are, could we have some for Oryx please? At any rate, I hope you have a lovely day! 🥰

Oryx was on my personal list next, so this request lines up PERFECTLY 😏 I hope you've been having good days as well, my friend 😎

Oryx x Reader

Relationship

As the Taken King, congratulations, you are now the Taken Queen and most likely an ✨outlaw✨ to the city

Things might get a little dicey, since before you came along he viewed “loving” as killing the object of his affections repeatedly… (I have the anthologies, bro has killed his siblings like 3 times not even halfway through the book while gushing about how much he cares about them)

Takes you to the different planets he’s conquered, detailing their indiginous species before he had them annihilated whenever you ask about them (including war moons)

Tries to help you create your own throne world, and if you can’t or don’t want to, he shares his with you

Just the same as him, Hive kneel to you, and though unnecessary you receive a part of the upward stream of power acquired through their Sword Logic per Oryx’s command

Even though you might not understand the culture very well, your words will still carry hefty weight; be mindful of what you say, it could literally get a solar system erased

It’s highly unlikely, but on the rare occasion that you’d have a run in with one of his siblings he’s ready to challenge their doubts about you being his mate

Since you don’t use the power given to you and Oryx doesn’t restrict what you use it on, the fastest way for you to befriend his soldiers is by dangling favors just within reach; the Thralls act like cats to you in the absence of the King, and Wizards flock to you so you can see their accomplishments and be impressed by their work enough to give them a boost in their hierarchical climb

Oryx has, in fact, made a throne beside his for you and frequently invites you to help him study the Darkness; he thinks your cluelessness of the universe is cute, but he is determined to get you to understand what he means when he speaks of “The Final Shape”

You have your own fleet, no questions asked. If you’re going to be his Queen, he wants you to grow your influence across space so your name becomes known and feared as equally as his is

NSFW 👁👄👁

I have a supreme feeling, that as the “King of Shapes”, Oryx can totally shift between a female morph and a male morph especially since he used to be female

Pays close attention to what makes you squirm, can and will make you come through touching alone

Prefers being dominant, but will give you opportunities to feel like you’re in control

Don’t care how tall you are, size difference will exist and he digs it in the sack, bonus if he can see his outline on the skin of your stomach

His wings twitch and shudder a lot, and they’re quite sensitive to light touches, so if you can reach them d o i t

He is very rough, prepare to lose your legs for ~1 week. If he’s feeling generous for whatever reason he will be a little more gentle, but it’s almost unnoticeable

Likes it when you try to scratch his chitin, and will be very vocal if you can actually cause any amount of damage

He is a big fan of overstimulation, as well as teasing, so you’re either going to be over the moon and unable to speak or begging for him to do something

A human’s flexibility has him totally enraptured, and every chance he gets he will put you into the most questionable, and sometimes uncomfortable, positions just to see the way your body will bend

You merked basically all of his children and annihilated quite a few of his high ranking soldiers; if that isn’t a testament to your strength and worthiness, what is? He thinks it’s extremely arousing, and biology be damned he will figure out a way to breed you so he can have his strongest heirs yet

Fluff

You both make certain auras with your powers, so if you’re ever at different places on his Dreadnaught you send waves of Light and Dark to each other; normal Hive are jarred by the Light you send out until they realize it’s just you and not a massive assault from Earth’s Guardians

When you two sit together, he makes a point of allowing you to rest your hand on top of his or interlock your fingers

Oryx leans over a lot whenever you want to give him a smooch, like damn, you wanna give him back problems you tiny ass person?

While he definitely isn’t going to understand and will think it’s childish, he does let you decorate his horns occasionally (flowers, precious metals, etc)

Once you get used to it, he has you go with him to check on planets being conquered. Nothing boosts incentive better than having your King and Queen watching your progress! Even if the work is insufficient for his tastes, you can usually dampen punishments; some Hive regard it as human softness, but countless others will grovel at your feet in gratefulness later

You two spend freetime with sword dueling- if you don’t know how to properly fight, he’s more than eager to teach you

He postpones his invasions in the Sol system in regards to your feelings on the subject, but he always has an excuse ready to go; however, give him an inch and he will go a mile. If he’s under the impression that you don’t care enough or prioritize him over your race, he will push his work full force

While he prefers not to, he’ll basically never let you sleep or nap with him; he doesn’t need or want sleep in the same way that you do, so he thinks it’s a waste of time, and he only likes it because of your warmth

Should you try to dip into Hive magic, he will watch your growth with tremendous pride and help where he can, even sending in Wizards with similar talents to help cultivate your skills

Enjoys holding your shoulders and pressing your body close to his in more private moments because it makes him feel big even though you could totally cripple him in a 1v1

#relationship headcanon #destiny 2 #oryx the taken king #oryx x reader

147 notes · View notes

newdougsblog · 3 years

Text

The Tragic Hero Full of Fear

Hello everyone! Before I get into this, I’d like to thank @jasontoddiefor for both the name and being the main enabler of this fun piece of writing. I also want to thank all my wonderful friends over on Discord for letting me bounce ideas off of them and helping me. You are all amazing!!

Ok, so let’s get into it!

The first six Star Wars movies (the Original and Prequel trilogies) are commonly referred to as “the Tragedy of Darth Vader.” But what makes these movies a tragedy? How is Anakin Skywalker himself, the main character of said tragedy, a tragic hero? In this meta/essay, I will discuss how Anakin himself is definitionally a tragic hero and outline his story as it relates to the structure of a classic Greek tragedy.

This essay will focus solely on Anakin’s character as he is canonically portrayed.

The Hero

Let’s go through the main traits of a tragic hero (as per early literature) and discuss them in the context of Anakin Skywalker.

Possesses immense courage and strength and is usually favored by the gods

Anakin’s courage is evident throughout his entire life, such as when he participates in the pod race in TPM or on the front lines during the Clone Wars.

While we cannot definitively ascribe Anakin’s abilities to any deity, we can associate them with the Force. The Force is able to somewhat influence the happenings of the universe in certain ways and takes the place of any sort of deity.

Whether Anakin is the “Chosen One” or not, his connection to the Force is stronger than that of any other Force-sensitive being, so he is consequently closer to it than most, if not all, other Force-sensitive beings.

Extreme loyalty to family and country

Anakin is consistent in his demonstrations of loyalty to those he has strong feelings for (whether those feelings be romantic or platonic).

His devotion to Padmé surpasses his loyalty to the Jedi, and he is always willing to go to great lengths to ensure their safety and well-being.

Anakin also exhibits a strong sense of devotion to his mother, Shmi. His devotion to her, and by extension her wellbeing, surpasses his duties as Jedi.

In ROTS, Anakin says, “I will not betray the Republic… my loyalties lie with the Chancellor and with the Senate… and with you” (you, in this case, referring to Padmé). In this quotation, Anakin’s loyalties are made quite clear. At this point, he is not faithful to the Jedi, but to his government, its leaders, and, of course, his wife.

Representative of society’s current values

During the Clone Wars, Anakin is known by the moniker, “the Hero with No Fear,” and is one of the Republic’s “poster boys.” He is charismatic, kind, seemingly fearless (obviously) and a strong fighter, thus representing the values that were important to the Republic at the time. The last characteristic is especially important because of the assurance it instills in times of war. As a representation of the Republic, Anakin’s prowess on the battlefield creates hope for its citizens that victory is possible.

Anakin also empathizes with the opinion that the seemingly outdated Jedi Code holds them back. In the Citadel Arc, Tarkin remarks that “the Jedi Code prevents [the Jedi] from going far enough to achieve victory.” Anakin actually agrees with this statement, replying that “[he’s] also found that [the Jedi] sometimes fall short of victory because of [their] methods” (Season 3, Episode 19). He shows a sense of allegiance not to the ancient ways of the Jedi, but to the newer, more modern ideals regarding military action.

Anakin claims to have brought “peace, justice, freedom, and security” to his “new Empire.” While the Empire's interpretations of the aforementioned values are skewed, Anakin continues to represent them as Darth Vader.

Anakin’s statement to Obi-Wan also mirrors Palpatine’s declaration to the Senate: “In order to ensure our security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire, for a safe and secure society which I assure you will last for ten thousand years.” The people applaud this statement, demonstrating a general sense of exhaustion in regards to the war and a yearning for what this new Empire is promising them.

Lead astray/challenged by strong feelings

Though there are many, many examples of Anakin’s emotions getting the better of him, we’re simply going to list two:

Anakin’s fury and anguish after the death of his mom leads to his slaughter of the Tuskens

Anakin’s overwhelming fear of losing Padmé is ultimately what leads to his Fall.

Every tragic hero possesses what is called a hamartia, or a fatal flaw. This trait largely contributes to the hero’s catastrophic downfall. Anakin’s hamartia is his need for control, which partially manifests through his fear of loss.

Let’s explore this idea in more detail.

Though Anakin grows up as a slave, the movies neglect to explicitly cover the trauma left from his time in slavery. However, it is worth noting that slaves did not have the ability to make many choices for themselves; they didn’t even own their bodies. After being freed, Anakin is whisked away to become a Jedi. He does not possess much control over his life as Jedi, for he is simply told what path he is going to take. While Anakin does make this decision on his own, becoming a Jedi is a disciplined and somewhat-strict way of life and not one that allows for an abundance of reckless autonomy as he is wont to engage in.

(Side note: I’m not here to argue about Qui-Gon’s decision-making abilities, nor do I wish to engage in discourse regarding the Jedi’s way of life. I am simply presenting and objectively stating these facts in relation to Anakin because they are pertinent to my point.)

During AOTC, Anakin is unable to save his mother from death. As Shmi dies in his arms, Anakin is absolutely helpless. The situation is completely out of his control, and he is forced to contend with the reality that despite all of his power, he cannot control everything that happens.

He also feels that he has a larger potential for power and is being held back by Obi-Wan: “although I'm a Padawan learner, in some ways... a lot of ways... I'm ahead of him. I'm ready for the trials. I know I am! He knows it too. He believes I'm too unpredictable… I know I started my training late... but he won't let me move on.” Anakin believes Obi-Wan, his teacher and mentor, is holding him back. He expresses a self-held conviction of his status and skills and does not trust the word of his superior.

In ROTS, Anakin starts dreaming of Padmé’s death. Considering what occurred the last time he dreamt of a loved one’s demise, Anakin is justifiably (or at least justifiably from his point of view) worried. He consequently wants to stop these dreams from coming true in any way possible. His fear of death, especially that of his loved ones, represents his need for control over everything, even things that are uncontrollable. This overwhelming desire leads to Anakin’s drastic actions.

As Darth Vader, he no longer possesses such fears, for everyone that he loved is either dead or has betrayed him. He is the epitome of order and control, eliminating any who disturb this perceived equilibrium.

However, this changes because of one person: Luke Skywalker.

Luke reintroduces something that was (arguably) long-absent in Vader’s life, which is interpersonal attachment. Vader yearns for his son to join him by his side. When Luke refuses, Vader continues to attempt to seek him out. In ROTJ, Vader is forced to choose between the Emperor, a man he has long trusted and followed, and Luke, the son he never knew he had. Out of a desire to protect and keep what little family he has left (and likely a sense of “I couldn’t save Padmé but at least I can save her legacy by keeping her child(ren) alive and safe”), Vader defeats the Emperor and saves his son. Though his actions are definitionally heroic, Anakin never truly overcomes his hamartia.

The Structure of a Tragedy

Classic Greek tragedies follow a specific story structure, which, according to the German playwright Gustav Freytag, is as follows:

We’re going to focus on the three aspects that best represent Anakin’s story as a tragedy: The peripeteia, the anagnorisis, and the catastrophe/denouement. These occur during and/or after the climax.

The peripeteia is the climax/the turning point in the plot. Said change usually involves the protagonist's good luck and prosperity taking a turn for the worse.

Within the tragedy we are discussing, the peripeteia occurs when Anakin chooses Sidious over Mace Windu and solidifies his allegiance to the Dark side, becoming the very thing he swore to destroy. It is at this point that things really start to go downhill. He kills children, chokes his wife, fights his best friend, gets his remaining limbs cut off, etc.

The anagnorisis is the point in the tragedy when the protagonist recognizes their error, seeing the true nature of that which they were previously ignorant of, usually regarding their circumstances or a specific relationship (such as Oedipus’ realization that his wife was actually his mother). In most tragedies, the anagnorisis is in close proximity to the peripeteia. In Anakin’s story, the anagnorisis occurs during ROTJ. After being wounded in his fight against Luke, Vader watches as his son is brutally electrocuted by Sidious. It is at this moment that Darth Vader realizes that Luke was right—there is good in him, and he still has the chance to redeem himself.

The catastrophe/denouement (since this is a tragedy, we’re going to go with “catastrophe”) is the end of the tragedy. Events and conflicts are resolved and brought to a close, and a new sort of “normality” is established. The catastrophe often provides a sense of catharsis (release of tension) for the viewer. The protagonist is worse off than they were at the beginning of the tragedy.

The catastrophe within “The Tragedy of Darth Vader” transpires soon after the anagnorisis at the end of ROTJ. Though the realization of his capacity for good is the anagnorisis, the follow-through (via his actions), as well as what consequently occurs, is the catastrophe. As previously discussed, Vader saves Luke by killing the Emperor but does so at the cost of his own life. This serves as the resolution of the tragedy, for the hero’s fate has been confirmed—Darth Vader fulfills his destined role as the Chosen One and, in doing so, brings about his own redemption and dies as Anakin Skywalker.

In conclusion, the categorization of Star Wars as a tragedy is a choice that heavily influences Anakin, the protagonist and hero, of the story. He is without a doubt a tragic hero whose fatal flaw leads to his downfall. In accordance with Aristotle’s theory of tragedy, Anakin’s tragedy is constructed not by personal agency, but by the narrative itself.

Works Cited

“Darth Vader.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 15 Mar. 2021, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darth_Vader.

“Dramatic Structure.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 20 Feb. 2021, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dramatic_structure.

“Hero.” Encyclopaedia Britannica, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 19 Oct. 2016, www.britannica.com/art/hero-literary-and-cultural-figure.

Lucas, George, director. Star Wars: Episode III— Revenge of the Sith. Lucasfilm Ltd., 2005.

Lucas, George, director. Star Wars: Episode II— Attack of the Clones. Lucasfilm Ltd. , 2002.

Michnovetz, Matt. “Star Wars: The Clone Wars, ‘Counterattack.’” Season 3, episode 19, 4 Mar. 2011.

“Sophocles: the Purest Artist.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/art/tragedy-literature/Sophocles-the-purest-artist.

“Theory of Tragedy.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/art/tragedy-literature/Theory-of-tragedy.

“Tragic Hero.” Dictionary.com, Dictionary.com, www.dictionary.com/browse/tragic-hero.

#star wars #Anakin Skywalker #greek tragedy #anakin the tragic hero #meta #so many meta ideas not enough time #wow thanks tumblr formatting for being terrible

182 notes · View notes

phroyd · 3 years

Text

I’m not going to pretend that I know how to interpret the jobs and inflation data of the past few months. My view is that this is still an economy warped by the pandemic, and that the dynamics are so strange and so unstable that it will be some time before we know its true state. But the reaction to the early numbers and anecdotes has revealed something deeper and more constant in our politics.

The American economy runs on poverty, or at least the constant threat of it. Americans like their goods cheap and their services plentiful and the two of them, together, require a sprawling labor force willing to work tough jobs at crummy wages. On the right, the barest glimmer of worker power is treated as a policy emergency, and the whip of poverty, not the lure of higher wages, is the appropriate response.Reports that low-wage employers were having trouble filling open jobs sent Republican policymakers into a tizzy and led at least 25 Republican governors — and one Democratic governor — to announce plans to cut off expanded unemployment benefits early. Chipotle said that it would increase prices by about 4 percent to cover the cost of higher wages, prompting the National Republican Congressional Committee to issue a blistering response: “Democrats’ socialist stimulus bill caused a labor shortage, and now burrito lovers everywhere are footing the bill.” The Trumpist outlet The Federalist complained, “Restaurants have had to bribe current and prospective workers with fatter paychecks to lure them off their backsides and back to work.”But it’s not just the right. The financial press, the cable news squawkers and even many on the center-left greet news of labor shortages and price increases with an alarm they rarely bring to the ongoing agonies of poverty or low-wage toil.

As it happened, just as I was watching Republican governors try to immiserate low-wage workers who weren’t yet jumping at the chance to return to poorly ventilated kitchens for $9 an hour, I was sent “A Guaranteed Income for the 21st Century,” a plan that seeks to make poverty a thing of the past. The proposal, developed by Naomi Zewde, Kyle Strickland, Kelly Capatosto, Ari Glogower and Darrick Hamilton for the New School’s Institute on Race and Political Economy, would guarantee a $12,500 annual income for every adult and a $4,500 allowance for every child. It’s what wonks call a “negative income tax” plan — unlike a universal basic income, it phases out as households rise into the middle class.

“With poverty, to address it, you just eliminate it,” Hamilton told me. “You give people enough resources so they’re not poor.” Simple, but not cheap. The team estimates that its proposal would cost $876 billion annually. To give a sense of scale, total federal spending in 2019 was about $4.4 trillion, with $1 trillion of that financing Social Security payments and another $1.1 trillion support Medicaid, Medicare, the Affordable Care Act and the Children’s Health Insurance Program.

Beyond writing that the plan “would require new sources of revenue, additional borrowing or trade-offs with other government funding priorities,” Hamilton and his co-authors don’t say how they’d pay for it, and in our conversation, Hamilton was cagey. “There are many ways in which it can be paid for and deficit spending itself is not bad unless there are certain conditions,” he said. I’m less blasé about financing a program that would increase federal spending by almost 20 percent, but at the same time, it’s clearly possible. Even if the entire thing was funded by taxes, it would only bring America’s tax burden to roughly the average of our peer nations.

I suspect the real political problem for a guaranteed income isn’t the costs, but the benefits. A policy like this would give workers the power to make real choices. They could say no to a job they didn’t want, or quit one that exploited them. They could, and would, demand better wages, or take time off to attend school or simply to rest. When we spoke, Hamilton tried to sell it to me as a truer form of capitalism. “People can’t reap the returns of their effort without some baseline level of resources,” he said. “If you lack basic necessities with regards to economic well-being, you have no agency. You’re dictated to by others or live in a miserable state.”

But those in the economy with the power to do the dictating profit from the desperation of low-wage workers. One man’s misery is another man’s quick and affordable at-home lunch delivery. “It is a fact that when we pay workers less and don’t have social insurance programs that, say, cover Uber and Lyft drivers, we are able to consume goods and services at lower prices,” Hilary Hoynes, an economist at the University of California at Berkeley, where she also co-directs the Opportunity Lab, told me.

This is the conversation about poverty that we don’t like to have: We discuss the poor as a pity or a blight, but we rarely admit that America’s high rate of poverty is a policy choice, and there are reasons we choose it over and over again. We typically frame those reasons as questions of fairness (“Why should I have to pay for someone else’s laziness?”) or tough-minded paternalism (“Work is good for people, and if they can live on the dole, they would”). But there’s more to it than that.

It is true, of course, that some might use a guaranteed income to play video games or melt into Netflix. But why are they the center of this conversation? We know full well that America is full of hardworking people who are kept poor by very low wages and harsh circumstance. We know many who want a job can’t find one, and many of the jobs people can find are cruel in ways that would appall anyone sitting comfortably behind a desk. We know the absence of child care and affordable housing and decent public transit makes work, to say nothing of advancement, impossible for many. We know people lose jobs they value because of mental illness or physical disability or other factors beyond their control. We are not so naïve as to believe near-poverty and joblessness to be a comfortable condition or an attractive choice.

