#sea dragon? leviathan? whatever she is something
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say hi to CoreGazer!!! she loves the attention.
#art#coregazer…#< if i ever post more of her#non undertale#for once#sea dragon? leviathan? whatever she is something#couldn’t fit her on my banner.. much bigger than most of my mains
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Imagine that the hybrid 141 was getting a teammate and that teammate was a hybrid and Laswell wanted it to be a surprise for the team what they are as in hybrid was and soon as they get off the aircraft and onto the tarmac, the boys realize that they’re with another dragon hybrid and her “heat” would be soon upon her (dark blue in to black better for stealth or, whatever you prefer, she also has her wings) how would the boys handle that you can take the story anyway you want 
This… I might make it self-indulging because this idea has been clawing at the back of my mind for a long while.
Cw: mating/heat cycle, fire/water magic, tell me if I missed any.
Laswell had Price wait for the surprise she had planned, the secret she kept from them when they received your file. It had all he asked for in attributes and skills, but all things personal that should have been on it were scratched out in black. He was told that it was a need to know basis, your name, age or species wouldn’t be divulged unless you told them yourself. He knew you from words from mouth to ear, ad read of your skill and efficiently but nothing he heard and found told him an ounce about you as a person. Your character was a mystery he died to know.
So when he got word from Laswell that your ETA was just over half an hour, he had the boys reconvene to the airstrip, watching the aircraft carrying you land not too far from them, the rotors slowing to a steady thrum. The anticipation that bubble din his chest made this moment crawl at a snail’s pace, the ramp lowering too slowly for his liking and the droning sound of the aircraft’s irking his ears. Then, seconds after the ramp fully dropped, he caught sight of blue horns, tines growing from a singular robust beam, segmented like those of a scale. Your head, covered by a custom made helmet to let your antlers peek out and sit comfortably on your head (at least you wore something, unlike his constant frustration with finding one that wouldn’t bother his horns), followed after you walked out, decked in your gear and a bag slung over your shoulders.
You weren’t what he was expecting, not exactly. He read that you had a masterful experience in hydromancy, stealing water from the air and humidity and contorting it to cause havoc in the field and cutting through the enemy. He and the others shared their theories, one possibility made you into a water witch, a leviathan, or one of those creepy monsters from the deep sea. Not what… whatever you were. You had elk-like horns painted in the deepest blue he’d ever seen and a tail covered in scales of the same shade, glistening under the light like it was wet with tufts of hair - or was it fur? - crawling down the base of your fourth limb to create a silky and soft end with long, slowing locks.
What were you? What was that smell? It got sweeter the closer you got, a softness that clung to his nose and made him salivate. He wondered how strong it must be for the Soap and König who’s noses were more enhanced and sensitive than any others, they’d probably sniff the source - you - out and answer his undying question.
“Captain Price,” you nodded your head, a small smile gracing your lips, your slitted eyes narrowed in greeting, “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”
That sweetness lingered around you and stuck to his hand when you shook hands, giving him a firm shake and stronger grip that he could admire for the strength you showed. Had you face been as bright as it was a few seconds before? Perhaps it was the musk that oozed off you, it was uneasily addicting and pleasing to his lizard brain, slowly moving the cogs of hos old machine. He watched you take a step back, making some distance between his Task Force and you, and his mind got clearer, nose less stuffy and cheeks wash away the slight flush. Then it hit him, the sweetness, the dazed perception of you and the growing need in his body, he was reacting to you.
“Sorry, I was told I’d be off for the week once I landed,” you cocked your head, sharing an apologetic smile, “My cycle follows the Lunar year.”
Ah, everything made more sense now, the gracefulness of your beautiful tail, the glistening of your scales and the sharpness of your horns. He had agreed to welcome another dragon to his Task Force, he was fortunate that Asian dragons were calmer and benevolent than his European counterpart.
Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami
#x reader#cod mw2#cod mw2 x reader#captain price#price x reader#mw2 ghost#soap mw2#gaz mw2#konig mw2#horangi mw2#alejandro vargas#rudy parra#Dragon!reader#monster 141#monster cod au#monster 141 au#task force 141 x reader#task force 141#kortac
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WIP MERMAY
(if I'll ever finish this, it'll most likely be next may, ops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )
this is updated version, i hope
Well, this is what happens when my brain just combines the two things i like into one... I mean, you can't blame me, 'cuz it's TRANSFORMERS AND SUBNAUTICA! How could I NOT combine these two things?!
So behold: Unicron And Earth as merformers? is that a word? term? I just for whatever reason decided to Play with their designs with alien fish. Anyway- these two belong to @lets-try-some-writing
and some rambling under cut, good luck, you'll need it
Uhhh spoilers for Subnautica ig
So the moment i let my mind wander, I get hit with this kind of ideas. Why Subnautica of all things? BECAUSE I LOVE THAT GAME AND THE REAPER LEVIATHAN AND SEE EMPEROR FIT PERFECTLY-
Ok, so the idea of a beastformers that turn into Subnautica fauna (and i guess flora as well, thank you Botanica from Beast Mashines for existing), was spinning around inside my head for quite some time now - JUST YOU WAIT, I WILL DRAW THEM, so many OCs to make, hopefuly this summer break.
UNICRON- my initial thought was just Reaper Leviathan: the mandibles on his back instead of wings, something similar to Tarantulas, mmm yes. Both he and Earth have four eyes only because both reaper and see empress four of them. All of them are aliens and have natural glowing body parts, so why not, my brain just said let's go crazy and didn't wait for an answers besides WE NEED MORE TRANSFORMERS WITH 4 EYES.
But then i rememberd that there's a bigger fish- THE SEA DRAGON. He dose have these matching spikes on his body, and the back appendages? tentacles? Are similar to Sea Emperors and is living in the deepest parts on the map. However, Sea Empress os the biggest alive creature in game (for aby fellow Subnautica nerds, o know that Gargantuan Leviathan i WAAAY bigger, but his design is eh, probably not the best here, maybe the colar thiengies could be like a cape?). But then i hit me- UNICRON CAN BE A REAPER AND SEA DRAGON HYBRID! It basicly gives me the ability to put all the parts of both fishes that match Unicrons og body the best and a "logical" explenation as to why he would be always bigger than Earth. With hybrids, sometimes they are bigger than parental species, so as hybrid he could be unnaturaly bigger, and with Sea Dragon parts he can live in the deepest game bioms.
EARTH- the Sea Emperor because yes. Also In game it's te Sea Empress babies that produce enzyme 42, the only thing that managed to destroy the deadly bacteria (GREEN BACTERIA, YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE IS GREEN? TOX-EN) and save/give life to the entire planet again, and she is a curious, young, litle thing like the hatchlings; i'm guessing that's why she's so small in authors drawing. She's a baby
(huh now that i'm thinking about it, maybe Primus should be Sea Emperor, Unicron just a Reaper and Earth a Sea Dragon, after all wild fires are a recurring events...version 2 ig?)
I really wanted to have it done by the end of may, but uhh i'm working on some other thing, that was suposed to be just a sketch, and instead it just grew bigger, and my brain is just demanding full render XD And it will now take even more time despite it being almost finished, because the moment i discovered tha faster and easier method for shading and lightning throu clipping masks, i knew I'd use it there, so XD But hey at least i know it'll look better now ( ≖‿ ≖ )
#transformers#mermay#merformers#huh it is a real term#unicron and earth au#i think it counts?#subnautica#i'm writing this whole post for the second time and i'm at my limit#huh i havent drawn mermaids since like very early elementary school#i literally had to get this idea out of my system to get anything else done#i swear if tumblr rearranges the pictures after i click post like its a word document one more time im gonna lose it#maccadam#i need to go to sleep#...attempt nr 3....nghguh#this the first and last time im editing a post on mobile never again you cheap word doc wanabe
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while both furina and neuvi had themes of playing a role for 500 years and now being free to be themselves, which for furina is obvious, she can stop playing a god and be a normal human now, but for neuvi it's the opposite, he can stop pretending to be a normal human and be fully a dragon god, and i wish it was explored more
like yeah, his stories state it directly, "It is worth mentioning that the role of Chief Justice is as much his true self as the Hydro Dragon is his essence. Only the role of "normal human" is one he must play. It was in their solitude and guilt that humans invented a god to judge them, and in their greed and guilt that they created a god to save them. And with that god no longer present, it falls to Neuvillette to fulfill such expectations. He has pardoned humanity, and has regained his original form. Now, he can finally walk in the rain and enjoy it."
like just walking under rain is not enough. i want unapologetically non-human, full on cryptid mermaid king. constant fluid shapeshifting of a hydro creature based on emotions, from a human with something off about him to full on obviously underwater creature that happened to be human shaped. scales. rows of sharp teeth. fluorescence. hair moving like its underwater. scent changing from heavy sea brine to fresh ozone of the rain. clothes imbued with power and acting like fins, from cravat to coat-tails. which btw, coat-tails changing behavior from lightly waving mermaid fins to long trails of heavy leviathan coils, shedding algae and sea shells.
all this while still being an overly formal polite judge, without ppl seeing him as monstrous or feral or whatever. ppl of fountaine ready to throw hands if foreigners try to say monsieur iudex is weird. now being slightly damp and being able to tell apart dif tastes of water is high fashion and a mark of nobility.