Most Americans don’t think of themselves as benefiting from the poverty of others, and I don’t think objections to a guaranteed income would manifest as arguments in favor of impoverishment. Instead, we would see much of what we’re seeing now, only magnified: Fears of inflation, lectures about how the government is subsidizing indolence, paeans to the character-building qualities of low-wage labor, worries that the economy will be strangled by taxes or deficits, anger that Uber and Lyft rides have gotten more expensive, sympathy for the struggling employers who can’t fill open roles rather than for the workers who had good reason not to take those jobs. These would reflect not America’s love of poverty but opposition to the inconveniences that would accompany its elimination.

Nor would these costs be merely imagined. Inflation would be a real risk, as prices often rise when wages rise, and some small businesses would shutter if they had to pay their workers more. There are services many of us enjoy now that would become rarer or costlier if workers had more bargaining power. We’d see more investments in automation and possibly in outsourcing. The truth of our politics lies in the risks we refuse to accept, and it is rising worker power, not continued poverty, that we treat as intolerable. You can see it happening right now, driven by policies far smaller and with effects far more modest than a guaranteed income.

Hamilton, to his credit, was honest about these trade-offs. “Progressives don’t like to talk about this,” he told me. “They want this kumbaya moment. They want to say equity is great for everyone when it’s not. We need to shift our values. The capitalist class stands to lose from this policy, that’s unambiguous. They will have better resourced workers they can’t exploit through wages. Their consumer products and services would be more expensive.”

For the most part, America finds the money to pay for the things it values. In recent decades, and despite deep gridlock in Washington, we have spent trillions of dollars on wars in the Middle East and tax cuts for the wealthy. We have also spent trillions of dollars on health insurance subsidies and coronavirus relief. It is in our power to wipe out poverty. It simply isn’t among our priorities.

“Ultimately, it’s about us as a society saying these privileges and luxuries and comforts that folks in the middle class — or however we describe these economic classes — have, how much are they worth to us?” Jamila Michener, co-director of the Cornell Center for Health Equity, told me. “And are they worth certain levels of deprivation or suffering or even just inequality among people who are living often very different lives from us? That’s a question we often don’t even ask ourselves.”

But we should.

Phroyd

#capitalism #economics #poverty #slavery

33 notes · View notes

coldmorte · 3 years

Note

Hey! I really really like your blog and all the Dutch content, and I read your posts on Molly and Dutch and I just felt like sharing my thoughts :) If you don’t feel like it, just ignore this

I like Molly, even though I agree that she’s very much a snob and very paranoid at times.

It’s always felt very clear to me that Molly really, truly loves Dutch. And love makes you do stupid, desperate things (just look at Arthur).

Molly’s interaction with Abigail is about Dutch’s love for Molly, not the other way around. It’s Abigail saying that Dutch doesn’t love her and Molly lashing out (probably to protect herself from the truth).

This is brought up again in An Honest Mistake, when she talks to Arthur about Dutch, questioning how Dutch seems to him. When Molly says, “I really love him, you know,” Arthur averts his eyes and doesn’t look at her. I’ve always seen this as Arthur knowing Dutch doesn’t love her in the way Molly wants him to, if he loves her at all.

I’ve always seen Dutch as being kind of ahead of his time when it comes to certain progressive ideas (especially as it pertains to race), but when it comes to women, he’s very much a product of his his time. The way he talks about them and to/at them, whether it’s Molly or Abigail or Mary-Beth or Sadie, is often either dismissive or condescending.

While he doesn’t outright say it, the way he acts around the women at camp has always left me feeling like he prefers women (at least the ones he takes an actual interest in) to fit into the roles society has carved out for them; they have to be beautiful and docile and romantic-minded for him to take an interest.

You’ve said yourself, that Dutch deals with a lot of self doubt and that stems from wanting to be seen as a great and powerful man, who the people in camp can look up to, and women (especially young women) were (and to some degree stil is) seen as symbols of status. Molly is a beautiful woman from a wealthy family; she could have anyone she wanted, and she chose Dutch and ran away with him, leaving her old life behind – that’s the ultimate powermove on Dutch’s part.

I’ve always thought of Dutch as a romantic, the way he talks about love and how it’s the one thing worth living for, and I believe that he may have at some point actually loved Molly or at least convinced himself that he did, but the second he grows tired of her and realises that he doesn’t actually love her, he’s moving on to another, younger woman.

His inner romantic and his ego and need to be perceived as powerful are at odds with each other, and as the game progresses we see how his romantic and kind side wilt under the weight and pressure of his responsibilities as a leader and his need to be perceived as powerful and a great leader.

Those are my thoughts at least :)

Hello!

Thank you for the ask and the kind words! That really does mean a lot!! 💜💜💜

I am very grateful for your message, and no!!!! I don’t want to ignore it!! That wouldn’t be very fair of me, as I feel like you bring up some good points to discuss. Also, I appreciate the respect in your message and for taking the time to write so much out! I’d be happy to give you some of my time in return 🥰

(Warning: SPOILERS below)

I’m going to take your points one at a time here. So, starting with liking Molly, it’s totally fine! I don’t want to be too negative on my blog, and I don’t want people to feel like they have to think the same way I do. That wouldn’t be any fun, so it does make me happy that you can enjoy her character. I don’t want to take that away from you!! By all means, love her to your heart's content!!! ❤️

Furthermore, though I don’t personally like Molly, I don’t think she was a truly bad person. Just like every other character in the game, she had flaws and made mistakes. I primarily wish I could have gotten to know her better because she was presented during a very dark time in her life. I feel like this affected my perception of her, and I might have seen her differently, if I had gotten the chance to interact more with her character (especially outside of the RDR2 timeframe). Everybody deserves not only to love somebody, but everybody also deserves to have faith that the person they love can truthfully say the same back to them. I felt bad that Molly died such an unhappy, loveless death.

About the love Molly had for Dutch, I agree that she loved him. My point in bringing up infatuation was to primarily highlight the reason and the degree to which she honestly loved him. Did Molly love Dutch for the man he was, or for the idea of the man he was? Maybe, it was a mix? I am not sure there is enough information to give a conclusive answer to this (as I somewhat mentioned before).

To be fair, the same thing could (and should) be asked of Dutch. Did he truly love her, or did he just love the idea of having her at his side? Again, it would be fascinating to see the early part of their relationship. It would answer a LOT of questions. You mention that Dutch arguably saw Molly as a symbol of status, and I agree that it was very plausible. I think, to some degree, both Molly and Dutch saw each other as being favorable for what they represented, unfortunately.

In regard to the interaction between Molly and Abigail, I realize my response was unclear about this (that’s my bad). I'll try to write it better here, but this is really complicated to put into words! I'll do my best!!

What I said was that Molly got angry at people she “perceived” as challenging her love (this was subjective to her POV and not necessarily reflective of true reality). My original answer was not objective (nor was it meant to be - I was trying to write this part from her POV), and there are a few layers I want to analyze here. First of all, from an objective perspective, you are correct. The conversation between them was ultimately about Dutch not loving Molly the way she wanted to be loved. However, the first thing Molly did was state to Abigail that she loved Dutch. If she didn’t see this point as being in question, why did she feel the need to immediately justify it before saying anything else? To me, it seemed like she needed to actively prove that she loved him to others.

This was also seen with Karen and Arthur. The conversations with Karen were confusing because they didn’t have much context, but perhaps, that was the point - to show the extent of Molly’s paranoia (in other words, that there was no context and that she was imagining Karen to be against her out of insecurity). Molly continually complained that Karen said bad things about her, and she insisted that she not only loved Dutch, but that he loved her as well. Then, as you mention, Molly emphasized to Arthur that SHE loved Dutch (it was not directly about his love for her). Again, by constantly having to profess her feelings, it was as if she thought people were doubting her on some level.

But here is where the contradiction comes in - I believe that Molly was smart enough to know that this doubting wasn't entirely genuine. She knew it was never really her love that she should have been concerned about. Although, by focusing on herself, it was a way to deflect from her insecurity regarding Dutch and the fact that she knew, deep down, he didn’t truly love her (at least, not anymore). That’s why she got so upset when Abigail, for instance, brought this point up. As soon as the conversation shifted from Molly’s love to Dutch’s love, she lashed out and stormed away.

So, to try to summarize this all up, what I am trying to say is that Molly “perceived” challenges to her own state of emotions as a means of shifting away from her concerns about Dutch’s feelings. She knew her "perceptions" were really more like lies to herself. Molly wanted the conversation with Abigail to seem like it was about her because she felt she was more in control of that and could handle it better. From a neutral perspective, the conversation was definitely not about Molly - it was entirely about Dutch, which Molly knew (she just didn’t like Abigail directly pointing it). I hope my response makes more sense? Sorry, if I am still being confusing!

Now, as for Dutch and his progressive ideas, I think a lot of them were formed in his youth. Little information was given about his childhood, but he did seem pretty sensitive about the fact that he grew up fatherless. His dad died in the Civil War (a conflict primarily centered around the issue of slavery and states’ attitudes towards it), while fighting on the side of the Union. One reason Dutch was probably so progressive in regard to race was because of his anger over losing a parent to racially-motivated violence. Racism seemed like a waste of time and life, so he was bitter towards people who still harbored racist sentiments. He knew firsthand how destructive they could be.

Minimal insight was provided into Dutch’s relationship with his mother, other than the fact that it was quite strained and unhappy. He left home at a young age and essentially disowned her. He obviously didn’t keep in touch with her, judging that he didn’t even know she died until years after the fact. Could this have affected his attitude later in life (towards women)?

I suppose it’s possible. Maybe, Dutch would have looked better on women, had he been closer with his mother. I consider his attitude towards women as pretty average for the era. It’s not entirely fair to compare him to Arthur, who was very progressive for the time and definitely above normal standards. As you say, I think Dutch was a product of his time. In RDR2, he didn’t come across as physically abusive, nor did he overtly sexualize women. However, he did seem to expect women to act in a subordinate manner. It's not great (and I certainly do not agree with his attitude), but again, the contemporary standards in regard to gender roles did not exist in 1899.

Lastly, I COMPLETELY agree about Dutch being VERY romantic, sentimental, and idealistic. This wasn’t just limited to interpersonal relationships either - it also fit his entire perspective of America and the values he held dear. Just take a look at some of his quotes:

“The promise of this great nation - men created equal, liberal and justice for all - that might be nonsense, but it’s worth trying for. It’s worth believing in.”

And:

“If we keep on seeking, we will find freedom.”

In the beginning, he had such high hopes and strong faith that he could find a way to live free from social and legislative demands. Compare that to the end, where he started to say things like:

“You can’t fight nature. You can’t fight change.”

And:

“There ain’t no freedom for no one in this country no more.”

Dutch wanted to believe that there was a chance to live free from the threat of control, but as he started to lose people he loved and got closer to losing his own battle, he started to take on a much more cynical tone. He began to realize that his romantic notions and idealistic visions of life were not always obtainable - no matter how hard he tried to reach them - and it broke him. This change in his life outlook was kind of similar to his interpersonal relationships. When he realized they were a lot of work and not always happy/perfect, he seemed to grow frustrated. Love requires a lot of patience and energy. Despite full effort, love still does not always succeed.

Also, I just want to add that I think Dutch knew he had a problem with his pride, but he tried his best to maintain his tough, confident persona because he didn’t want to be perceived as weak. He definitely realized he messed up in putting his pride first in the end, but at that point, it was too late. Whatever was left of his idealistic aspirations in life died with Arthur up on that cliff.

Anyhow, I’ve said more than enough. I’d like to once again thank you for the ask!! I hope my response was worth the time to read and that it makes sense. Feel free to share any more thoughts you may have!!!

~ Faith 💜

30 notes · View notes

the-lightning-strikes-again · 3 years

Text

Posting this for @pilotkinkade in response to their recent post made here, regarding concerns about VLD and how it includes white savior complex or potentially smears Allura’s character with that complex. I’m not reblogging directly because this is a long response lol. Thank you pilotkinkade for chatting earlier; I hope you find this post interesting at least and would be curious of your thoughts in return!

---

I do agree with your general sentiments, that VLD takes on a disquieting savior complex throughout a good portion of the show, even more so than in previous Voltron iterations. For me, it feels most apparent in the way that Voltron as an all-powerful machine in VLD is piloted by its second generation.

To compare: In the original OG alliance (Alfor, Zarkon, Trigel, Gyrgan, and Blaytz), multiple major races were represented, functioning as one to save their own collective galaxy from threats. So even among the OG paladins, there were checks and balances (maybe Zarkon had the strongest military skills personally, but Alfor had the alchemy, etc.), with mass racial diversity. This seemed like a pretty innovative and cool addition to the Voltron franchise. The s3 finale also clarifies that, unlike VLD’s second-generation, all of these paladins were leaders of their people. This meant they had political and legal authority/experience that an average warrior or citizen wouldn’t.

By removing that whole structure and retrofitting Voltron with (mostly) a group of unprepared teenagers from a single planet entirely uninvolved in the universal conflict, it created a lot of strange hierarchies...

We see much of the known universe raise up people who had zero prior experience with war, and little to no military or diplomatic training, as well as very little awareness of the traumas or people groups involved in this war. (Shiro is possibly the exception here.) But suddenly, all of these paladins also had unfettered, largely unquestioned access to ultimate power to carry out whatever vision they felt was right in the moment. Because simply “might is right,” we see even highly experienced commanders like Kolivan become castrated in authority compared to Team Voltron. Various alien groups express upset or side-eye Team Voltron’s well-meaning actions but obvious insensitivity to/ignorance of their problems or fears. Even at the paladin-level, a princess trained to fight and lead is subordinated to a boy with zero leadership training whatsoever (which is very different from previous iterations where Keith was actually very competent, more experienced, and wanted to be a leader).

And when Voltron plays the unchecked judge, jury, and executioner across the entire universe, the new paladins as a whole also do not have the political or legal authority the OG pallies did in the boundaries of their own galaxy. The second-gen paladins are not authorities of their people or representative of the people groups affected in the war they’re now leading. The OG pallies built the actual legend of Voltron in less than 28 decaphoebs, clearly going beyond their 5 nations to help others suffering from natural disasters or unknown needs, which might raise some eyebrows perhaps because we don’t know what all that entailed. But while we see that the Voltron machine eventually got celebrated, the OG pallies are never shown personally soaking in some kind of savior celebration…

(Photo ID: Alfor says, “Why I joined up this band of scoundrels, I’ll never know.” Trigel responds, “Because we’re the only band of scoundrels that would have you.” Third screenshot is of the paladins celebrating their alliance win by themselves.)

…compared to second-gen paladins (or some anyway) who pretty clearly soak in the love and prestige they’ve received based off the historical and legendary precedence of the OG alliance’s work:

(Photo IDs: Lance taking selfies with aliens excited to be around paladins. A second screenshot of Lance daydreaming about being a universal savior, stomping on Zarkon, planting a flag to mark ownership, and having Allura stare up at him in worship.)

In fact, a lot of the pro-Voltron war propaganda relies heavily more on recreating the legend already built for them, than on the actual competency or experience of the current paladins:

(Photo ID: Pidge complains about the war propaganda scripts, “This isn’t even factually accurate.” Coran replies, “Well, this is the Legend of Voltron, not the documentary of Voltron.”)

On that note, we even see the scripts reverse who is actually the most competent or capable of performing.

(Photo ID: Coran says, “Ladies and gentle-aliens, bear witness as the Paladins of Voltron attack Zarkon’s base to save the helpless Princess Allura!”)

Coran’s script, however well-meant, pretty massively infantilizes Allura as someone who needs to be saved by an external force, rather than mentioning her as someone who is an active and critical ally of the Voltron paladins in this war.

Unlike Coran’s script, Princess Allura isn’t helpless. In terms of the second-generation paladins, she’s has the most war-time experience, and is also the one that the paladins lean on constantly to create a meaningful connection with other people groups who are otherwise hesitant about Voltron.

(Photo ID: Allura speaks to the Balmeran people, “Balmerans, this is Princess Allura. You don’t know me, but I am here to help. I know what it’s like to watch your home planet die.”)

Allura is the successor to the Altean monarchy and a direct victim of the OG galaxy wars. So unlike other second-gen paladins, she has some semblance of legal/political authority that she was actively trained for, as well as personal skin in the game. She is ultimately the only paladin who has experienced a mass omnicide of her home and people, similar to other victims of the Galra regime. She also still accepts the authority of her father, whose AI tells her in season 1 to be prepared to sacrifice everything to undo his mistakes.

We see Allura from that point onward functioning under that directive from her father and king—to sacrifice everything she has to end Zarkon’s regime. One could potentially make the argument that, within this structure, Allura might suffer from a certain subset of “white knight syndrome,” in which one feels they’re worthless if they’re not sacrificing for others. If I have my facts right, it’s a different psychological state from white savior complex (in which I define white savior complex as “when someone outside the issue at hand barges in to make a change that may or may not benefit the recipient, simply to make themselves feel better or appear useful, without regard to the recipient’s wishes or real needs”). But I feel even the comparison of “white knight syndrome” gets dicey. Because Allura is shown as acting happy without necessarily sacrificing things (in fact, she acts progressively depressed s7-s8, the more she has to give up intrinsic things about herself or her identity). But when Allura chooses to assist or sacrifice, the sacrifice she makes has a very relevant and functional impact for the people she helps.

In season 1, she chooses to sacrifice herself to save Shiro. Shiro was, at that time, the Black Paladin and leader of Voltron, so Allura saw herself as functionally the less important of the two to save since she did not pilot the universe’s only weapon against Zarkon.

With the Balmera, she similarly chooses to act because the Balmerans themselves acknowledge they are entirely out of options, and also because the Balmerans (and the Balmera itself) accept her help she offers. At this point in time, she has already established a deep personal connection with them by virtue of their shared trauma of losing their home planets.

(Photo IDs: Shay says, “We’re lost! All are trapped with no chance for escape!” Allura says, “We can’t give up.” Shay responds, “But what can be done?” The group realizes the Balmera is regenerating beneath the ship, and Shay wonders why. Allura says, “The Castle!”)

Here, Allura assumes that the Castle—which is powered by a Balmeran crystal itself—could be regenerating the Balmera. But a Balmeran elder corrects her:

(Photo ID: A Balmeran elder says, “Not just the Castle, but you, as well.”)

So Allura did not even recognize at first that she was in any way a part of the solution to the Balmera regenerating.

Regarding the Balmera act itself, I’m not sure it satisfies the conditions for a white savior complex? I’m curious about your thoughts here, because I guess I saw it happening differently, from a witchcraft perspective...

We know from both Coran and Shay that originally, Alteans were one of the historical races who sacrificed some of their own energy to replenish the Balmera when seeking a crystal:

(Photo ID: Coran saying, “In the days of old, when Alteans were given the gift of crystals from a Balmera, we would repay its sacrifice by performing a ceremony. A sacred Altean would re-infuse the Balmera with quintessence. In this way, we had a symbiotic relationship.”)

We see that Balmerans were a voluntary part of this energy exchange by virtue of their unique connective powers (which is likely why we see them kneeling and activating said powers during these ceremonies).

Shay herself seems to indicate she is highly aware of these old ceremonies:

(Photo ID: Rax says, “Everyone comes to Balmera and takes, but gives nothing in return!” Shay says, “In the past, those who took the Balmera’s crystals would replenish her with energy. It was an equal exchange.”)

Shay agrees that the ceremony itself involves a sacred exchange of life force.

So I would argue that in this case, the Balmerans are not kneeling to Allura specifically or worshiping someone—it seems to be just the imagery associated with magical spells/magical transfers (where one object in the middle is the main conduit/focal point, and the other objects surrounding help to create and sustain the spell/protective barrier, etc).