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SHOW US THE PIRATE STUFF DO THE MERMAID STUFF ALKNASDAS
OKAY I FINALLY HAVE A LITTLE TIME ARRGAGRG I hope this aimless infodump is readable
so! Their designs and junk are a mess rn but I do have some stuff of them!!
Ignore the little dragon in the last I'm still working on Lloyd's whole... business. And! Don't mind the text in the pink one, I was just tryna think up silly nicknames!
Anyways! They aren't really... Traditional pirates? Y'know.. cause their crew size is like 5 + a child and ancient beast.
Under division is a small ramble
Cole's the "captain" and is a selkie (although I know they're usually seals I accidentally chose a sea lion)! He's the sea lion in the pictures and I'm desperately trying to work his skin into the design. I thought it'd be silly since he was raised in dance and entertainment.. and hey! Sea lions are known for that too!
(he wasn't meant to look so forsaken here, sorry Cole)
Jay is a mermaid (thing?) When in the water, he has the lower half reminiscent of an electric eel (I saw reminiscent as there are some major differences)! No one really has powers in this but he can still shock like that,, Ed and Edna are still human in this and I'm trying to remember if they still lived at a scrapyard or a shipyard.
Both Kai and Nya are only half mermaid! Nya ended up inheriting way more mermaid traits than her brother, who doesn't even have a tail in water, but still has a lot of human drawbacks. She can only breathe underwater for so long and ironically Kai can last down there longer. He just chooses not to since I thought it'd be funny to still let him be scared of water in this 😭 sorry Kai. He still has the recognizable sharper teeth and has bits and flashes of shimmery scales but is overall the most human of the bunch once you count out Cole's unskinned form.
I couldn't resist myself on Zane and ended up making him a siren. Mainly because.. bird! And also if he was going to be organic, I wanted to isolate him from the other sea related creatures. He has the wings and feathers of a gyrfalcon and can't swim as well in the ocean! He ends up bonding with Kai over this Kai originally hadn't liked him too much! Reasonably so since.. y'know.. sirens eat people. And mermaids in this.. although Zane eats human things as he was raised on it by a still very human Dr. Julien (who I guess is more of a bird-oriented wildlife scientist in this? ornithologist?). insert joke about him being a hand raised bird.
I don't have my sketchbook with me right now so I'm scrambling for pictures but ! Like all their designs, he's still a work in progress. Will most likely make his legs longer or something but this is just my ideas LOL
And anyways! Onto Lloyd! (And the others?)
I was struggling to decide what Lloyd should be,, like? A dragon could still very much work and his normal version is already so cool?? However, I ended up on leviathan.. a baby one. The serpentine aren't decided but Lloyd's still pretty much not taken seriously by the town. Still winds up being taken in by the "ninja!"
Garmadon is still locked up, although now at the bottom of the ocean! The Skulkin are drowned/dead pirates?
Wu is who I've been struggling to decide on as well! For whatever reason I've been contemplating making him like just some statue in the Destiny's Bounty that speaks to them.
There's plenty of other things going on,, Kai and Nya come to them on accident and Jay is over the moon to see other moons and wants to show them their "ways" despite having never even met others before. Cole is desperately trying to keep everyone in one place as they've accidentally made the perfect collection of the world's most valuable pelts.
Kai still raises Nya at the forge (which in this, is beachside), but years later there's a rise in pricing for the scales of mers and the boy decides that they need to leave in effort to protect her. Nya is devastated because this is their home! Where else would they even go?? They barely have any cash! Kai's decision is further inland AND with the money they get from selling the forge. Yadda, yadda, the buyer turns on them and they wind up in the ocean near their home! Kai's knocked cold, which is for the better as Nya swims them further and further into open ocean.
For the first time, Nya meets another mer as she tries to save her brother, and he helps them aboard a ship! The Destiny's Bounty! (Or perhaps a ship before it? It's all still up in air)
I'd expand more but I'm out of time </3 please give any suggestions if you'd like to! I'd always appreciate criticism
#ninjago#ninjago au#zane julien#cole brookstone#jay walker#kai smith#nya smith#lloyd garmadon#ninjago zane#ninjago cole#ninjago jay#ninjago nya#ninjago kai#ninjago lloyd#if you've seen my stuff before then you bet this includes glacier#low tides au
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THE DRAGON QUEEN
chapter i — the wedding
To protect her people, Aellys must marry the dragonking, unite their empires, and defeat the leviathans who would rule them all.
Dragons and humans have been mortal enemies for as long as anyone can remember, and Queen Aellys hates dragons more than most. They're monsters who deserve nothing but death and destruction, and she will personally hunt down every dragon that sets foot on her land or wing in her sky.
But something worse is coming. The leviathans are slowly emerging from the sea, great beasts of legend who once had aspirations to take over the world. Only when humans and dragons united were they defeated before. And it is only when humans and dragons unite that they will be defeated once again.
Aellys doesn't want to marry. She has little interest in men, and even less in the dragonking. But she will do whatever it takes to save her people. But as she joins the dragoncourt, she finds King Roaneth is nothing like she expected.
But the leviathans are coming.
read chapter one on wattpad.
#writeblr#wip#wip intro#wip introduction#wattpad#enemies to lovers#tropes#trope map#mywip#mine.#wip: dragon queen
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https://www.tumblr.com/proxylynn/744293560207179776/lynsie-just-trying-to-do-her-job-managing
Aww Mammon is worrying for Lynsie!
Do these two have a history together?
[Yeah. Going way back to that massive "In the Beginning" lore post that I dropped when I made her...Lynsie aka the Primordial Dragon was the creature made and subsequently cast aside by the Creator who tossed her into the pit that would be Hell. Do a little time skippy and we got Lucifer being cast down for the whole Fuirt thing. Lu Lu finds her and offers that which was denied...compassion. Another time skip later, the battle of Heaven and Hell's reformation blah blah, and Lucifer sets up his new world and the order of power.
"When the war was over, many were now cast down into the pit of the dammed, the beasts included. With Lucifer now in power over the fallen, mostly because he still possessed very strong angelic power which holds sway over the now demonic power of his contemporaries, he used the dragon to sway the beasts to help in reforming their eternal prison into a world of their own. For their aid, the beasts were granted new roles and lordships as the hierarchy of Hell was being established. It's a crude form of hierarchy defined by power, with Lucifer being King of all Hell. Behemoth and Ziz sought nothing more than humble existences, choosing to take lord titles but no grand duties while remaining in eternal servitude. Leviathan, for its envious nature, took up what its siblings passed down, becoming not just a lord but a Prince as the Deadly Sin of Envy, giving it rein over the abyssal sea of the Ring of Envy. The dragon for its part, took lordship and sought a governing seat at Lucifer's side, which was granted in the form of the dragon being used to keep all of Hell in line when the chaotic stability of power is being threatened."
During this early halcyon age, Lucifer was still believing in his dreams and formed the Deadly Sin Circus (making that name up for this). All seven had a role that best fit their talents. Lucifer was the Ring Leader. (Ha! Puns!) Beelzebub was the Beast Tamer. Asmodeus was the Fire Spinner. Mammon was the Clown and marketer. (now come my headcanons) Satan was the Strongman and often would team up with Bee. Belphegor was in charge of concessions and provided very addictive snacks. Leviathan was in charge of effects and would put on aquatic musical performances. On occasion, the beasts were requested to perform. (Satan loved showing off with Behemoth. Ziz not so much and would stay out of it.) Lynsie would try dabbling with Ozzie and Bee (for obvious reasons) but found chemistry with Mammon, usually with her being the "straight man" in their double comedy while he was the "funny man".
As Hell grew, their responsibilities did too and after some tensions boiled over, the curtains on the circus closed with everyone parting ways. Though some still remain close, Ozzy and Bee are still buds, and Bee generally gets along with everyone...except Mammon.
Mammon's bluntness and lack of shits-given attitude tends to make him incredibly off-putting and it strains even Lynsie's patience at times due to her governing over Hell's power structures. If it weren't for their friendship and Lucifer's lack of ruling, Mammon would likely lose a lot of his power, possibly even the rule of his Ring. But so long as she's in the seat of control and he's able to keep on her good side, he'll continue to rule Greed while she's stuck dealing with the aftermath of whatever new trouble he's caused.
It's a messed up dependent relationship because both are aware of this cycle yet can't break it. She doesn't want to lose him as a friend because she doesn't want to do what was done to her, she doesn't want to feel like she betrayed him for that is the ultimate sin in her eyes, yet the longer she tries to tackle this on her own the more stress consumes her. And he knows she's probably the only decent soul who doesn't judge or want something from him, purely enjoying him for who he is, but his selfish destructive tendencies are a wedge that threatens to pry their bond apart and it secretly terrifies him.]