One of the basic practices in real-world witchcraft is casting a magic/ritual circle. The circle creates a space where the spell, ritual, or form of protection can be performed. Forgive the stock image, but here’s just a super basic example:

(Photo ID: A magic circle in the form of a pentagram, with a candle in the middle, compared to a screenshot of 5 Balmerans surrounding Allura in the form of a pentacle, creating a sacred space with Allura glowing in the center.)

The five points in particular mimic standard pentacle-based ritual circles designed to create a sacred space of some kind. We do see various configurations of witchcraft imagery used in other instances throughout the show, such as when the druids have to help Haggar sustain her spells:

(Photo ID: Haggar centered in a magic circle, surrounded by druids helping her complete the ritual. Haggar kneels against the glowing symbols to complete the ritual.)

I think, similar to the druids that Haggar relied upon to help her complete a spell, it can be argued that the Balmerans were an active part of the regeneration spell with Allura. We see across the entire Balmera that they magically connect to help sustain the energy transfer, because it’s a planet-wide, massive undertaking:

(Photo ID: Balmerans activating their connection to the Balmera in the middle of the sacred ceremony to regenerate the Balmera.)

To me, it felt like the Balmerans were necessary to complete this ceremony--without their agreement to this energy exchange, and without them connecting to the Balmera to assist the transfer, Allura might not have been able to connect her life force and transfer power to the whole planet.

And to complete the ceremony, Allura herself kneels as well, just as Haggar did and just as the Balmerans around her do, in connection with the Balmera:

(Photo ID: Allura kneeling alongside Balmerans to complete the ritual.)

(Which means she’s technically kneeling to at least three other Balmerans in front of her.)

So I think the kneeling imagery would not correlate to some white savior complex event as suggested.

One other thought I had is that I feel help from a “white savior” is often haphazard and pushed onto recipients regardless of their thoughts or real needs. In comparison, we know that the Balmerans were willing to try this spell with Allura and accepted her idea of attempting the ancient ceremony. The only person who expressed hesitancy is Coran, who warns Allura that this attempt could kill her.

(Photo ID: Coran warns Allura, “To heal an entire planet, it could take more energy than you possess.”)

I do think it could again be argued that Allura seriously undermines her own value and worth in an attempt to help everyone, no matter the cost, which potentially gets more into white knight syndrome born out of trauma than white savior complex born out of privilege. She snaps back at Coran for being concerned about her well-being, and then she proceeds to enact the ceremony, not knowing for sure whether she’d live or die. But Allura also knows that her life force is uniquely tied to Voltron and that she is the only one with this kind of connection to the Castle ship’s battle-class Balmera crystal—all of this makes her a very powerful capacitor in a lot of ways. Which is why she looks like this after the ceremony:

(Photo ID: Allura having collapsed in Shay’s arms after regenerating the Balmera, but her physical features are not otherwise affected.)

And not like this:

(Photo ID: A screenshot of an Altean named Petrulius from season 6, whose features are distorted after having had the life/quintessence sucked out of him.)

So to me, it seemed that Allura was enacting an ages-old, magical ceremony approved by and wanted by the Balmerans—simply on a scale that no one had ever before attempted. And it’s likely that no one else would or could attempt it, because Allura is the single character in the entire universe whose personal life force is tied to Voltron’s regenerative energy (by virtue of Alfor’s alchemy on her as mentioned in episode 1). It’s an even deeper tie to the whole machine than the transient bond between paladin and lion. No other Balmeran or Galran or Altean had that kind of tie in their life force. Likely, even Alfor would have died if he’d attempted this act himself without being connected to an infinite power source.

And after Allura saves the Balmera with assistance from Balmerans, we also do not see her like this with the Balmeran people:

(Photo ID: Lance soaking up a savior fantasy as previously mentioned in this meta.)

Instead, post-Balmera resurrection, we see it’s actually not even the Balmerans themselves who thank Allura. The Balmerans simply convey the will of the Balmera, which Allura cannot hear:

(Photo ID: A Balmeran says to Allura, “Yes. The Balmera lives. It thanks you.”)

So backing up for a second, I do think there are much larger issues happening in the narrative with Voltron itself, with the unequal power dynamics of having young, inexperienced people from a single planet make and enact all the big universal decisions. But in the instance with the Balmera, it seemed like Allura was openly welcomed to help save the planet, using magical ceremonies as approved by the Balmerans themselves for millennia, and that the Balmerans were not passive in those ceremonies but a necessary part of their success.

In general, Allura doesn’t seem to embody the “white savior complex” vibe at all to me, unlike some others in the show. Even in season 8, when Allura planned to make The Really Big Sacrifice, she asked her team to keep her actions a secret. She literally didn’t care for any respect or acknowledgment or prestige in exchange for sacrificing her life. She was doing what needed to be done because she was, once again, one of the few who could even perform at that level:

(Photo ID: Shiro says to Allura, “Most of them won’t know the sacrifice you made so they could live.” Allura replies, “And they’ll never need to.”)

(As an aside, I would argue that it was entirely unnecessary that the narrative would demand Allura sacrifice herself at all when she was literally standing in the universe’s seat of power alongside other powerful beings like her own father or the billions of other magic-wielding dead people, because apparently the lines between life and death blur in that space.)

(I also think there are some questionable “master race” vibes in the VLD universe in general, given that it forcefully pushes, even against the wishes of Alteans themselves, that Alteans are the only ones who can wield the big power to do big things. It’s clear that other groups and beings can wield magical abilities, but the larger narrative very oddly pins the “purest quintessence/bluest blood” back on Alteans time and time again in later seasons, leaving Allura in basically a no-win, no-help-available situation until other Alteans come along.)

So yeah, I hope something in this meta might help settle some concerns about Allura as a representation of white savior complex? Or at least that this would open conversation for further discussion about what could be done in future iterations to avoid that messaging. Because yeah, I agree with you that the unquestioned savior complexes in this show are a topic that can and should be discussed! And also that, despite early world-building to suggest otherwise, the narrative especially in s6-s8 pushes that Alteans have a “purer/more alive” life force compared to any other race or form. Which is just…hm. Like, the master race vibes of all that are weird and definitely not even inherent to the Voltron franchise. (In previous iterations, humans, Galrans/Drule, and Alteans could all perform incredible levels of magic. For example, in Dynamite Voltron, Keith, Lotor, and Lotor’s siblings had all been taught magic.)

There’s definitely some weird images and unnatural power dynamics in VLD at times. It seems like more often than not, the narrative does strive to make Allura sacrificing something the only viable resort for anyone ever. In those circumstances, I’m just not convinced that she herself functions as an embodiment of white savior complex, by virtue of her behavior in those instances. But it’s definitely weird that the narrative places so much weight on her when the larger Team Voltron narrative is supposed to be about found family and strength in unity.

(If you read this far, thank you! Sorry I’m not succinct.)

#Voltron #Voltron meta #Voltron critical in ways #Allura #Balmera episode #discussions of white savior complex #I ultimately state that Allura doesn't seem to meet the basic behaviors for that #but the show does get into some strange master race stuff in terms of abilities #and we do see several iimages of white savior complex throughout the show by virtue of some other characters #which idk why that got dropped in without at least a reflection on it #like I can handle problematic stories but prefer it when they know they're problematic lol #in VLD it felt like I was supposed to be cheering for those issues #that I wasn't supposed to question it or that I was supposed to actually connect with that fantasy #I feel like this is a really interesting topic because in other iterations there were other Voltrons #as in more people had similar machines #which I feel like helped to control the savior complex inherent in manning a powerful weapon #and in fact one iteration goes as far to say that voltron ISN'T special at all #which surprises various characters #Just a very different vibe from VLD entirely #I'm really fascinated by that #Anyway thanks for reading my rambles!

28 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Note

I spun and got ‘wound care’ and ‘back of a vehicle’. You know who I would love, but I will leave it up to you ::hugs::

Unstable Waters

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, Virgil, Gordon

I do know who you would love, and if you’re lucky my muse might actually go in that direction! It’s definitely considering it, although there is of course a certain big brother sneaking his way in because it’s me. And maybe a little bro wants to join in, too? Just piped up out of nowhere, so let’s see what this bizarre concoction in my heads comes out looking like...

Spin the wheel of whump and give me a character!

“Scott, that’s the wrong size.”

There was another lurch, and Scott grabbed at the stretcher to keep his feet as he frowned down at his brother.

“You have an entire oxygen tank in shards buried in your leg and you’re worried about me using the wrong size dressing?” he demanded.

“It’s too small,” Virgil argued. “You know-”

“It’s the largest one in the kit,” Scott snapped back, because he knew Virgil was right, but he also had to do something to stop all the bleeding between their current location and the hospital.

Another lurch and he staggered, one hand hitting the wall above the stretcher to stop him face-planting his brother. “Gordon!”

“Sorry, bro, but the currents aren’t our friends today,” the aquanaut called back from the cockpit. “This is as smooth as it’s getting.”

Thunderbird Four proved his point by jolting again, and Scott grit his teeth in frustration. Virgil, at least, was strapped in tight. He’d protested, of course, saying it was only his leg and he didn’t need to be lying down, but the combined efforts of Scott and Gordon had overridden him. Scott just needed to make sure he didn’t end up falling over and hurting himself while doing the first aid.

It wasn’t often any of them went with Gordon underwater, and even rarer that they both did, but this rescue had needed as many hands as possible, and John was more than capable of remote piloting both their ‘birds if helping cables were needed, so they’d joined him in the deep. From a rescue standpoint, it was a good thing they had done.

From his personal standpoint, Scott hated that it had resulted in Virgil getting injured when an oxygen tank’s pressurisation settings had malfunctioned and turned it into flying shrapnel right next to his leg. The saltwater swim back to Thunderbird Four with multiple open wounds and invasive objects had him worried.

“Scott.”

“I’m using more than one,” he promised, tearing open the sealed wrapping on the gauze and taping them together with medical tape as best he could with the Thunderbird bucking and rolling beneath his braced feet. He stumbled backwards at a particularly vigorous lurch, only for a strong hand to wrap around his wrist and yank him forwards, against the stretcher.

Brown eyes, filled with pain despite the local anaesthetic Scott had already jabbed into the leg, regarded him.

He ignored them, barring a muttered thanks that slipped out as he extracted his wrist and returned to the task at hand.

With Thunderbird Four tossed about by currents despite Gordon’s best efforts as they headed for the surface, there was little more Scott could do beyond covering the wounds. Virgil could, but Virgil was their medic. Scott was trained, but not to that level, and didn’t trust himself in the unstable environment not to make things worse. He couldn’t remove the shrapnel - that would invite even more blood loss - and without removing the shrapnel he couldn’t properly wash and close the wounds. All he could do was cover them with a hasty quilt of gauze - not perfectly taped together when he was being tossed around like a rag doll - and hope they made it to Thunderbird Two soon.

“Scott.”

“How long until we surface, Gordon?” he asked, ignoring his other brother. He knew what Virgil was trying to say, trying to do, and he didn’t want it.

“Scott.”

“Another six minutes, Scott. Once you’re done patching Virgil up, strap yourself in. It’ll only get rougher as we get closer.”

“F.A.B.”

He was done, could do no more despite desperately wishing otherwise, but he couldn’t bring himself to take those two short steps to the fold down seat.

A warm hand grabbed his wrist again, tight enough to be restraining. Too tight to be ignored.

“Scott, it’s fine,” Virgil insisted.

“Weren’t you the one telling me it was too small?” he asked, focusing on the bloodied shin as it slowly dyed the gauze. “Now it’s fine?”

“It’s the best you can do,” his brother assured him, as though he was the one injured and bleeding. “It’ll do what it needs to do.”

Another particularly aggressive lurch had him bracing his hand on the wall above the stretcher again, his other wrist still firmly ensconced in his brother’s grip.

The locker door swung, reminding him it was still open. Medical supplies taunted him, reminded him that no matter what he did it wouldn’t be good enough, and he reached out to slam it shut.

“That had better not have been you falling over!” Gordon called back as the noise reverberated around the submarine. “Scott, are you done yet?”

Scott swallowed, his gaze drawn back to the loosely-wrapped leg. He didn’t want to admit there was nothing else he could do, but Virgil’s hand was warm on his wrist and it was the truth.

“Yeah, I’ve done what I can,” he replied. “He needs more help than I can do here.”

“Copy that,” his brother acknowledged. “Strap in tight, Scott. We’re going for a ride.”

They’d already been going for a ride, the Thunderbird jolting and lurching awkwardly against the currents, but Scott recognised the saying all the same.

Virgil recognised it too, because he let go in a clear silent message, reinforced with a single word.

“Sit.”

Scott didn’t want to leave his side, but Gordon’s warning meant they’d be going faster, which meant a rougher ride, and if he wasn’t strapped in he’d be joining Virgil in Two’s medical bay as a patient with a concussion, no doubt.

Begrudgingly, he double-checked the straps holding Virgil safely in place before crossing to the other side of the small space and perching in one of the fold-down seats. The harness engaged, and a moment later he felt Thunderbird Four’s turbines kick into a higher gear as Gordon registered the alert on his dashboard, jolting them forwards suddenly enough that if it wasn’t for the harness, Scott would have been thrown out of the seat.

White-knuckled fingers gripped the harness for something to do, the firm material digging in through his gloves, and he could do nothing but wait as Gordon raced them towards the surface.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #thunderwhump #drabbles #gumnut-logic #unstable waters

45 notes · View notes

vamp95x97 · 3 years

Text

The Crimson Kingdom. One of the few remaining empires belonging to the vampire race that still exist to this day. They reside in a vast valley with lush green hills and crystal clear springs, protected from the eyes of normal humans by the Mirage, a sort of misty magic veil that wraps itself around the outskirts of the country.

Although sharing the land with some humans, they prefer keeping to themselves. Only ever making communication with other vampires despite some of their kind already being accepted into human society alongside other supernatural creatures. Though, far away from prying mortal eyes, the capital of the Crimson Kingdom; Sillage, was being painted a shade of crimson itself. The nation had been swept by a revolution, the castle turned to a bloodbath as bodies littered the marble floors. A new age had arrived, a new set of rulers taking over after a few centuries of being under the rule of King Choi Jiho the II.

The Diamond Era.

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐒𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐥

𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙩. 𝙒𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙣 𝙪𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚? 𝙏𝙨𝙠, 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜?

• is 2600 years old

• born as heir to the throne, first child and son to his father

• killed his father and slaughtered the original lineup of ministers with the other princes due to their unjust traditions and corrupt ways

• has since taken the throne as the new king and rules fairly but with an iron fist

• had to bear the loss of his mother, the first queen who died because of his father's carelessness during a public event, his mother being the target of an assassination

• was put through quite the childhood by his father, absolutely despising the role as his successor due to the merciless training and reshaping his father had him undergo to be the "perfect" heir

• especially after his mother's death

• his vampiric quirk is telekinesis

• eye colour is a ruby red whenever he shows his vampirism

• usually level-headed, mature, fair and wise

• can also be indecisive, ruthless and cold to those he doesn't know well or dislikes

• his brothers are his most prized possession (you can argue that they're not objects) that he would protect with his life, willing to risk everything for their safety

• has claimed the human Hong Jisoo @17-bot

talks like this tagged with v.cheol

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐘𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐧

𝘿𝙞𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙮, 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙄 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 ��𝙤𝙮𝙖𝙡 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮? 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨? 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣. 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙢𝙚. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙄 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚.

• is 2600 years old

• born from the King's second wife, second child and son to his father, second in line to the throne but has rejected the position as crown prince

• he is still however Seungcheol's advisor due to his calm and witty nature, managing to put up with the latter's random outbursts and calm him better than anyone else

• dislikes the fact that his father had multiple wives, resulting in multiple queens and the infamous Choi Harem, making his distaste clear by constantly reminding Seungcheol to abolish the law during their reshaping of the kingdom

• his vampiric quirk is pyrokinesis

• is known to be icy to those he dislikes, just like his eyes when he shows his vampirism

• always underplayed for his more slender and delicate features but can burn anybody that crosses him to a crisp if he chooses to do so

• cool, calm and collected. Never raises his voice unless he has to, regarded as pure and reliable

• can also be aloof and a tsundere, unpredictable and snarky when he's threatened

• most people would be surprised when finding out that he had fire manipulation as his power due to his appearance, but he proves that he is a master at controlling the inferno within himself— honing his ability to perfection

• has claimed the human King Arthur Seokmin @musicalroyalties-cb

talks like this tagged with v.hannie

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐨 [𝐉𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐚]

𝘼𝙝, 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙢𝙚, 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪? 𝙎𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧? 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙨? 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨? 𝘿𝙤 𝙄 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪? 𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙝 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙄 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙞𝙩? 𝙉𝙤 𝙣𝙤. 𝙄'𝙡𝙡 𝙙𝙞𝙜 𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙘 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙪𝙨. 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙡, 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙮~

• is 2600 years old

• born from the king's third wife, third child and son to his father, third in line to the throne and is one of the candidates for the crown prince position

• unlike Jeonghan who outrightly rejected the position, he has accepted being the second in command and upon further discussion between their council has been appointed as the new crown prince

• known to be somewhat of a party animal, never rejecting any offers to drink and waste the night (or day) with other nobles

• he's flirtatious, laid-back and known to take things lightly which alerted most of the other ministers about wether or not he was suitable to become the crown prince

• but despite his fun-loving and chill nature, when the situation requires him to be serious he won't hesitate to show the steely and unforgiving side of himself

• his vampiric quirk is hydrokinesis, his irises turning a shade of amber when his ability is used and also shows his vampirism

• although he rolls in and out of stranger's beds most nights like it's a casual hobby of himself, he has never truly experienced love, thus leading him to be a little oblivious when it comes to romantic advances

• but when he does fall in love however, he falls hard

• deep down what he wants the most is to be considered equal to his older brothers, as he's usually seen as the weaker and lesser one compared to them both

• pining after someone but is unsure of himself

talks like this tagged with v.shua

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐦𝐢𝐧

𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧. 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩, 𝙄 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠. 𝘿𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨? 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣 𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙨? 𝙄 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚, 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙖 𝙜𝙪𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚? 𝙄'𝙢 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙪𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙡𝙡.

• is 2400 years old

• born from the king's first noble consort, fourth child and son to the king, fifth in line to the throne and was one of the candidates for the crown prince position

• with his birth being a lesser one than his hyungs and Mingyu's, he's set to inherit the throne after Mingyu does according to birth and status

• despite the slight difference in status he doesn't mind and is not interested in becoming crown prince or king

• sports a cheerful and positive attitude, easily befriending anyone and because of this he was granted the position of Public Relations Minister by Seungcheol after their reforming of the new government

• his vampiric quirk is healing

• eyes turning a shade of amethyst to show vampirism

• known to also assist the health department when any disasters strike due to his healing powers

• is often regarded as a softie and pushover due to not only negligence by the King and also because of his lower birth yet still being considered a prince

• but just as he can heal others he can also reverse the affects of his powers which leads him to becoming an asset Seungcheol was too afraid to lose

• currently showing fascination towards a certain person

talks like this tagged with v.seok

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙖? 𝘿𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙪𝙥 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙚𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙚. 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨, 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙙. 𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙮 𝙎𝙚𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙤𝙡 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙚𝙭𝙚𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪? 𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠— 𝙮𝙚𝙚𝙨𝙝. 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙙, 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙄'𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤.

• is 2400 years old

• born from the king's fourth wife, fifth child and son to the king, fourth in line to the throne and was one of the candidates for the crown prince position

• he had been by Seungcheol's side a lot since they were kids, aside from Jeonghan and Joshua, he is the third closest to him

• often times regarded as Seungcheol's bodyguard, he had grown an interest towards combat and took the initiative to join the army

• after years of training he was since bestowed the position and title of General of the Crimson Army after their successful overthrowing of the previous king and government

• he's known to be ruthless on the battlefield, leading their kingdom to multiple victories in war even before he was given the opportunity to command the army

• striking fear in the opponents through his sharp eyes and large build, it comes as a surprise to most people when they find that his personality is a complete opposite of his image

• he's very gentle with almost everyone, most of the time having his facial expression be smiles and easy grins

• his vampiric quirk is electrokinesis

• eyes turning a deep golden yellow that shows his vampirism

• although his princely side that is away from the battlefield may not be able to hurt a fly, that doesn't mean he will sit around when his loved ones and the royal family are at risk

• currently single and ready to mingle 👌

talks like this tagged with v.gyu

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐗𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐨

𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙝𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝. 𝙒𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣. 𝙃𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙡𝙮, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙙𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚. 𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙮? 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.

• is 2400 years old

• born from the king's second noble consort, sixth child and son to the king, sixth in line to the throne and was one of the candidates for the crown prince position

• has a reputation within the palace for being a mix of Korean and Chinese blood, being his birth was more of a sealing of diplomacy than one of love

• still loved by his half brothers and mother however

• was not interested in taking the throne whatsoever, preferring to keep to himself on most days

• like the others he could care less for power and status, instead taking the opportunity of every social event to lock himself up in the library and study

• is the most studious out of his brothers which ultimately led him to be elected as Minister of Education by Seungcheol and overseeing public entrance exams and scholar intakes

• his vampiric quirk is cryokinesis

• eyes turning a stunning shade of silver that shows his vampirism

• quiet, somewhat shy— reserved and only speaking when needed

• but don't take his peaceful personality as meekness because once he's angered you're in for a treat

• blunt and sharp, Minghao is someone you should never pick a fight with for his words can sting more than his actions do

• and when he does attack he feels no remorse whatsoever, heart icy cold when pissed

• currently trying to process having his heart stolen

talks like this tagged with v.hao

Now that you've met the royals, I'm sure you'll be better off on your own now. Would you like to continue within the Crimson Kingdom, dearest traveller?

𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊! 95 𝖝 97 𝕷𝖎𝖓𝖊

— 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙎𝙤𝙤𝙣 —

OG: @yanlee @adonis-jeonghan @/demon-seungcheol @/ceo-joshua @switchxu @/daddyseokmin (og mingyu?) (og vampire?)

Tags: @sirenscb @hybrid-ateez-straykids-nct @goddess-jieun @urboyz @babie-sanie @tattooartistjaemin @greenwitch-felix @botville @yvespunk @subby-superm @sktaem @boyfie-superm @mxmeko @killerchaeyoung @sk-nancy @sallyface-cb @vampire-prince-woo @sadist-jaebum @kimmiesana @daycare-x-bot @lover-mina @wizards-of-idol-place @sydney-oc @sana-foxy @doll-hyunjin @four-straykids-apocalypse @vlogsquad-cb @hybrid-kpop-cb @fairykingdom-bot @daemon-ryu @heathenxbots @lilith-doyeon @sweethomebot @incubus-hwa @yanderenayeon @femteez-cb @ky-yeji @thecbcollective @outcastxlisa @yanjihyo @witch-seulgi @killerbots @obey-ateez @shadowxjaemin @bloodlustbots @cb-museclub <and more>

42 notes · View notes

fanfoolishness · 3 years

Text

Primary Directives (The Mandalorian)

(IG-11 discovers similarities between itself and the Mandalorian. Mainly based on the episodes The Mandalorian, The Reckoning and the Redemption. IG-11, Din Djarin, and Kuiil. 2020 words, canon-typical violence, Din!whump.)

***

It was a droid. It had always known this, as surely as it had always known the ways of battle and weaponry, as it had known the ways to terminate over six hundred and forty-three organic species. IG-11 knew what it had been manufactured for, and that knowledge was as certain as code and metal and electricity.

Still, though, there were surprises. Such as the Mandalorian —

[Mandalorians: most commonly human but may hail of any race. Exceptional warriors operating within a strict honor-based code, plated in beskar armor protecting vulnerable body systems: cardiovascular system, cranium, spine. Beskar armor repels blaster fire, adjust angle of bolts fired to avoid secondary damage due to ricochet. Weapons may include wrist-fired whipcords, small ballistics, flamethrowers, or missiles in addition to standard issue blaster pistols and rifles. Kill points include jugular vein, brachial arteries, lungs —]

Despite this knowledge, IG-11 was not invulnerable. The Mandalorian fired a blaster into IG-11’s central processing unit and all awareness ceased.

***

Systems rewired, reprogrammed, new knowledge, new directives. Protect and nurse. Defending became the new priority instead of attacking. The work of the Ugnaught’s hands laid new tracts within its circuitry, paths that were worn deeper with the passage of time and every subsequent use.

The old knowledge of vulnerabilities and weaknesses of organics melded with information on how to ease the suffering of these creatures. There was also new information regarding the understanding of what suffering meant. This knowledge was assimilated, and IG-11’s study of protection and nurturing began.

It took time, as did all things worth knowing. Fragments of prior memory were still accessible: it could still visualize clearly the manufacturer’s killing fields littered with the droids whose programming had not fully taken hold. IG-11 had navigated those killing fields successfully, a ready and willing deliverer of death, and had emerged a formidable and fatal machine. It did not mourn the units that did not succeed. It knew only what it had been made for, and it knew that it would be successful.

Until it failed.

The Mandalorian ended its previous existence and claimed the bounty for his own, and IG-11 was left for scrap.

Now IG-11 trained with the Ugnaught Kuiil on the muddy world of Arvala-7, and it found success in movements made for building, in carrying tea that nourished the Ugnaught, in protecting the small forms of life that skittered and scurried through the mudflats of their shared housing unit. The old programming made a scaffold for the new, a web that built its way throughout IG-11’s surface awareness and sublevel routines, and it strove to fulfill its purpose as ever it had.

***

IG-11 stood over the fallen Kuiil. It regarded the Ugnaught’s prone form, analyzing the absence of breath, the pallor of flesh, the stillness of form. Kuiil and IG-11 had been united in their purpose to protect the Child, to defend, to nurse. Now IG-11 stood alone, its sensors identifying molecules of smoke and burnt organic flesh carried on the harsh Nevarran wind.

It would fulfill its master’s work. The death would not be without use. IG-11’s purpose did not waver, and it broke into a run over the dried lava fields, leaving its master behind.

The Ugnaught’s hands had been steady and true.

***

IG-11 succeeded, as its programming had assured it that it would. The Child nestled against IG-11’s metallic form, letting out squeals the droid analyzed as filled with delight. They traveled on a stolen 74-Z Imperial speeder bike as IG-11’s targeting software focused on stormtrooper after stormtrooper.

IG-11’s aim was steady and true.

***

IG-11 and the Child rejoined the Mandalorian and the humans, though the Mandalorian appeared to have been injured. They hid from overwhelming numbers of Imperial troops as IG-11 monitored the situation for ways to protect the Child.

It did as the humans requested. The male human requested assistance with ascertaining a route of escape as he imbibed alcohol to dull his senses. IG-11 worked as instructed, even when the environment was temporarily compromised by the attack of a Flametrooper.

[Imperial enemy. Flamethrower does not project temperatures higher than 300 degrees, a level of heat that is tolerated by all IG units but is fatal to multiple organic species. Standard stormtrooper weaknesses apply.]

Strangely, the threat was removed by the Child, a sentient creature IG-11 lacked all data for. The Child weakened after mounting its defense. It would still require protection.

The threat neutralized, the female human requested IG-11 bring the body of the dying Mandalorian to them. IG-11 gave its assurance to the woman, then gave the Child to her. She had no levels of inebriation, and protocol dictated that the Child be placed with a guardian most likely to assure its survival. The man and woman fled the smoke-filled shelter with the weakened Child, descending into the sewer system.

IG-11 then turned its attention to the Mandalorian.

It watched the Mandalorian’s breathing. His chest rose and fell, the breath strained, labored, then absent. Breath, breath, apnea. The cycle repeated. This abnormal pattern of respiration suggested a severe head injury. Perhaps that was why the Mandalorian had so resisted the female human’s offers to render aid.

Instructions of kill points and nursing directives, which intertwined at countless points, were accessed. [Brain trauma: results in altered consciousness, delirium, obtundation. May be fatal.]

“Do it,” rasped the Mandalorian.

“Do what?” IG-11 asked. It could not comply with the Mandalorian’s orders if the directive was unknown.

“Just get it over with,” the Mandalorian said.

Analysis was performed. [Fluctuating timbre of the voice. Abnormal breathing pattern persists. Severe pain is present.]

“I’d rather you kill me than some Imp,” the Mandalorian continued. IG-11 noted trembling in the body, particularly the hands. Ah. Perhaps the Mandalorian expected revenge for the previous shot fired into IG-11’s central processing unit, and the obliteration of its old directives. Such a thought was foolish, but then again, the Mandalorian had been injured and could be trapped in aberrant thinking patterns.

“I told you, I am no longer a hunter,” stated IG-11. It attempted to modulate its voice to be perceived as more friendly and less threatening. “I am a nurse droid.”

“IGs are all hunters,” said the Mandalorian stubbornly.

“Not this one,” IG-11 corrected. “I was reprogrammed. I need to remove your helmet if I am to save you.” The injury could not be successfully evaluated or repaired without doing so.

IG-11 reached to remove the Mandalorian’s helmet, and instinctively the Mandalorian raised a blaster in his shaking hand.

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” the Mandalorian threatened, his chest heaving.

IG-11 regarded the Mandalorian in puzzlement. All prior programming had suggested that an injured creature would do anything to accept aid. It paused.

“It is… forbidden,” the Mandalorian gasped, desperation tingeing his voice. “No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I… I swore the Creed.”

IG-11 understood the issue, then. It was a problem of programming. The Mandalorian could not deny his prime directive any more readily than IG-11 could. Perhaps there was a logical means of resolution.

“I am not a living thing,” said IG-11 gently. It extended its arm to touch the helmet. The blaster shook in the Mandalorian’s hand, but did not fire. IG-11 lifted the helmet, breaking its seal, and removed it from the head of the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian was human, as IG-11 had expected from the sound of his voice and the patterns of movement displayed by his body in battle. The droid experienced no emotion at the sight of the man’s face, but it studied it so as to better understand the extent of the injuries.

Blood trickled from the left nostril into the man’s patchy facial hair. A laceration arced across the bridge of the nose. Anisocoria was visible in the man’s brown eyes, a negative prognostic indicator. One that, in his previous programming, would have been a sign of impending success, especially when combined with the quantity of blood and sweat matting the man’s hair. Yet IG-11 felt no sense of completion at the man’s injured state. Death was no longer its objective.

Yet death threatened all the same. The threat was underscored by the frantic hyperventilation that had begun with the removal of the helmet, though the droid was uncertain if this was due to physical stimuli or due to emotional agitation. It ran a standard analysis on the Mandalorian’s expressions to determine the answer.

[Fear is detected in the shifts of the eyebrows and widening of the palpebral fissures. Distress and anxiety are exhibited in the frozen gaze and half-open mouth, a common response to threat in this species. Pain is seen in persistent shivering and recoiling.]

IG-11 activated the bacta unit the Ugnaught had installed on its arm, propelling a standard dose of 2.8mg/m2 onto the injured region. The Mandalorian stared at the droid, gaze still frozen, either confused or obtunded. The blaster wavered in his hand, then slowly lowered.

“This is a bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours,” said IG-11. It attempted a joke; the jokes had always worked on the Ugnaught. “You have damaged your central processing unit.” Surely the Mandalorian would see the humor in the reversal of their situations.

The Mandalorian stared dazedly, eyes struggling to focus as the bacta spray took hold. The lines that creased his face, indicating pain, began to ease slightly. He raised his eyebrows, mouth dropping further open. “You mean my brain?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“That was a joke,” said IG-11 warmly. “It is meant to put you at ease.”

The Mandalorian attempted a noise that with further analysis IG-11 determined to be a laugh.

“You are beginning to feel a reduction in pain and impairment,” said IG-11. “You are recognizing humor.”

The Mandalorian grimaced. “If you say so,” he said, closing his eyes. His mouth made a thin, hard line, but his breathing eased, beginning to settle into a pattern more consistent with normal health. He breathed deeply, but then coughed, a loud rattling sound caused by the smoke. Perhaps the Mandalorian’s helmet contained filters that would reduce the effects of smoke inhalation.

As IG-11 identified the problem, it felt the Mandalorian’s hand brush against its arm. “Please,” the man muttered. “My helmet -- You did what you needed, right? I -- I need it -- the Imps are still out there --”

“Of course,” said IG-11. Swiftly it raised its arm, carefully lowering the helmet back over the man’s head and face. The Mandalorian reached up clumsily with both hands, fingertips slipping and scrabbling on the smooth beskar as he tried to pull the helmet down. IG-11 aided him, guiding the helmet over his face until it felt the click of the seal reconnecting.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian exhaled, his breathing pattern finally reverting to normal.

“Can you stand?” IG-11 queried. “The Imperial forces will likely investigate this area soon. The bacta should continue to work as more time elapses.”

The man gave a weak nod. “I think I can stand.” He gripped IG-11’s hand and was pulled to his feet, where he wavered. IG-11 draped the Mandalorian’s arm over its shoulders.

“I will assist you,” said IG-11.

“Why?” the Mandalorian asked, leaning heavily against it as they carefully descended into the sewer after the others. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because you are a protector, as I am,” said IG-11, leading the injured man through the darkened tunnels. “Kuiil taught me to nurse and protect those that cannot defend themselves. You have done the same for the Child, though you faced far superior forces and the threat of death. Working together, we have a greater chance to fulfill our directive. To protect the Child. Do you understand?”

The man was quiet, and for a moment, IG-11 only heard the man’s breaths, sharp and full of effort as they made their way forward into the depths. At last the Mandalorian spoke, and when he did, the voice was heavy, shaded with many human emotions.

[Relief, surprise, gratitude. Understanding.]

“This is the Way,” he said softly, and the words echoed, ringing, in the dark.

#the mandalorian #ig11 #din djarin #kuiil #mandalorian #my mando fic #noromo mando

41 notes · View notes

madara-fate · 3 years

Note

While i do know Gabi did eventually change ( thankfully) i think my general dislike came from her over the top hatred of the eldians ( her own people) and her worship of the people who oppressed her people.

Also the reason i mentioned the older warriors..Annie, Bertholt, and Reiner was because by the time we as readers saw who they really were.. they were already so conflicted about if they were right or not they were literally forgetting who they actually were, even when Bertholt called them devils its seems like he didn't believe it himself. Annie even cried when they had to kill Marco.

It might be because we already knew these characters and they never seemed hostile or bad people then when they did reveal themselves they were on the fence about it all and seemed to hate the position they were in, they were already seeing how horrible it all was and it tore them up to follow through with their plan. So thats probably why its easier with those three..

But when we first meet Gabi.. She was so up in your face with her dislike of her own race.. She very vocal about it when technically she was no different. She just seems so self hating and it rubs me the wrong way. We never really saw that blind eldian hatred from Annie, Bertholt and Reiner. Bertholt and Reiner i felt started self loathing not because they are eldian but because they realized the were wrong and were betraying their friends.

Also with Falco and the other candidates they were more calm about the whole thing and seemed to be just going with the flow and following orders to survive and hopefully better their family situation to not be seen in a negative light any longer.

But Gabi seemed different right from the get go she really believed her race were actual devils.. She seemed so self hating that she was willing to turn into the very thing that made her people devils and hated and ostracized in the first place.

But at the same time she came off as self righteous, due to her believing she ( even though she was also a "devil") that she was special enough to be one of the exceptions. Like i said the others weren't all in your face about it like she was...maybe that's what makes her more unlikable.

I certainly agree with the fact that Gabi's hatred of the Paradis Eldians was a lot more prominent than any other warrior, so readers obviously have more opportunities to call her out on her bullshit since she displayed her anti Paradis attitude a lot more frequently than the other warriors did. I just don't like it when people hate on her for being stubborn, stupid, gullible etc, all while giving the older warriors a pass, despite the fact that Gabi actually came to doubt her beliefs far sooner than they all did.

Furthermore, I wouldn't say that Gabi worshiped the Marleyans. Everything she did, she did for the sake of the Eldians on Marley who she was made to believe were the "good" Eldians. She wasn't striving to become a warrior out of love for the Marleyan people, she was doing so in order to free her fellow Eldians from the Internment Zone. They were her motivation, not Marley.

I understand in that sense, that it's easier to hate on Gabi for her views because that was your first impression of her, whereas with the other warriors, we got to know them as scouts before we knew them as the Marleyan warriors. I suppose it just grates on me a little bit because but it's still obviously unfair to throw more hate in Gabi's direction due to first impressions. All of their inner conflict came years later, Gabi's came after weeks. Yes, her hatred was a lot more pronounced which made her an easy target for reader discontent, but that's not only because her convictions were always a lot greater than their's (which is an admirable trait to have), but also because Gabi's hatred was being targeted towards characters we had grown to love, so it may also be a matter of perspective there. If we had been following Gabi and her peers since the beginning rather than the Survey Corps, I would love to see the drastic shift in her support.

Yeah, nothing more needs to be said really. Gabi was put in the unfortunate position of being introduced as being really passionate about the very harmful and prejudiced ideals she was brainwashed into believing, and this was at a time when the readers were all fully aware of what was going on. Therefore, it was really easy to get frustrated with her for believing what we all knew to be lies. I just don't think it's fair that Gabi gets far more hate for this than any of the older warriors, despite her coming to terms with the truth a lot sooner than they did. This is especially true when we consider just how determined and adamant about it she was as well. She displayed more tenacity towards her objectives and belief in the Marleyan brainwashing than any other warrior apart from maybe Reiner, and yet she came to terms with the truth a lot quicker than all of them other than Falco. I think she deserves plaudits for that.

I understand and agree with the point of finding it easier to criticise Gabi due to how vocal she was about her hatred for the Paradis Eldians. However, we did see that type of brainwashed infused hatred from Reiner, we just didn't have the opportunity to see it as much with him or any of the older warriors because the main story began after they had already started questioning themselves. That just links back my point regarding Gabi being put into an unfortunate position due to being introduced that way so late on.

They were definitely a lot calmer, no arguments there, and that just goes back to my point regarding the strength of Gabi's convictions. She and Eren had frightening levels of drive and motivation, but many fans didn't give her the credit she was due for that, simply because her motivations were towards a goal that was in opposition to the Paradis Eldians who we had grown attached to. If we had been seeing things from her perspective since the beginning, I'm all but certain that her fierce convictions would have garnered her praise, rather than near universal hatred from the fandom.

She was wiling to cross no man's land into enemy territory by herself, with nothing but hand grenades, in order to disable the armoured train, so that the 800 Eldians in the bunker didn't have to sacrifice themselves during the war.

She was willing to sacrifice herself to board the Paradis aircraft by herself, to get some measure of revenge in honour of her home town, which had just been devastated into oblivion.

If we just detach Gabi's character from her initial hatred of the Paradis Eldians, and observe these feats of mental fortitude, it is actually quite remarkable that her sense of purpose towards the Eldians on Marley and her home, was that strong.

As far as we know, apart from Falco, they all really believed that the Paradis Eldians were devils. She was more vocal about it, but I wouldn't say that she was any different. It also didn't help that probably every time a slight hint of doubt would accidentally creep into Gabi's mind, like when Reiner unwittingly described Paradis island as having many kinds of people rather than them being all bad, and Gabi questioned this, she had her aunt right there to ensure that she kept on believing what Marley wanted them to believe.

But that self righteousness that you're speaking of was a direct result of Marley's brainwashing. That wasn't something that she innately thought or naturally believed. Gabi believed that she was an exception to the Paradis Eldians because that's what she had been taught. That's why I can't really hate on her for that - because she was conditioned to think this way.

I definitely understand how frustrating it often was to listen to her spout shit about the "Eldian Devils" every other sentence, but I suppose I just found it a lot easier than most fans to separate the unnatural traits of her character that were drilled into her by the Marleyan brainwashing (like her belief that she was different from the Paradis Eldians), from the natural traits of her character that were always part of who she truly is (like her love for her home Liberio, her Eldian comrades on Marley, and her fiercely powerful convictions).

#Gabi Braun #Attack on Titan #Shingeki no Kyojin

9 notes · View notes

shattered-catalyst · 3 years

Text

OCD Subtypes for the RPC

Part 1 is here

Well well well, we are back for Part 2 of the Roleplayer’s Guide to OCD.

Fellow Ocd Folks, I see you in those tags and I'm going to do my best to ensure those obsessions are represented here- BUT understand that physically it is not going to be possible to list every single one because I am one person. Regardless its incredibly brave of you all to rb and add things in the tags, I know its hard to talk about this shit and I see you. I see you.

Resultantly I typed this out and posted it in formatting to assist with accessibility in mind; if you cannot read it still ( I tried Im sorry!) i recommend the copy and paste method or getting the chrome extension bee-line reader.

There will be grammatical and spelling mistakes. Im sure spacing is odd some places, but you have to understand doing this is extremely anxiety provoking for me so Im just getting it done when I can.

Remember to use your critical thinking; not everyone has the same symptoms/compulsions/triggers and all that.

OCD is fluid. Its like liquid mercury. One day its a handful of subtypes another day its another different serving.

If you are in general squicked about certain topics even by mention read ahead with your own judgement. Remember us folks that have OCD have many disturbing and distressing experiences so if you are writing a character who has OCD and you can’t read about it just don’t give them that obsessive thought/ compulsion. Make sure writing is still a safe and enjoyable hobby for yourself first and foremost.

But ethically and morally I cannot and will not leave out the more disturbing bits. You have the ability to scroll by, I and many others do not get the chance to escape triggering content that our own mind creates.

So read ahead with your best judgement or at least skip around the squicky parts and educate yourself on what OCD is so people quite using it as a Obsessive Christmas/Corgi/Cat Disorder thing. Alright? Cool beans.

Okay so you made it passed post 1 and got under the read more. Give yourself a gold star for diving into this monster of a document.

Below is a crash course it is not meant to replace actual psychoeducation, personal research, or google. Honestly most of us do our research extensively but because OCD is treated so horribly by social media, media, and society in general.

I wasn’t sure where to throw these together because the education tools to learn fully about OCD are very specialized and thus very restricted. I found that many people DO have these experiences with OCD though so I will represent them throughout. I’ll also sprinkle some of my own experiences so you can get a good reference of a person who has the disorder and not just a randomly generated person.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

So OCD is made up of Obsessions, Trigger, Intrusive thought, Misinterpretation/feared consequence,Somatic and Psychological Anxiety, and Compulsions/Rituals.

Your character may not be able to list all of these. In fact if they aren't in ERP therapy they may not be able to puzzle these things out. But YOU as the writer should know them. Your character won’t be walking around talking to just ANYONE that they have OCD. Remember a huge aspect of OCD is it’s Shame. The disorder makes us feel intense shame regarding our intrusive thoughts, as a result OCD goes undiagnosed for years especially if it has pediatric onset.

We won’t tell anyone what we are experiencing or why we are doing x y or z. We act like nothing is wrong because to emotionally react is to admit to yourself- and therefore the world- that you have had this intrusive thought and are therefore by virtue a horrible person.[For further information I would suggest also researching PANDAS].

It may be noticeable if your character has an intrusive thought. They may wince or grimace or roll their eyes certainly, but they won’t open up to Joe at the cafe about how their brain is constantly torturing them. I apparently have a very noticeable eye twitch.

Depending on the nature of the intrusive thought it will get more or less of a reaction out of me. Its usually dependent on how distressing the intrusive thought is and/or if its a new one.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You see OCD doesn’t sit still. It never looks the same. You’ll have your long haul intrusive thoughts that are with you for years but then you’ll have weird ass ones that just appear and demand their voice be heard yelling about cars hitting people or squirrels getting eaten.

Some people have similar ones! So while everyone is different there will always be someone out there with an intrusive thought similar to yours.

For instance; I bonded emotionally with a lady on reddit because we both have intrusive thoughts during storms that animals and the homeless are dying. We were both horribly relieved to find another person and also distressed that every snow or rain storm brings horrible images and whispers to your mind that while you are warm and snug in bed someone is freezing to death. And its all your fault.

Some days are better than others. As with all mental illnesses it isn’t CONSTANT ALARM BELLS. Some days it will be all alarms and other days it will be like a gentle whisper on the breeze. You can almost not notice it. Almost.

Obsessive thoughts run the gauntlet from ‘i will/could have/may/may accidentally harm etc’ something that you hold of value. This is any obsessive thought that you have: you think about repeatedly and not by choice, it is very anxiety provoking, it is unwanted, and unwelcome.

Mine run the scale from ‘squirrel will be murdered’ to ‘being responsible for harm’.

Compulsions or ‘rituals’ are any behavior done to alleviate the anxiety from the intrusive thought and trigger object. In short, compulsions and rituals are not fun. they are absolutely not logical, and we know they are not logical but we are forced to do them. Thats why its a disorder.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To emphasize from post 1: magical thinking and the faulty link between thoughts and actions are hallmarks of OCD. Magical thinking can be anything from contamination to if I turn around three times or stare really hard at something the bad thing wont happen. Sounds weird and is weird and we know it is thats why its a disorder and not a delusion.

The faulty belief that thought=action is the biggest hurdle it is incredibly difficult to grasp, at least for me maybe some of you that have done further ERP can attest, that the mere concept of a thought not being the same as an action is completely and totally mind blowing.

Free will? Yeah thats terrifying. IDK about anyone else but free will is absolutely terrifying; what do you mean i could do anything i wanted?

Thats how you face OCD(WITH A TRAINED THERAPIST). You give in to ambiguity and the unknown. Its breaking that link between thought and action. Its incredibly difficult and draining. A five minute exposure leaves me in shatters for a week and two five minute ones had me ripping my nails past the nail beds with anxiety.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just a reminder: Do not have your character expose themself or expose folks with OCD to a trigger to “ help us get over with”. That is literally forcing someone with a mental illness into a break down and is not helpful. In fact its worse because a person knows about this intrusive thought and they tried to make it real. More shame and some trauma.

If you have OCD, more likely than not a family member or significant other has tried this with the purest of intentions. But it never works like that. Theres a reason that therapists get special training for this. If people want a post on ERP I can make one at some point.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Actually let’s drag me with the squirrel thing as the example- fellow OCD Folks get out a pen and paper and try breaking down one of yours;

Obsession:Squirrel will be murdered

Trigger: seeing a squirrel

Intrusive thought: Graphic images of a squirrel being murdered by a hawk/ impaling depending on the day

Misinterpretation/feared consequence: Squirrel will be killed and its all my fault

Somatic and Psychological Anxiety:intense anxiety, palms sweating, heart racing,

Compulsions/Rituals: Must stare at the squirrel to prevent bad things from happening,

Now imagine if that is every time you see a fucking squirrel. You have somehow become completely and totally transfixed on a squirrel and nothing is going to pull your attention away or the squirrel dies- which your mind is giving you lovely images of btw.

Cute right?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Below are the subtypes with general information/example thoughts/ and how some of these have impacted me socially because apparently some people dont understand that mental illnesses impact their social lives?? yall...

Social: This can range from ‘ i am constantly thinking i did something wrong so i have to ask for reassurance that we are still friends’ to completely unrealistic worries. Maybe its an intrusive thought that ‘ your voice is annoying them’ . There’s reassurance seeking, internal and external checking.

It makes friendships extremely difficult and exhausting. You’re not trying to get to know someone with an annoying frat boy egging on anxiety in your brain. This can also manifest as having strict rules for yourself and ethical codes.

My therapist likes to say she could give us (folks with OCD) a pile of hundred dollar bills and come back and they’d all be returned. Because OCD makes you so strict and morally confined. Which ISNT fun. Like I dont get pleasure over having to memorize the entire Code of Conduct!

Social Media: Its the bane of human existence some days and a lifeline the next. But what if everytime your follower count was an odd/even number it sent you into a panic attack. What if you spent all your time with intrusive thoughts that somehow someone misinterpreted a post or that someone is going to be harmed by a post you made about tapirs.

You may be forced to block people to get your number down or keep pornbots on your blog to keep your number what you like (see there is a use for them! We sacrifice those before actual users!) You may be refreshing your page every second because ‘what if you miss a message’. It's going to look a lot like ‘check check check check reassure yourself double check your posts check check check reassure check check FALSE MEMORY check your post etc’

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Clothing/Body Image: When its not Body Dysmorphia it can be OCD. Sometimes this looks like I obsess about a body part and therefore I choose my clothes/hairstyles to hide those. Some personal examples: as a kid I was sure that mind readers exist ( THIS IS AN OCD THING TOO I was so relieved to find that out) and that if i didnt wear a particular hat they would see all these horrible thoughts and it would be revealed what an awful person I was. So I wore the same dumb ass bucket hat for a year (or more I cannot remember but it was a long ass time).

I was once so fixated on being given a compliment on my eye color that I wore sunglasses (even at night) to a summer camp. And if any of those teen girls in that cabin that stood up and mocked me in a crowded lunch hall by singing ‘i wear my sunglasses at night’ you all owe me 40$.

Even younger still I had intrusive thoughts. Like say, if anyone noticed I was female that i would be kidnapped so I chopped my hair very short. I altered my appearance to be very androgynous and even switched to walking more masculine. Because omg if your hips move someones going to kill you thats just how it works. ( It doesnt help I later figured out I was a lesbian)

Your wardrobe may be impacted by OCD and yes so can your body image.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Also yes the fear of mind readers is also a thing; i always thought I was somehow faking OCD because yes that is also a…..

Faking: Do you value telling the truth? Do you detest lying ? Boy Howdy do I have some news for you. OCD is going to try and convince you that YOU LIED. Whether it was on a chastity pledge to get a free sandwich or in a conversation you just HAD. This links a lot with false memory OCD.

Another aspect is OCD makes us doubt we have OCD and tries to convince us we have any other diagnosis under the sun and we are obviously faking our OCD.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Sexual Orientation OCD; It is as it is called. Sexual Orientation OCD is what happens when your brain goes ‘hold on what if you’re not this orientation what if you are THAT’. It doesn’t matter where on the LGBT umbrella you fall you will have OCD trying to convince you otherwise. From compulsive staring at members of the same/opposite gender to compulsively reassuring or checking with yourself to ensure that ‘ no no you are in fact THIS orientation.’

This can range in behavior from binge watching porn, staring compulsively to check that there is OR is NOT attraction,self checking past experiences and memories, analyzing your clothing and your lifestyle in painful and intricate methods.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

False Memory OCD; False memory OCD is basically your brain sitting you in a noir interrogation room, handcuffing you to a chair grilling you. It demands that you did *insert bad thing here*. This can range from anything from something Harm based to pretty much *anything* from other OCD subtypes. Which is quite delightful really.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Sensorimotor OCD; Sensorimotor OCD is obsessive body responses. These can be ‘ I have to cough really hard and really feel it right in my chest and if I can’t get it right I have to cough until I do’. This can be counting your heartbeats. Trying to check yourself that you in fact have a heart and checking and reassuring that it is still beating. It can be hyper-awareness of swallowing or even swallowing repeatedly. It is anything with selective attention; ie its an automated process but your OCD is forcing you to be aware of it.

Your OCD makes you aware of the sensation of, say, breathing, and then it convinces you that if you stop paying attention to it you will stop breathing. So now you’re horribly aware and focused solely on breathing and breathing alone. It keeps me up most nights with the pounding anxiety fueled by the pressure of ‘if you stop focusing on breathing you will stop breathing completely’ or waiting to feel that last heartbeat in your chest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Existential OCD; You ever feel existential ? Existential OCD is like having a very aggressive existential crisis that turns you into NEEDING answers IMMEDIATELY. This can look anything from hours panic scrolling the net to panic inducing anxiety because you don't know what happens after death. The thoughts are like foghorns on a misty sea.

This sounds basic and the only example i can give is as a teeny tiny 7 year old I had a panic attack in bed screaming that ‘ what if im a dinosaur and im asleep and i wake up and my whole family is GONE’.

To be fair I did like dinosaurs a lot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harm OCD; This is pretty self explanatory but I will give more details. Harm OCD is OCD demanding that you will/could/can/may have/might harmed yourself/others/any living creature and that you alone are responsible.

This means anything from getting anxious driving over crosswalks because ‘what if you dont see one and hit someone and its all your fault and you hit someone go back and make sure you havent hit anyone’ to ‘im holding a knife so im going to accidentally stab someone’ to ‘ i didnt see my cat this morning and now im at work and think she must be dead and i am responsible for her demise.’

It can be as simple as ‘if i use a pencil i will stab myself in the eye’ or as complex as ‘ i may accidentally say a slur’/ ‘ i am going to say this horrible thing out loud if i cannot control myself.’ It can also be images of terror or racist/sexist/ableist jokes in your mind that repeat like a broken record.

(Please note from section 1 that this is extremely anxiety provoking and not something you would do. OCD preys on what we respect the most.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

pOCD; Tumblr listen the fuck up because I am tired of seeing people get called shit on this website for having this mental illness. People who experience pOCD are not pedophiles, they do not get any pleasure or benefit. The thoughts and images are meant to induce harm to the person experiencing them. Children are normally the trigger for this and the resulting images can be very graphic. Again you aren’t attracted to children- thoughts of them getting harmed hurt you so your OCD makes you see them.

Know this so you can advocate for folks with pOCD in real life. Remember we are here. We are suffering and we are terrified of your children.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Poisoning others/or in your food; Life isn’t medieval anymore but sometimes OCD demands we have a food taster or that we obsessively worry that we may kill someone with our cooking. Personally I struggle with colorblindness so I am constantly fretful over cooking any sort of meat so it’s difficult for me to cook it.

However this also comes as; obsessive horrible thoughts of your cooking kill someone or that you have somehow/accidentally poisoned someone’s food (even if you haven’t touched it or been within a foot of it ) or that someone has poisoned YOUR food even if no one has touched it except you. You’re going to be picking apart your food or unable to eat out at all.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emotional Contamination: It’s similar to magical thinking and this terrifying prospect of mind readers. Emotional contamination can manifest as anything from intense worry over somehow gaining someone else’s negative personality traits.

Or that somehow by interacting with any role of someone horrible will make YOU somehow also responsible for the horribleness. There is usually a person or a type of person that is a trigger, but it can also be location based.

This is one subtype where magical thinking and superstition are apparent.

For instance; as a teen if a male was in my space or had physical contact;like shaking hands,giving a high five, being in my room etc. I would have to go around and physically touch all the objects that I perceive they may have also touched as a way to cancel out their presence.

This includes wiping off myself to negate even the touch of family members. It really hurts peoples feelings, my father was especially hurt by this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Physical Contamination: This goes beyond physical dirt and grime. Most of us dont have spotless homes because if you’re having a fist fight with your brain everyday cleaning falls by the wayside just like it would for anyone else. Physical contamination holds 2 things: physical contamination obsessions AND compulsive cleaning behaviors/rituals. We believe that a small amount of a contaminate can cover large surfaces.

Oh, and did I mention its not JUST dirt/germs/viruses. The list is expansive but heres a mixed bag of what they can be: sticky substances,dead animals,glitter (FUCKING GLITTER),negative words or language,colors, numbers, surfaces in general, food, people, and activities. There is also a hyper responsibility to protect yourself and others from ‘contamination’.

Strangely there is a magical separation between the contaminated world and the ‘clean’ one. Spaces designated as clean would be a bedroom/bathroom/workspace where you are most active. That space is where the compulsions and intrusive thoughts occur. Its not I MUST CLEAN EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME. Otherwise I would be working cleaning houses because why the hell not amiright?

A real world example from a colleague would be a young man with physical contamination OCD is struck with such intrusive thoughts about cleaning that they refuse to allow anyone in their room or any animals in their home. But they are not able to even flush the toilet, take out the trash, wash dishes, or do garbage because of their intrusive thoughts.

The most famous would be compulsive hand washing but I feel it is important to also note OTHER aspects of physical contamination because everyone sees the hand scrubbing stereotype.

Other compulsions include intricate rituals, not touching the floor (i played X-treme the floor is lava during college. I couldnt let my feet touch the floor because it was ‘dirty’),excessive showering (2-8+ hour showers guys, 8 hour showers. Thats what we’re talking about.)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Relationship OCD: This comes as no surprise that yes you will have intrusive thoughts that you are somehow harming/ will harm/ may accidentally harm your significant other. Whether that be by physical or emotional means. It can look like ‘ I may have lied to her about how much I love her’, ‘ i may not actually love her and I may be leading her on’, and ‘ I must be corrupting her’. These can extend to certain physical activities with false memory OCD as a cherry on top. A great finishing garnish to leave you feeling absolutely dismayed and unable to trust your own perception.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scrupulosity: Religion! Whatever that may be! Its a thing with OCD. With Scrupulosity obsessive thoughts run all over the board from; you committed a sin and forgot about it you monster to having to pray continuously/ a certain time/ until its right. What is right?Ask OCD that’s the only person who knows.

We are fairly certain my grandfather had OCD because he went to church for every single Catholic Mass. Every single day. Every. Single. Day. That’s not a healthy amount of attendance(I'm calling you out posthumously because I care Robert!). This can also look like: praying a certain amount of times. Praying until you do it ‘right’. Confessing every single potential sin. Cataloguing and dwelling over ‘sinful’ things.

----------------------------------------------------------

Symmetry or Just Right OCD: Symmetry OCD is the runner up for ‘most likely recognized on tv shows’ award.

Symmetry OCD convinces you that if *insert thing here* isnt symmetrical or ‘just right’ (a magical position or number of objects that makes 0 logical sense) that something bad will happen.

This can range from the known; rearranging things. But it also looks like buying more objects until you reach the right amount and even throwing out objects if theres ‘too many’.

It can range from ‘the walls are percievably not straight so now i avoid that room at all costs otherwise i will be trapped traveling the edges of the wall with my eyes otherwise it will fall in and murder us ALL.’ to ‘ this historical bust is one inch off to the left and now all i see is visions of it breaking against the ground.’

So that is what I have time for. 9 pages on subtypes and basic information. If you find yourself wanting me information all of this is easily accessible online. So go, be free and dont ever compare people to Monk again. Write Batman and Scott Summers with OCD. Give us ACTUAL representation and not throw away joke lines. We are here. Our suffering isnt funny. We deserve representation too.

#OCD #writing help #OCD resources.#*drops 10 pages onto your dash* whoops

42 notes · View notes

leothelionsaysgrrrr · 3 years

Text

Relativity (f. Oliver Pentaghast)

Emma Sparrow pays a visit to a friend during a difficult time, and he is not the only one surprised to learn the extent to which another can know and understand what troubles him. Oliver Pentaghast and Thalon Lavellan belong to @ourinquisitorialness. ~3300 words. TW for past trauma and emotional difficulty/breakdown.

-----

Once, Emma handed Cassandra Pentaghast a sack of skulls, and received a promise in return. Now, the Inquisitor saw to it the Seeker kept her word.

The letter sat heavy in Emma’s pocket, threatening to burn right through it as she stepped out of the carriage. Just as those skulls, the skulls of murdered Tranquil mages collected from dismantled Venatori constructs across southern Thedas, sat heavy in that sack as she thrust that burden, that responsibility on a woman whose order could’ve prevented it - and, for centuries, had chosen not to. A request from the Inquisitor himself, asking for her help in bearing that responsibility, as though she had anything to offer in that regard. Or any obligation beyond what she’d done already. Nevertheless, she’d answered that request, and she’d come. Following several practiced breaths braced against the closed carriage door - two short inhales through her nose, one long exhale through her mouth - to quell the sick in her stomach, she finally turned to face the looming Seeker fortress.

Thalon Lavellan stood in front of the large wooden doors, wearing a kind, welcoming smile and ready to offer kind, welcoming words as she approached. A momentary twitch at the corners of her mouth was all the reciprocation she offered, and she followed him inside without a word.

“You should be speaking to Sala.”

She did not look at the Inquisitor directly when she finally spoke, walking the fortress’s dark stone halls, but she felt the furrow of his brow and the stare out of the corner of his eye long before she bothered to return it.

“And when, exactly, was the last time you saw him?”

She didn’t answer. Thalon cracked a tiny smile, the smugness of which told her unequivocally that he already knew what she would say. “I seem to remember being told that ‘there is no finding that man if he does not wish to be found’.” His face turned slightly towards her, gentleness returning to the way he looked at her alongside a strong sense of confidence that he did, indeed, know what he was doing. “In any case, our purpose here today requires skills and knowledge you possess, not him. That’s why I asked you to come.”

Thalon’s next step brought his feet to rest beside each other. He turned to face the window beside him, gesturing pointedly with a nod for her to look out into the open courtyard. Flowers and herbs grew in abundance on either side of a winding stone path, along with some small trees. A dark-haired man in simple robes tended to them. Or, rather, stood on the path in front of them, and every so often crouched down and held out his hand to cradle the petals and leaves with the kind of appreciation - no, the reverence one has for something precious and new.

She recognized him the moment he stood, with a wayward glance in their direction.

“Oliver…”

Thalon glanced over at her, a half smile spreading across his face.

“Ah, good. You do remember him.”

“Of course, he...we spoke often, in the library where he studied.”

As often as she could spare the time, at least. Where others found the Tranquil strange and unnerving, Emma found their calm and objective focus intensely soothing. Oliver spoke to her of things that made sense, and asked questions with definitive answers. Truthfully, since the fall of Corypheus sent most of the Inquisition on new paths, she’d missed their conversations a great deal. That was where she’d expected him to be now: a library, studying, finding purpose and fulfilling it, not...watching over plants as though he’d never seen them before.

Puzzled, she turned squarely to face the Inquisitor. “You asked me here to assist Seeker Pentaghast. Oliver was meant to return to the university once his service with the Inquisition was complete. He should not be here unless…”

Emma drew in a shallow gasp, and her eyes widened with the realization. Thankfully, Thalon confirmed her suspicions before she needed to say it.

“Yes,” he replied, noticeably more somber now. “Oliver volunteered to be the first to undergo the reversal process, which...has been more difficult for him than we expected.”

Sala coalesced in her mind, his gentle, clouded eyes and old hands offering soft reassurance that he’d be right there with her, the whole time, he’d be there to help, and everything would be better when it was done...she would know the reasons behind other people’s smiles, she herself could be happy...and then her heart had raced, forcing her to draw more, faster breaths that never seemed enough to rid herself of the sensation that something was wrong...terribly, utterly wrong, feeling for the first time in her life that intense fear of things she neither knew nor understood. That first, petrifying loss of control she’d been struggling to remedy ever since.

Like learning to walk, but on legs that have never worked before.

It wasn’t the same. Not exactly, not for him. Once, Oliver had been able to use his. He knew what he’d been missing.

Staring blankly into the courtyard, the memory manifested in little more than a simple analogy, and a steady, rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the outside of her thigh.

“Would you not find it difficult to walk after a decade with broken legs?”

Thalon offered a sympathetic nod.

“True enough. I don’t imagine there is much about Tranquility or its reversal that could be considered otherwise.” He gestured to the far side of the window, where an open door led outside, to a path that would take her to Oliver’s side. “Given his familiarity with you and your own...experience with such things, I thought you might be our best chance of helping him.”

Shit. It seemed she could tell Lavellan nothing about herself without coming to regret it later.

Noting her hesitation, Thalon took a step backwards, nodding towards the door with a stern curtness that contrasted with the warm smile on his face. Both encouraging and demanding.

Go on.

Slowly, she moved the few steps in front of him to the door, but stopped in front of it for a moment. Her eyes dropped to her feet. He was right, after all, loathe as she was to admit it. Though certain she was anything but the right person for this, who would do for him what he truly needed if not her? Who else would bring the same comfort now that he could actually feel such a thing, without also understanding the way it felt to have not had the luxury? With a gentle nudge from Lavellan at her back, Emma drew in a long breath, and lifted her eyes as she stepped forward.

Thankfully, Oliver heard it latch behind her, and was already watching from across the courtyard. At Skyhold, Emma would approach Oliver with the knowledge that she would not easily sway his focus from his task, and simply wait patiently beside him until he was ready to acknowledge her presence with a polite nod and a trained smile she knew very well. The sort built into routine because it is expected.

The sort she gave him as he drew close enough to resolve details on her face.

To think, this time the smile that spread widely across his was the genuine one between them.

“Oh, Agent Harper! It’s you!” he called out, and offered her his hand.

She hesitated to return his greeting, as earnest in its cheerful tone as it was, unable to tell him he looked well with a straight face. The sunburst emblazoned on his forehead struck her differently now. He wore a genuine smile now, yes, but where his old smile lay flat over placid contentment, this one masked nerves like old ropes left slack for too long, frayed and straining now that something - anything - pulled on the other ends again.

“Oliver,” she finally said, quietly, nodding as she took his hand, “I am glad to see you.”

His smile brightened for a moment, and he broke the handshake to usher her towards a carved stone bench nearby. “Yes, it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

She nodded again, a fond smile hiding the debate raging in her mind. For all her previous conversations with him, this one presented an entirely new factor she’d not considered before: subjectivity. The simplest of pleasantries were no longer so simple. No definitive answers. Additionally, in all likelihood no one had performed this ritual to purposely cure a Tranquil in ages, if anyone ever had. She’d not been there when it happened, nor had she seen it done to know what to expect from it. Whether or not it would be appropriate to ask. You are certain of this, Sala?

Not at all. Never tried before. Can’t be certain if I never do, though, can I?

In memory, her father’s smile was not as reassuring as he’d wanted it to be.

“Will you be here long?” Oliver asked, breaking the silence before she could. From the look on his face, it wasn’t the first question he’d asked her, either. “This place can seem somewhat dreary at times, but...this courtyard is nice, and there is a library here, if you’d like me to show you. Not so extensive as the one at Skyhold, but it’s quiet, and they care for the books well.”

Emma smiled, and Oliver quickly returned it. “I would, but there is no hurry. As you say, it is nice here, too.”

He nodded in agreement, over and over, and turned his head to look out over the courtyard, as if to reinforce his own belief of that statement. His smile had faltered by the time he looked back.

“I...do not read as often as I did at Skyhold, I’m afraid,” he muttered. “I try to, of course, but...anymore, the words are so...I lose track so easily…”

Oliver’s hands wrung in his lap, as if with a mind of their own, and it sent gooseflesh cascading up her arms. Words seeming to lift and float across pages, glancing away for a moment only to find herself completely lost when she turned her attention back to her books again, and the unfamiliar tightness in her chest and flush in her cheeks at the fact that this shouldn’t be happening, it never happened to her before...

“It seems...every little thing is a distraction, anymore. Which is...frankly, ridiculous…” He glanced up at her with a look she supposed was meant to be reassuring, though whether to her or to him was anyone’s guess. It was anything but. “I was never, even before…”

Knowing full well where that statement would lead, Emma attempted a reassuring look of her own.

“Oliver, it...”

He stood abruptly, without warning and notably without anything resembling any kind of smile.

“No, no, it is not! I am so tired of people telling me that when it is not ‘all right’.” Frantic, he paced back and forth along the path, one hand clenched into a fist at his chin and the other arm pressed tightly across his body, breath seething out of him in rushed hisses. “I thought I wanted this. I thought this would fix everything, that if I could just be whole again it would all be...but there’s just so much...it’s too much, too much everywhere all at once and I can’t...I can’t…”

Oliver trailed off, silent for a haunting split second before he collapsed to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Petrified, Emma could only watch. The familiarity of it stung in a way she hadn’t expected. His words may as well have been hers, and she may as well have been watching herself, all those years ago. Her fingers tapped again at the outside of her thigh, harder and faster now in cadence with her heartbeat, and she silently cursed the Inquisitor for this. For asking her here to watch as her dear friend fell to pieces while the world crumbled around him, and herself for coming to him with nothing - no empty assurances he would be all right, no insistence he was making more of a simple frustration than he needed to be. Just...nothing. Nothing to say, nothing to do but tap out her own heartbeat on her leg while she, too, cried out inside her mind, it’s too much, too much everywhere all at once. I can’t…

You can. Let me show you.

Another moment, and a long exhale.

She could. She knew how to help him.

Emma rose to her feet, knelt on the ground in front of him and reached out, waiting to see if he recoiled before laying her hand softly on his shoulder. The other cradled his jaw a moment later, as she quietly coaxed him to look at her, then let her hand settle over his wrist.

“Here. Focus here,” she cooed, gently guiding his clenched fist down over his chest, and stopped when she felt the pulsing artery there. “Can you feel it?”

Oliver blinked hard a few times. Ragged breath still spewed out of him at a steady, brisk pace, but his eyes began aimlessly trailing around the courtyard, following some invisible thing, the outward manifestation of him searching for what she wanted him to find. After a few moments, they fell shut, and he whispered a shaky but quite certain “yes”.

Good.

Emma gave a quick smile and a nod he wouldn’t see, and gently pried his hand open; not forcing his fingers apart, but gently nudging, waiting patiently for him to allow her to move them. Trembling, he acquiesced enough for her to press his hand flat against his shirt, and laid her own over it. Two fingers tapped along with the rhythm of his blood pumping beneath it - t-tap, t-tap, t-tap - in quick, strong strikes of the pads of her fingers against his knuckles.

Listen, ma’eha. Listen.

Listen.

“Listen, Oliver,” Emma continued, Sala’s words returning in her voice over the dull, muted sound of t-tap, t-tap, t-tap. “It feels louder on the outside. Like despair feels louder on the outside. That is how it will help. This means something very simple. This…”

She paused, pressing her palm against the back of his hand, drawing his focus. Making it louder.

“...means you are alive.”

After a few moments, she began to slow the pace and soften her strikes, only just, and Oliver, although he barely recalled deciding to do so, relayed them onto his chest. “And this,” she explained, as their fingers fell over and over in time with each other, “is something you have always been able to feel.”

With each minute decrease in pace and intensity, so too did the heaving in his chest slow, and his breath began to steady once more. She found hers steadying with it, both in that moment and in memory.

“You will always be able to feel this. It is there through any pain, any sorrow, any joy, any despair, any anger...and it will be there still when all of that has passed. Nothing else you will ever feel can be anything at all without this. That means any time you feel something you don’t want to feel, you can feel this instead. All you have to do…”

She lifted her hand from his, letting his hand tap out his heartbeat on its own now, and leaned forward to rest her forehead on his.

“Is make it louder.”

Oliver breathed a heavy, but quite a bit closer to contented sigh, and his eyes flitted open. Emma sat back on her heels, and offered him a small smile as she helped him to his feet.

“Better?”

“I...apologize, that...was terribly embarrassing,” he said, and breathed deeply once more while scanning the courtyard for anyone else who might’ve seen before returning to his seat on the bench. When he circled back to Emma, he forced himself to smile. “Though, I suppose I ought to be pleased that I can be embarrassed at all.”

“I know. I know how you must feel.”

It only just occurred to her, seeing the confused and almost insulted way he watched her as she sat next to him, that he didn’t know. That of all the times she’d spoken to him before, she’d never told him she’d once been like him. Why would she? The Tranquil did not speak of their conditions beyond confirming their status as Tranquil, so it had never come up, and it never would have were he not here, now, like this. The idea that this would have been easier for him if she had dug hard into her skin.

“How?” he spat. “How could someone like you possibly...” His eyes widened, and he shrunk away. He pulled his arms tightly around himself, and shook his head, quietly tutting at himself. “Ah, that was rude of me, wasn’t it? Forgive me, Harper. Regardless, I should not discount your capacity for empathy; I am terribly glad to see you and you have always been...so kind.”

Emma turned her head, moving her hair away from behind her ear. A small, old and long scarred-over oval, like a thumbprint, rather than a prominent sunburst, but a lyrium burn was a lyrium burn, and it meant the same thing regardless of the shape of scar it left.

From the look on Oliver’s face when she turned her head back, he knew. He understood.

“How long?”

“A long time,” she said. “Years ago, now.”

Hope lit up his face. “Then you were cured, as well? Was it...was it like this for you?”

“Not exactly. My condition was...somewhat different, but...it did hurt. A great deal.” She stopped herself there, both unwilling and unsure how to say more, and well aware her purpose here was not her own comfort. Realizing that may help less than she wanted to, however, she continued. “I know it hurts you, now. But...that hurt is part of what it means to be whole. The headaches that came with my reversal still remain, but...so do a great many things I have gained since then. Things I know now I would not give up to be rid of the pain.”

Oliver scoffed. Dismissively, she thought at first, but a bit of a smile found its way through shortly after.

“Is that your way of telling me it will get easier?”

“No. Not without effort. Like...standing on once broken legs.” She shifted on the bench to sit squarely towards him, one leg folded across the bench between them. “I do not know exactly what pains you, but...I do know I would not walk so well now if I had not had help.” Her head tilted, and she shifted again, slightly closer this time. “I am here, Oliver, and I am willing to listen. If you are willing to speak.” She reached towards his hands in his lap, and curled her fingers around the one nearest to her. “When you are ready to speak. I will be here.”

Perhaps, the longer she had to consider it, she would soon be ready to speak, too.

After a long pause, staring at their clasped hands in his lap longer than anyone but the two of them would have been able to remain comfortable, longer than Thalon Lavellan had to spend watching through the window across the courtyard with that pleased little smile on his face before duty called him elsewhere, Oliver’s lips parted. He drew in a long breath, and held her hand tighter as he lifted his eyes.

#i am SORRY it took me literal years to do this #BUT #IT IS FINALLY DONE #anyway these two and their friendship and understanding is so important to me #emma has lots of support but no one who really GETS what she's felt and thought the way ollie does #and they both need that so much #and i am glad they are there for each other to help each other heal :)#and that thalon is there to give her the extra kick in the pants she needs to actually do it lol #thanks for letting me borrow your boys i love them so very much :')#oc: emma sparrow #oliver pentaghast #thalon lavellan #ourinquisitorialness #leo the lion writes words

21 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 4 years

Text

One Foot In (1/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

-----

Rating: Teen, but with eventually kissing and magic-type magic Word Count: 9.3K this chapter. AN: Approximately two years ago, seriously, I got a message asking if I would ever be interested in writing a Pushing Daises AU. I was! So I wrote a little blurb and some more very nice people were like this is good, you should write more. I did. And then did...nothing with it. Until now. I’ve been hoarding this for long enough and I’m actually pretty proud of it and it’s got a whole bunch of some of my favorite things. There will be a lot of banter and more kissing than you probably expect if you’ve seen the show, and a lot of magic and magical explanations. If I have any talent writing banter it comes directly from watching Pushing Daisies, so hopefully I’ve done them well here. Also shoutout to @distant-rose for the Fathership.

Updates every Wednesday going forward, and if you’d like to be tagged let me know: @shireness-says @optomisticgirl @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488, @greymeetsblue, @jennjenn615, @heavenlyjoycastle, @klynn-stormz, @superchocovian, @onepunintendid, @jonesfandomfanatic, @lfh1226-linda

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

Emma Swan is nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old when she realizes she is hopelessly, painfully, deliriously in love.

It’s not a particularly pleasant feeling.

Mostly because it happens suddenly, without much prompting and the object of her affection is currently spraying her in the face with the hose in his front yard.

She yelps, water catching on her eyelashes and strands of her hair, but he just grins at her, taking a step forward to make sure her clothes are drenched through. Ingrid is going to kill both of them. Emma can almost hear Liam laughing somewhere.

This, of course, is why she’s so frustrated by her sudden realization.

Emma has been standing on the Jones’ front lawn for as long as she can remember – directly opposite of her own front lawn and close enough that Ingrid can still yell for her to come home when dinner is ready. Or when there’s pie. There’s almost always pie.

Emma’s friendship with Killian Jones is not much more than happenstance and convenience. He lives across the street, with his brother in a great, big house with stained glass windows that paint the inside of the living room different colors when the sun sets. They met by mistake, Emma drawing with chalk at the end of the driveway and he was watering the lawn and dared to disturb her masterpiece.

She threw chalk at him.

It went from there. They talked and yelled and Emma may have stomped her foot more than once regarding the destroyed drawings, but Killian picks up the broken pieces of chalk and offers her one and they come up with a rather stunning visual of a futuristic outer space world with some kind of monorail system. The engineering is very impressive.

And they don’t ever really stop. They dart back and forth across the street for years, afternoons spent constructing spaceships out of cardboard boxes Liam brought home from work and evenings in the kitchen with Ingrid while she lets them test a new flavor of pie she’s experimenting with. They watch movies and celebrate birthdays and there’s a secret handshake because of course there’s a secret handshake, and Emma tells Killian she sometimes wonders what happened to her real parents and Killian tells Emma he’s scared Liam is going to disappear like his dad did.

She shouldn’t love him.

And yet, at nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old, Killian Jones is quite possibly the most important person in Emma’s life.

Except Ingrid. Because she makes all that pie.

Killian is quiet – at least at first, soft-spoken words, but with a certainty that rings of clarity and confidence and it hadn’t taken long for him to grow a little bolder with Emma around. He laughs easier as the years go on, smile wide and, usually, only for her. His hair is almost always too long, dark strands that drift dangerously close to his eyebrows and a gaze that Emma also seems to covet.

She doesn’t realize that yet, because she’s nine and she doesn’t know what covet means, but, eventually, it will all make sense.

And eventually, she will regret not telling Killian Jones that he’s her best friend and she’s absolutely, positively in love with him.

But Emma is nine and she believes she’s got the rest of her life and the rest of Killian’s life and she hasn’t allowed a little thing like death to even begin to enter the back corners of her mind.

That will change soon.

“Killian Jones, I am going to murder you,” she shouts, lunging forward. He laughs even louder when her feet skid on the slick grass, a flash of blue eyes and that smile that, even then, Emma considers hers and hers alone.

“That’s not very nice, Swan. You’re the one who got in the way of all my work.” “Your work?” He nods seriously, as if he’s not directing the hose directly at her feet now and she’s going to have to throw these jeans away. They’ll never dry. “Did you not see that list of chores Liam left? Making sure the lawn wasn’t dry was one of them.” “It’s a lawn, how dry can it be?” “I didn’t ask.” “Didn’t you want to know?”

“Maybe,” Killian admits, flicking his wrist up to move the water so it hits Emma’s stomach and she gasps when some of the air gets knocked out of her. “But you came over here.” “And?” “And what? You’re here aren’t you?”

It’s impossible for Emma to realize what exactly that question means in the moment, but she’s also just realized she’s in love with Killian, so her heart does a fairly good job of attempting to beat its way out of her chest.

He drops the hose.

“You could have told me you had stuff to do.”

“But you were here,” he says again, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. It kind of is. She can’t remember a single time he told her to leave.

Even when she was the new kid in school – after she and Ingrid first moved to Storybrooke and Emma heard the whispers because she didn’t have real parents and no mom to make her lunch, but Killian just bumped his shoulder against hers and flashed her half a smile. He held her hand when they walked into school.

Killian never cared about cooties.

Or anything except Emma.

“Yeah,” Emma mumbles. She digs her toes into the mud under her, the soft squelch of it almost matching up with the erratic rhythm of her pulse. “Well…”

He practically beams.

And Emma isn’t sure what’s going to happen next because she’s never encountered a moment quite like this, but she can hear Liam’s footsteps and grumblings about the state of the lawn and— “Killian, if you’re just going to stand around all day...” he starts, but his eyes dart towards Emma as soon as she moves her foot again and the look on his face is unreadable. Particularly to a nine-year-old coming to terms with the idea of first love. “Oh,” Liam says. “Hey, Emma, I didn’t know you were here.” She shrugs. “I was going to ride my bike, but then Killian thought he was funny.” Liam’s expression changes again, more emotions Emma is not nearly old enough to understand or deal with, but it will, eventually, be that kind of day. At the moment, however, it’s sunny and there are a few clouds in the sky. The perfect day to race down the hill on the other side of town.

“How many times in a row have you beat Killian?” Liam asks knowingly, and Emma laughs before she can continue to consider whatever he’s doing with his face.

“Forty seven.” “Oh, that’s not true, at all,” Killian shouts, ducking down to grab the hose again. Liam’s quicker than him, though grabbing him around the waist and pinning him against his chest. “God, Liam, let go of me!”

“Nah, little brother—” “—Younger brother!” “Semantics.” “Stop trying to show off!”

Emma is still laughing, her sides feeling as if they’ll split from the force of it. Killian scowls at her when she doesn’t come to his immediate aid, but her eyes dart back towards Liam. He nods. And it only takes a few moments for Killian to realize what’s going to happen, more flailing limbs and shouted protests.

“Swan, Swan, Swan,” he chants, a nickname that isn’t really a nickname, but might be his in the way the smile is hers and Emma shakes her head when she grabs the water hose. “Don’t do that, that’s not even fair!” “I know it’s not,” she says. “But you were being a great, big giant jerk before and Ingrid’s going to be mad my jeans are all muddy.” “You should have dodged better then!” “Ah, c’mon now, little brother,” Liam chastises, still holding him around the waist and he’s probably bruised from Killian’s elbows. “That’s not hospitable at all. Emma’s a guest in our front lawn and you went and ruined her whole outfit.” Killian groans, but the sound turns into a yelp as soon as the water hits his feet and he realizes how cold it is. Emma widens her eyes. “Swan is not a guest,” he argues.

Emma briefly wonders if her eyes can actually fall out of her face. It feels as if they’re about to, that particular proclamation ricocheting around her brain and her subconscious until she’s certain it’s the only words she’ll ever hear again.

Killian blinks when Emma doesn’t say anything – or move the hose away from his feet. “You haven’t beaten me down the hill forty-seven times,” he mutters. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

And sprays him directly in the chest.

There’s no way to really avoid Liam in this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, more laughter and tangled limbs, Killian’s hair sticking to his forehead and the shell of his left ear when Emma moves the water again. And for a few seconds Emma thinks she’s winning whatever unspoken battle they’ve staged here, but Killian’s always been a little shifty and and he turns quickly enough that he’s able to sneak out of Liam’s grasp.

He moves towards her quicker than she’s ready for, tugging the hose out of her hands with an almost triumphant noise.

“You’ve got to be faster than that, Swan,” Killian grins, waving the hose through the air until it feels as if Emma’s standing in a rainstorm.

“You are the worst!” “Tell the truth about the hill!” “I am,” Emma yells, sniffling when the water threatens to find its way up her nose. “Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!” Killian shakes his head, dodging what Emma thought was a particularly well-placed kick at his ankles. “No, you’re not. You like me way too much to kill me.” “That’s not true.” The words feel heavy on her tongue, despite the laughter still clinging to Killian’s voice and Liam’s rather pitiful attempts to get back on his feet after falling in the mud. Emma swallows, desperate to understand what is happening in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t look away from her.

He keeps staring and the water keeps running, slowing slightly because they’re probably emptying the Storybrooke reservoir at this point.

“I don’t know about that, Swan,” Killian says, leaning towards her. Emma gets the distinct impression he doesn’t mean to do that.

“Liar, liar.” “I’m not the one lying. Forty seven? That’s impossible.” “If you think you’re winning, you should have been keeping better track.”

That catches him by surprise, a quick bark of laughter and water splashing on Emma’s shin when he jerks his hand to the side. “Sorry, sorry,” Killian mumbles when he notices the look on her face. “That one really wasn’t on purpose.” “Yuh huh.” “Swan.” Emma rolls her eyes, the sarcasm obvious in his voice and the half a smile on his face. Liam has finally stood up. “How many times do you think we’ve raced down the hill?” she presses, moving forward to push her finger into his water-soaked shirt.

That gets him to blink.

She takes that as another victory.

“Way more than forty seven,” Killian answers. “And I win most of the time.” Emma stamps her foot – which gives Killian just enough time to wrap his own fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from him and pinning it against her side and the water is absolutely getting colder when he holds the hose directly above her head.

“Say it’s not forty seven,” he laughs. Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together tightly as if she’s refusing to give federal testimony.

Liam appears to have given up on even trying to salvage the situation.

“It’s not forty seven, Swan,” Killian continues. “I’ll give you...maybe thirty two, tops.” “Nope.” “Thirty five?” “I have beaten you down that hill forty seven times Killian Jones and that’s only in the last year since I started keeping track.” “You’ve only been keeping track for the last year?” “You never kept track to begin with!” “She’s got a point, little brother,” Liam muses. He’s sitting on the far side of the lawn now, doing something that may actually be pulling weeds and no one could have taken better care of that house than Liam did.

“Oh, shut up,” Killian grumbles. He snaps his head back towards Emma, mouth twisted and eyes slightly narrowed. “Alright, so you started counting this year. I’ll give you that you’ve won most of the races, but I demand a recount for the rest of the summer.” Emma scoffs. “No way. You’re only mad because you didn’t know you were losing and—” “—And you were playing a game I didn’t know we were playing, Swan. So, either you agree to the terms or we keep up this...whatever we’re doing.” “You being a jerk,” she mumbles, and that time her kick lands on his ankle. Killian lets out a gasp of pain, expression shifting slightly and they’re both drenched, water falling from their clothes and their hair and everything feels slightly heavier than it had a few moments before.

It’s not a feeling that belongs in summer vacation.

Killian hums, the tips of his ears going red and Emma learned that particular tell when she was seven and he tried to tell Liam he hadn’t gotten in trouble for fighting with that kid on the playground. The kid on the playground had been making fun of Emma’s distinct lack of parents.

“Forty seven though?” he asks. “Really?” “Really, really,” Emma promises. “But I’m...we could start a new count. If you want.”

“Yeah?” “We’ve got all summer, right?” “And forever,” Killian says with a shrug, another string of words that seems to take up residence in every corner of Emma’s brain and she feels her lips part slightly. It’s her body’s natural reaction to try and keep breathing.

She’s stopped breathing at some point.

And someone else is calling her name.

“Emma Swan,” Ingrid yells, leaning out the front door of the house across the street and the smell of lemon meringue is already obvious. “If you are done destroying all your clothes, then I think it’s time for you to come back over here and eat some lunch!”

Emma’s shoulders sag with the weight of her disappointment – an overreaction in the moment, but eventually it will seem like the most reasonable thing she’s ever done. “Do I have to?” “In twenty-four seconds or less.” “Fine,” Emma sighs. She glances back at Killian before she turns towards home, the smile still on his face and a piece of hair seemingly stuck to his forehead. He waves a dismissive hand through the air at the interruption, as if they do have all the time in the world.

“I’ve got to help Liam anyway. But, uh...after? We could…” “There’s pie,” Emma finishes sharply. “I mean...it smells like pie? You could come over and then we could go.” “Ok.”

Liam makes a ridiculous noise a few feet away – disbelieving and adult and Emma ignores it because she’s nine and cutting into her twenty-four seconds of travel time across the street. “Emma,” Ingrid calls again. “Now!”

“Right, right, right, I’m coming. But…” She glances at Killian and she’s not sure why she feels like she has to make sure, but it feels important and—

“I’ll see you later, Swan,” he says. “I’m sorry about your jeans.”

“That’s ok.” Ingrid is shaking the screen door now. “Emma!”

“Ok, ok! I’ll see you later.”

Ingrid takes one look at the state of her as soon as she gets across the street, lets out a knowing laugh and mumbles something that sounds a lot like we should just buy new clothes every week under her breath. “Go upstairs and try and get some of the mud out of your toes before you drag it across the entire house, ok?” Emma nods, a blur of water-logged fabric and muddy footprints. She’s in the bathroom when she hears it, only a few moments later and nothing has really changed, but it suddenly feels as if everything has been flipped upside down, and Emma cannot possibly be expected to keep up with all of these emotions. Or sounds.

It’s a crash — loud and jarring and then absolute, overwhelming silence.

She freezes, heart sputtering in her chest and it’s impossible to know how she knows, but Emma knows and something is wrong.

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about her jeans, sprinting back down the stairs and skidding into the kitchen and Ingrid is lying on the tiled ground, the pie splayed out around her when she dropped it.

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, knowing it’s pointless. She doesn’t know how she knows that either, but that appears to be the theme of the day and the step she takes forward is alarmingly shaky. “Ingrid,” she repeats. “Are you…”

She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence.

It’s obvious anyway.

Ingrid is dead.

Emma exhales, tears in her eyes and disbelief churning in the pit of her stomach where, just a few moments ago, there were butterflies and the certainty that everything was going to be alright forever and ever.

She tilts her head, as if that will change the scene in front of her and the combined scent of lemon and drying mud is particularly disgusting.

“Ingrid?” Emma repeats, moving towards her as if there are magnets and supernatural forces involved. There are. It’ll just take a moment for her to realize that.

Dropping to her knees, she ignores the pain that shoots up both her legs when she lands on the floor and Emma doesn’t ever actually cry. The tears are there, but they don’t spill over onto her cheeks. They stay in her eyes and, possibly, her soul and eventually that will feel like a very large sign.

With neon lights and sound effects.

In the moment though, it’s just another thing in an increasingly thing-filled situation and part of her wants to call for Killian. Most of her wants to call for Killian.

But Emma’s mouth doesn’t appear to be working anymore, breathing a very particular challenge and Ingrid isn’t her mom. Ingrid isn’t even her officially adopted mom yet, that’s a work in progress and Emma’s fairly certain Liam did something that may help and there were suits involved and Killian stayed at their house that day while Ingrid baked something.

Emma inhales sharply through her nose, Ingrid’s eyes already a little glazed over and staring at absolutely nothing and, if asked, she would have no idea why she does what she does next. Reaching out a finger, she pokes Ingrid in the shoulder, fingertip just barely skimming her skin.

Ingrid blinks, exactly, three times and sits up as normal as ever.

She’s very clearly breathing.

Emma might not be. And she’s worried about the state of her eyes again.

“Did you get mud in here?” Ingrid asks, like that’s an entirely reasonable question and Emma is still frozen. Her mind can’t keep up with the moment or the feelings coursing through her veins, a mix of terror and surprise and happiness, plus whatever she may still be feeling for Killian and she still wishes Killian were in the kitchen with her. “Must have slipped,” Ingrid continues. She shakes her head, clearly unaware of what just happened and Emma is still doing her best to keep breathing. The pain in her side makes it clear it’s not working very well.

“Emma,” Ingrid says lightly, leaning close enough that Emma jerks away out of instinct. That will eventually prove important. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “Nothing,” Emma mumbles. The word comes out far too quickly though, less a word than just a jumble of syllables and—”I just...heard you fall.” “Because of the mud. Did you not even change your clothes yet?” Emma shakes her head. Her throat feels far too small and far too big, all at the same time. “No, I…” “Well, go back upstairs and make sure you wash behind your ears and—” Ingrid glances around, grabbing a handful of plastic bags and pushing them into Emma’s chest. Her fingers never touch Emma. “Just throw them in here. I think we’ve moved past salvageable on that front. I swear, the messes you and that Jones boy get into should be documented for—”

It annoys Emma that no one will finish their sentences.

But the timer on the oven dings, wholly unnecessary given the pie that’s still on the kitchen floor and Emma’s annoyance ebbs as soon as she hears the first shout. That’s not the right word. It’s less of a shout and more like absolute and complete anguish.

Her head snaps towards the open window, the same one that looks directly onto the Jones’ front lawn and she can barely make out the top of Killian’s hair. He’s kneeling on the ground, clearly not worried about the state of his jeans or the mud that’s likely working its way into the fibers, gripping something.

It takes Emma exactly two seconds, one gasp and three blinks to realize what he’s holding — Liam, dead.

The tears that land on her cheek feel like brands, hot and emotional and she’s moving before she realizes, dashing around Ingrid and across the street. A car honks at her when she runs in front of it, but Emma doesn’t slow down and Killian’s still yelling and Liam is very obviously dead.

He looks just like Ingrid.

Or just like Ingrid did before Emma touched her.

Because Emma touched Ingrid back to life.

“I don’t know what happened,” Killian stammers, eyes already rimmed red and the shake in his voice seems to rattle down Emma’s spine. “He was there and it was fine and then I...he wasn’t and he just...he fell over and it was…”

He lets out another choked sob, falling towards Emma’s shoulders like those pesky magnets are involved again and the only thought in her head is to hold onto him, like she’s trying to keep him there. Permanently.

She’s got no idea how long they stay there, and it’s impossible to tell Killian’s tears from the rest of the water in Emma’s shirt. She can hear Ingrid on the phone, quiet and slightly frantic and the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later.

There’s no explanation.

It makes no sense. Because Liam Jones was young and healthy and fully capable of keeping his brother pinned to his side so Emma could point the hose directly at his feet. A dead Liam Jones makes no sense.

And Emma doesn’t say much for the rest of the day, just keeps staring ahead and trying to breath, her fingers laced with Killian’s for however many hours it takes for his uncles to show up.

“Killian,” a man yells. He jogs up the front steps of the porch, an oversized coat hanging off his shoulders and something that may be several earrings glittering under the street lights.

Emma dimly remembers Ingrid tearing through Liam’s paperwork that afternoon, trying to find someone to come watch Killian — and the result is two uncles, one named Nemo and the other Shakespeare, who’d spent most of their lives as part of a traveling acting troupe. They’re eccentric in a way that's fascinating at any time, let alone one that includes a dead Liam Jones, but Killian rushes towards the man who called his name.

His whole body shakes with the force of his tears.

And, for the first time since she moved to Storybrooke, Emma feels out of place sitting on that side of the street, not sure she understands the weight of wrong that seems intent on dragging her into the Earth.

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright,” the man continues. He barely pays any attention to Emma when she moves, but the other one, wearing his own ridiculous coat that looks like it came directly from the Navy, casts her a speculative glance.

She tries to smile.

She does. But it’s been a seemingly endless day and they never rode their bikes down the hill.

Emma can’t believe she’s worried about riding her bike down the hill.

“I think it’s about time you got some rest, huh?” Ingrid asks. She’s standing in the doorframe, apron still tied around her waist from that afternoon, but it doesn’t smell like pie in the house.

It smells like mud and ending and Emma is tired. That must be it.

She nods, and for a few minutes it’s normal and almost good and the lingering taste of toothpaste in her mouth as she climbs into bed is almost comforting. But then it’s Ingrid stepping into her room and tugging the blankets up under her chin and the kiss she places on Emma’s forehead will linger for years.

It’s the last thing she ever does.

Ingrid kisses Emma and her whole body goes taut, eyes getting that same glazed look as she falls directly onto her back.

Emma doesn’t gasp.

She blinks, opening her mouth and leaning over the side of the bed like this is one, long practical joke. Ingrid doesn’t move. And Emma has had enough experience with dead bodies in the last twelve hours to realize she’s facing her third.

Or, well, second. Technically.

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, not expecting an answer, but frustrated all the same. She reaches her hand out, pushing and prodding and touching and none of it works. She uses two fingers and three, tries punching Ingrid’s shoulder, but nothing happens.

Ingrid is dead.

And Emma runs – directly across the street.

The Navy man opens the door, a little starling with dark eyes and shaved head, but Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks again, shoulders shaking with the effort of running and figuring out what’s going on and he doesn’t object when she falls towards him. He wraps his arms around her middle and lets her cry.

The rest is a whirlwind of phone calls and suitcases and arrangements that Emma is not capable of making. The state, however, is more than happy to do just that – a car set to pick her up after the funeral that will bring her to a group home in a different state and promises that everything will be fine, but Emma doesn’t trust much of anything anymore, particularly after Ingrid was alive. Again.

And then dead. Again.

None of it makes sense.

But that’s for a different moment and a different day to understand and in this moment Emma can’t help but keep glancing across the cemetery towards Killian, fidgeting in a suit with splotchy cheeks and shoes she knows don’t fit.

He nods towards the patch of grass in between the two services, hand stuffed in his pocket. His tie is slightly off center.

The state had to buy Emma a black dress.

“You’re leaving,” Killian whispers, not a question, but a statement of fact and Emma’s neck aches when she nods in response.

“I’ll be back.” “I don’t want you to leave.” “I don’t want to either. I’m...I’m sorry.” Killian tilts his head, confusion settling into the space between his eyebrows. “Why?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that. She has suspicions. And she’ll figure them out later, but right then, nine years, six months, fifteen days and, approximately, ten hours old, Emma Swan only has the certainty that she loves Killian Jones more than anything in the world and she doesn’t want to walk away from him.

So she takes a step forward.

As first kisses go, it’s probably not the greatest. There are two funerals happening and those suspicions lingering in the back of Emma’s mind make the air around her feel heavy, but she’s only a little certain she won’t ever be back and the rest of the reasons don’t matter.

She tilts her head up, a quick brush of her lips over Killian’s. He doesn’t pull back, but it’s nothing more than that, until his thumb brushes over the curve of Emma’s cheek, catching a tear on the pad and the smile he gives her when she pulls back echoes in her memories for the next twenty years.

“Ms. Swan,” a state official says brusquely and it must be time.

She nods another, still shaky and uncomfortable, but that may just be the state of her lungs and the ability of either one of her legs to hold up her weight. Killian hasn’t moved his thumb. He doesn’t appear to want to.

“I’m going to see you again,” he says, a promise Emma tries desperately to believe. It doesn’t work, the guilt and the weight in the very center of her is too big and too much and nothing has made sense, so it only makes sense that she doesn’t respond.

She will, eventually, regret that.

Because Emma Swan doesn’t ever see Killian Jones again.

At least not while they’re both alive.

Emma wakes with a start, glancing around her room like she’ll see several different ghosts spying on her. It feels that way, has for the last three days when she first started having these dreams and really the whole thing can fuck right off.

It hasn’t happened in years – nightmares about that day and that night and how cold Ingrid looked when the EMTs carried her out of the house, the same ones who’d showed up for Liam.

The irony of that was not lost on a grown-up Emma.

Because a grown-up Emma was also a vaguely jaded Emma and she stopped having nightmares about Killian Jones and death years ago.

Her subconscious does not seem to care.

Her subconscious seems intent on driving her insane.

Emma never went back to Storybrooke. She left with that state worker, lips still tingling from a first kiss that in retrospect would have been adorable if there wasn’t so much goddamn death involved, but Emma barely had time to linger on that thought before she was shipped to the first of nearly a dozen group homes and foster homes and less-than-pleasant foster families.

It went on that way for years nothing permanent and everything disappointing and Emma has kept a fairly wide berth between herself and lingering human contact. Because, well, here’s the thing; Emma Swan is not exactly normal.

In that she’s decidedly unnormal.

As unnormal as it is possible to be.

Because Emma Swan can wake the dead.

And kill them again.

It takes Emma three houses and one birthday without anyone acknowledging it is her birthday to grow disillusioned enough that it somehow makes sense to start conducting a few macabre science experiments. She’d always had her suspicions after that night and things that timed up too well to be coincidence and Emma starts with a dead bird she finds on the side of the road.

It’s gross.

The whole thing is gross, but she can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong with her, some fundamental issue that makes her unlovable and unfixable and she’s got to do something or she’s positive she’s going to shake herself out of her own skin.

So she starts with the bird and it flies away and something else falls out of a tree and it might be a raccoon, but Emma’s never seen a raccoon. So, she doesn’t spend too long thinking about it before she runs away.

And the houses keep coming and the experiments keep being...gross and Emma realizes, when she’s twelve years, ten months, sixteen days and nine hours old, that there are some rules to all of this.

They’re relatively simple, but they’re unbreakable.

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, dead, forever. Keep a dead thing alive for more than one minute and something else has to die in its place.

It’s then that twelve-year-old Emma realizes magic never comes for free. There’s always some kind of price. And she never looks for Killian Jones.

She never goes back home.

She moves – house to house and family to family, in name at least, until she ages out of the system and scrapes together enough money waitressing to pay the rent on the shoebox of an apartment she can live in. She moves out of that apartment eventually too.

The concept of roots kind of freaks Emma out.

Everything kind of freaks Emma out.

She assumes it’s because she’s wrong.

At, like, the most basic level.

She does a good job of hiding it. Most of the time. She’s grown up and the years have passed, as the years have a tendency to do, and she’d saved up enough from those first few waitressing jobs that it only makes sense to open up her own restaurant and Emma may hate roots, but she’s still kind of a sentimental loser and her restaurant is on the other side of the county from Storybrooke and only serves pie.

Damn good pie, but only pie.

It’s kitschy. It kind of balances out all the death in her life.

Emma shakes her head, still sitting upright in bed and she’d left the TV in the corner of the room the night before. The news is on now, some perfectly coiffed broadcaster talking about a murder victim and reward for any information and Emma mutters a curse under her breath because she knows it’s only a matter of time until—

Her ringtone is loud enough that she’s momentarily concerned about the effect it will have on her wallpaper.

Ruby is already talking by the time Emma swipes her thumb over the phone screen.

“Em, Em, Em, Em, where are you? Are you home? Are you at work? Are you on your way to your very short commute from your home to your work?” “Are you breathing?” “No, this is more important than breathing.”

Emma slumps into the small mound of pillows behind her. There is only one thing Ruby would consider more important than breathing – money.

The story of how Emma Swan meets Ruby Lucas is fraught with miscues and miscreants, but the important thing is that a perp Ruby was chasing over the goddamn top of buildings missed a step and suddenly fell directly into the alley behind Emma’s restaurant.

Where she was taking the garbage out.

He died rather instantly. And then...was less dead once he slammed his hand on Emma’s forearm. All of which Ruby saw.

Emma managed to swat at his head before he took off back down the block, but the damage was done as they say. Not Ruby. Obviously. She claims it was fate and meant to be and, well, it’s much easier for a private investigator to figure out who killed murder victims when she’s got a partner who can wake them up and ask them.

“What’s the gig?” Emma asks, mostly because sometimes she likes to use the wrong lingo on purpose if only to get Ruby to make that put-upon sigh. It works.

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” “Listen, Rubes, I’ve got, just like, a ton of mail order...orders waiting for me, so if this is going to take several thousand years then…” “Did you just call them mail order orders?” “That makes sense.” “Ehhhhh.” “Give me a break, I literally woke up five minutes before you called.” Ruby doesn’t sigh at that. She doesn’t say anything. That’s more concerning. “You just woke up?” she asks, a note of concern in her voice that probably shouldn’t feel as if it affects several of Emma’s internal organs. “Was...more weird dreams?” Emma makes a noncommittal noise – mostly to save face and partly because she’s been incredibly vague with Ruby about the dreams, only mentioning them when her partner pointed out how dead tired she looked during a trip to the morgue earlier this week. Ruby thought she was far funnier than she was.

“Emma,” Ruby chides, drawing out her name until it feels like a reprimand and punishment. “C’mon, seriously. What are you even dreaming about?” “Nothing.” “Is your eye twitching?” “Excuse me?” “Your eye twitches when you lie,” Ruby says. “Like every single time. It may be your most giving tell, honestly.” “How many tells do you think I have?” “I know you have, at least, five. The eye twitch is the most obvious, but sometimes you play with your hair and you scrunch your nose. Plus that foot bobbing thing and, uh...that’s four, right?” Emma makes another noise, eyes flitting back towards the TV and she can’t shake the feeling she should know something about whatever the story is. “Damn,” Ruby huffs. “I can’t think of the last one. You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’re trying to distract me and it’s not working.” “Did it not?” Emma laughs.

“No. Kind of. But no. Listen to me, do you want to get paid or not?” “I thought we already talked about all the mail order orders I have. There are just...a questionable number of rotten strawberries in my walk-in.” “It’s weird that you use rotten fruit.” Emma shrugs. And tugs her hair over her shoulder. “Cheaper that way,” she explains, not for the first time. “Plus, it’s not like I’m eating my own pie.” “Can’t have your pie and eat it too?”

“I don’t think that’s the colloquialism you were looking for. And you’re still getting sidetracked. Does this have something to do with the body they’re talking about on the news?”

“If the body on the news is offering a five-figure reward for any information regarding his untimely demise.” Emma doesn’t usually react to Ruby’s blunt viewpoint of the world and its numerous dead bodies, but she can’t suppress the shiver that moves her body when she hears his and something is wrong.

“His? And did you say five figures?”

Ruby hums, sounding as if she’s already decided what to do with her share. “His. I promise that is the least interesting part. The interesting part is that he was found out by the old quarry on the other side of the county, you know right near the bottom of the—”

“Hill,” Emma finishes. “The bottom of the hill. That’s…” Her vision swims, memories and moments attacking from every angle until she has to glance at her arms to make sure she’s not sporting inexplicable bruises from the past. She’s not.

Magic only goes so far, it seems.

“Yeah,” Ruby says, confusion obvious in all four letters. “That’s exactly right. They say it looked pretty bad. Some kind of something gone wrong, but the town isn’t happy about it and they don’t like the limelight and the allusions that they’re a hotbed for murder so I guess the mayor’s offered up a bunch of money and—” “—What was the guy’s name?” “What?” “The guy,” Emma repeats, and her voice scratches on the words. “You said it was a guy right? At the bottom of the hill? In Storybrooke?” Silence.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

And Emma’s head snaps back towards the TV when they finish their report because services for the deceased are being held tomorrow and— “His name’s, well, it was, I guess, his name was Killian Jones,” Ruby says, and Emma doesn’t really hear the rest of it.

She barely realizes she’s agreed to any of this until the local news ends, switches over to even crappier daytime programming and Emma has no idea how she gets through the day. She bakes. That’s kind of her thing.

She bakes and comes up with ridiculous recipes and flavor combinations and the customers are happy and Ruby announces I’ll see you tomorrow when she slams the door closed behind her nearly ten hours after it feels as if the world has ended.

Killian Jones is dead.

And Emma can’t seem to catch her breath.

Ruby’s standing outside her car the next morning, two cups of coffee in her hand and an expectant smile on her face. “Your eye is twitching,” she says conversationally, handing Emma what better be a latte. It’s not.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Sure I don’t. I’m just paid to observe and critique—” “—No one is paying you to critique.” “Whatever,” Ruby shrugs, swinging open the passenger side door of Emma’s car. “Why the face about this place?” “I will tell you it’s less threatening when you rhyme.” Ruby scowls. “That was not intentional and mostly the fault of the limits of the English language. You lived there at one point, didn’t you?”

“Were you looking me up last night?” Emma balks, and her hand is shaking so hard it’s difficult to move the gear shift.

“Please, don’t insult me like that. I looked you up as soon as I met you.” Emma jerks her head around, only to find Ruby grinning at her like several metaphorical cats. “Then why the third degree?” “There are no degrees here. There’s friendly curiosity, particularly when it comes to the state of your body and your ability to do what we’re going here to do.” “I’m fine.” The lie is honestly almost offensive. Emma made sixteen pies the day before. One had five different kinds of berries in it. She tested a new crust recipe she’s been thinking about for years.

Literally. Years.

She’s so stressed out she’s not sure she even shut her eyes the night before.

And that’s not the right word at all.

She’s goodman terrified.

She can’t believe Killian is dead.

Ruby throws her whole head back when she laughs, the sound filling the entire car and lingering on air molecules. “God, that was horrible,” she mutters. “Ok, let’s try it again. You know this guy?” “Small town.” “Not an answer.” “I knew him.” “In a personal sense?”

“Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma groans, and she can’t slump down in the seat while she’s driving. It’s definitely the most unfortunate thing that’s happened to her all day. She can’t imagine that will stay the same going forward. “I left Storybrooke when I was nine!”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh, yuh huh. Ok. So...what is it, childhood sweetheart?” “You know me better than that.” “I thought I did until I saw the explosion in your kitchen yesterday and now I’m starting to think you and our body were a little—” “—Can we not call him a body,” Emma snaps, knuckles going white when she grips the steering wheel too tight.

Ruby blinks. “Still sweet on him?”

“I was nine.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” Emma says, and she doesn’t expect that to hurt nearly as much as it does. That’s insane. This whole thing is insane. She wrote down conversational ideas for her sixty seconds with Killian somewhere around four in the morning.

Every one was worse than the last.

“No?” Ruby echoes. “You should tell that to your right arm.” Emma groans, not taking her eyes off the road because she can feel her arm shaking against her side. Her elbow keeps digging into her rib. “This is going to be fine,” Emma mumbles. Ruby does not look convinced.

That’s probably for the best since Emma can’t control her limbs – or her mind.

And she might not be nine years old anymore, but she’s fairly certain part of her never really stopped loving Killian Jones and the rest of her never forgot Killian Jones and they don’t hit any traffic on their way to Storybrooke.

She figures that’s some kind of sign.

They come up with some excuse for the funeral director – a portly man Emma doesn’t recognize who doesn’t recognize Emma because she hasn’t been in Storybrooke in nearly twenty years – and he directs them towards the viewing parlor.

The whole thing is sterile and unfeeling and Emma keeps exhaling dramatically.

“They think he was into some shady stuff you know,” the man says, voice dropping low like he’s sharing secrets with them. Ruby arches an eyebrow.

“That so?” “Oh yeah, yeah, very messy crime scene. Guess he came out on the short end.” Emma's stomach turns, mouth dropping open. “And no one else was found there? Just Kill—Mr. Jones? He was the only victim?” “You think the police are hiding more dead bodies?” “That’s not what I said.” “What she means,” Ruby says, stepping in between the two of them before Emma can throw the first punch, “is that it seems strange that there would be a sign of struggle and nothing else. No other evidence of other people around?” The funeral director does not look impressed. “That’s not my area,” he shrugs. “All I know is there’s a reward and the mayor’s going crazy trying to keep the cameras out of here and the kid’s uncles are besides themselves.” Emma has to count to ten in her head to make sure her exhale doesn’t fly out of her. Ruby’s gaze flashes her direction. “Right,” she says. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

There are a few more words exchanged – and possibly a few well-placed bills, but Emma ignores all of that, taking in the scene and there’s an actual sign at the far end of the room.

In Loving Memory of Killian Jones.

Emma drags her hand over her face, blinking back whatever has suddenly appeared in her eyes and she resolutely refuses to believe they’re tears.

She can’t believe he’s dead.

“Em,” Ruby calls. “We’re uh...we’ve only got a couple minutes here.”

Emma nods brusquely, avoiding the slightly accusatory stare of the funeral director and—”What if I did this on my own?”

“What?” “My own. Just...there’s, you know, years and a familiarity there and he’s...well, it may be weird to wake him up and stun him like that.” Ruby’s eyebrows set several different records for height and movement. “You think we’re going to stun him? And did you say wake him up? He’s not asleep, Em.” “I know, I know, but...just...I think this is for the best.” “Yuh huh.” “You keep saying that.” “That’s because I can’t figure out another string of words to use in this situation. You know you can’t stay in there long.” “I know.” “You’ve got sixty seconds to figure out who killed this guy.”

Emma shivers. And Ruby notices. Always. Perpetually. Infuriatingly. “I know,” Emma says again. “Trust me, it’s...I’ll be in and out and we’ll be collecting money in no time.” “Announce that a little louder.” Emma sighs, Ruby staring at her like she’s taking stock or emotional inventory. It seems to last forever and Emma does her best to keep her breathing even when Ruby leans around her to open the viewing room door.

“Sixty seconds,” she repeats. “That’s it.” “Aye aye.”

The door sounds impossibly loud when it closes behind Emma, another sound that makes her jump and sigh and she’s an absolute disaster. Or at least she thought she was until she turned and saw the coffin and then it feels a little like melting and a bit like freezing and it’s a strange combination, particularly when she’s also fairly certain her lungs have disappeared entirely.

She squeezes her eyes closed, desperate for some trace of confidence or courage. It’s disappointing when she can’t find any.

“C’mon, Swan,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the person on the other side of the room because that’s exactly what the person on the other side of the room would say to her.

Emma takes a step forward, wobbly at best and petrified at worst, lifting the coffin lid, and her lungs reappear in a miracle of modern science as soon as her eyes land on him.

“Oh,” Emma breathes, and that’s about all there is to it.

He’s wearing a suit, hair even longer than it was when he was ten years old. It curls slightly, just behind his ears, and there’s a dusting of scruff on his face. His hand is folded over his chest, only one hand, making his jacket twist slightly and Emma feels as if her throat is closing.

He’s got an earring in one ear.

It makes her laugh.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles. “You look like a pirate.”

She closes her eyes again when he doesn’t answer – she refuses to acknowledge why he doesn’t answer, but she’s got a job and justice needs to be served or something. Ruby probably has several dozen new pairs of shoes she’s already preordered.

Bobbing on her feet as soon as she’s within arms-length of the coffin, Emma shimmies her shoulders, like that will help shake free the nerves clinging to the base of her spine. Her lips feel far too dry, breathing far too erratic, but she’s on limited time and she’s got to touch him.

She’s got no idea where to touch him.

She scans his face, trying to find a spot that isn’t too forward or too weird and her eyes land on the scar on his cheek – a souvenir of a race down the hill and faulty brakes and Liam had been white as a sheet when they came home with Emma’s blood-stained sweatshirt pressed against Killian’s cheek.

“Ok,” she nods, and talking to herself is definitely a sign of impending insanity, but she kind of hopes she’s already gone insane and—

He moves far quicker than she expected.

Emma’s no more than brushed her fingertips over the curve of his cheek than he’s throwing his arm out in the minimal space between them, his wrist colliding painfully with her stomach. She stumbles backwards, barely keeping her balance and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and when she looks up he’s brandishing a chair at her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Killian shouts, and Emma does her best to quiet him without taking a rogue chair to the side of her legs.

“Listen, listen, listen. Do you remember when you were a kid there was a girl who lived across the street from you?” He doesn’t immediately put the chair down. He licks his lips instead. And the tips of his ears go red. “Swan?”

Emma nods, ignoring the lump of everything in the back of her throat at her sound of her own name. “Hi.” “Hi? Did you just say hi? What are you doing here?” “I’m uh...how much do you remember of, like, the last seventy-two hours?” Killian makes a face, an expression that does something particular to Emma’s heart and soul and whatever, tilting his head and his eyes widen when he notices the coffin he just leapt out of. “Oh, shit. Is that…” “Yeah,” Emma says. “So, uh. I don’t have a lot of time here.” “How much time is not a lot of time? God, are you some kind of angel? Is that what’s happening? Because if that’s what’s happening, then that’s a really twisted trick to show me you when I’m dead and—” “—No, no, I’m really here.” She ignores most of that sentence too. She’ll have the rest of her life to linger on what those words, maybe, mean. “But, um, we’re wasting time.” “To?” “Have you tell me who killed you.” Killian blinks – far too quickly to be anything except entirely distracting, and Emma wishes he wouldn’t because she’d really like to see his eyes and she’s almost pleased to realize her memories of his eyes have remained perfect for the last two decades. “Are you a cop?”

“No, but, Killian, you’re really cutting into your time here. It’s like...twenty seconds now.” “What?” “Killian!” His answering smile is blinding. That’s the only word Emma can come up with. It makes her breath catch and her shoulders sag, as if all the worries and fears and anxieties of the world have disappeared. At least for a moment.

“It’s really good to see you, Swan,” he says, taking a step towards her and Emma backs up on instinct. That gives him, visible, pause. “I don’t know who killed me.” “What?” “I have no idea who killed me. It was an arrangement and—that’s not important, but I don’t know how it happened. I think I had a dream about some kind of blade but—” He cuts himself off when he twists the wrong way, gritting his teeth when his gaze falls on the blunt end of his left arm. “Holy shit,” Killian mumbles. “That’s...shit did I bleed out somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “That’s why I’m here.” “To find out why I died?” She nods. “And you’re not an angel?” She shakes her head. “Huh, well I’m sorry to disappoint, Swan, but I’ve got no idea. Does that send me directly to hell or something?” “I’m really not an angel.” Killian hums, rocking towards her and ignoring whatever Emma’s eyes do at that. “So, uh...what happens now? I was dead, wasn’t I?” “Yeah. Um...well, I have to touch you and you’ll be dead again.” “You have to touch me?” “Them’s the rules.” He chuckles, the smile on his face her smile and Emma’s a greedy jerk. She wrings her hands together. That’s probably the fifth tell. “You know,” she mutters. “When I was a kid...I was...you were my first kiss.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “You were my first kiss too,” Killian says. “And you’ve got to touch me so I die again?” “Please don’t say it like that.” There’s more laughter and they’re definitely in the final seconds and Emma tilts her head up as soon as Killian’s incredibly shiny dress shoes threaten to brush against her flats. “No better way to go out then to go out kissing, huh?” “Oh my God.” “Admit it, Swan, that was funny.” “It was not.” “You’re arguing with a dead man.” She rolls her eyes, but her stomach doesn’t get the memo about jokes and humor and Killian mumbles hey under his breath. “Missed the mark, didn’t I? You don’t…” His ears are still tinged red, a hand reaching behind his back to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s not a requirement, Swan. The kissing, I mean. Just felt...symmetrical.” “You were always way better at math than me.” Killian grins. “So?”

And for half a breath, Emma is going to do it. She’s going to kiss him and it’ll be something, in some kind of way that may result in a complete and total mental breakdown, because Killian’s already leaning towards her and she really can’t cope with the cut of that suit, but that seems a little morbid too and Emma pulls her lips back behind her teeth.

“Ah,” Killian says, a note of disappointment in his voice that does not make sense for a man who’s standing a few feet away from his own coffin. “That’s fine, Swan.”

He’s called her Swan more in the last forty-five seconds than he did in the last forty-five days they saw each other.

Emma’s not totally convinced he isn’t doing it on purpose.

“What if...you didn’t have to be dead?” Killian scoffs. “That’d be ideal, honestly. Is that an option?”

The objection sits heavy on Emma’s tongue, the certainty that the rules are the rules and there’s no way to break them, but he’s standing there and smiling at her and she takes a step back before she can consider anything except how much she wants Killian Jones to be alive.

With her.

Emma hears the timer on her phone go off. Her sixty seconds are up. And Killian Jones is still alive, smiling at her.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs #captain swan ff #cs fic #one foot in #i did not remember this being so long #although humble brag #this may be some of the best banter i've written

71 notes · View notes