#ask op#lynn and mammon#helluva boss mammon#mammon x oc#helluvaboss#hazbin hotel#oc lore#headcanon#helluva boss oc#hazbin hotel oc#mammon helluva boss
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The Passing of the Dragon
The Passing of the Dragon - Ken Liu
Illustrated byMary Haasdyk
Edited byJonathan Strahan
Wed Sep 13, 2023 9:00am
A woman who fears she’s failing as a painter and as an artist seeks inspiration from one of her favorite poets and finds something even more wondrous, but also more impossible to capture on canvas…
Kay turns right when she reaches the cove shore, away from the wind; it’s nice not to have the howling December wind in her face for a while, each blast the stroke of a sandpaper palm across her cheeks. People sometimes forget how cold it can get in southeastern Connecticut; she certainly did when she decided to make this . . . expedition, outing, jaunt, peregrination—whatever this journey is—during Christmas break.
The cove is frozen over as far as the eye can see, and each of her steps makes a satisfying crunch in the calf-high snow. She stops to catch her breath, the steamy exhalation clouding her vision momentarily. She peers up ahead and to the right, over the tall strands of cattails and reeds, snow-heavy cotton swabs, searching for a two-story house with a steeply pitched roof whose profile, etched in charcoal on the cover of Chilton’s first chapbook, has been seared into her memory.
“Should be right around here,” she mutters to herself before trekking on.
Excitement wars with embarrassment. This is such a silly trip, something her friends would make fun of her for if they knew. What is the point of visiting the house where her favorite poet no longer lives? What is the point of walking around the cove where he no longer walks? What is the point of a pilgrimage to the once abode of an avowed atheist?
We reminisced late into the night—
Empty wine bottles rattling along the kitchen floor—
“Let it go, Freddy”—
Laughing like hyenas at this memory and that—
“Oh we were so young!”—
Until someone lit a cigarette and coughed.
Through the haze we looked at each other
Mesmerized by the void between
Our constituent atoms
Falling away from one another.
Why is this poem her favorite? Does she also fear there is nothing but the void between atoms and among stars, once her syllables have dissolved back to entropic sound? What does it say about her that at thirty-four she already thinks her career as an artist is over, or perhaps that it has never started? Does she love herself too much, or too little? Why won’t they love her paintings? Why?
She trudges forward; one step, then another. No firefly-festooned Fraser firs (like in Chilton’s last poem, “Spontaneous Ornaments”); no reflections of glowing cabin windows shimmering in water studded with moon jellies; no blinking buoys beckoning steadily to distant fishing boats; no nuclear submarines gliding through the waves, silent leviathans ready to enforce America’s promise of peace through strength, moonlight scintillating off metallic hulls like fish scales—around her she could see none of the things that F. R. Z. Chilton wrote about. Between the frozen sea and the snowbound earth, she’s a stick figure moving between white and white, leaving behind an extended ellipsis on a blank page, a Pollockian dribble against an empty canvas.
She peers through the darkening gloom, made hazier by swirling snow crystals riding fitful gusts. Still no sign of the house; she fiddles with her phone, but there is no reception and the map app leaves her in terra incognita. She’s not dressed properly for a seaside winter hike. The cold seeps down the collar and up the sleeves of her inadequate coat, intended for short trips between the car and the Fresh Food Basket. She shivers and tries to walk faster, trampling through the snow.
She imagines Chilton returning here every summer, leaving behind the fancy parties in New York, Frankfurt, Athens, Amsterdam; leaving behind the cacophony of tongues, vintages, awards, jealousies, friends, foes, and lovers, all clamoring for his attention, gaze, approval; she imagines him holed up in his quiet refuge by the sea here in rural Connecticut, a hermit surrounded by his volumes of Homer and Ovid (one of which he had translated himself), Dante and Chaucer, Keats and Hopkins, Eliot and Stein, Sappho and Spencer, emerging only to take walks in the morning and evening, perhaps even over the very same sliver of land she’s stumbling over now, penning the poems that would then be gathered into Veni Vidi, Dry Spells, Sixty-Three Awakenings, the books that will last long beyond the scattering of Chilton’s own ashes into his beloved Aegean.
There is nothing remotely similar about their lives. What does she hope to accomplish by seeing his house, by walking the same ground, by breathing the same air—albeit in a different season? What can a woman whose paintings have been seen by fewer than fifty people hope to learn from a ghost whose poems have been taught to millions? Is it envy or hope that propels her to visit the site of her artistic hero’s triumph?
What, after all, can she learn from Chilton? She cannot paint scenes of sun-dazzled beautiful young men in the Aegean, of the cry of a loon disappearing over a New England lake, of debating the finer points of Anglo-Saxon grammar with Seamus Heaney. What can she draw on but a tiny chain-link-enclosed backyard with dying grass; shadeless sidewalks dotted with bits of dried dog poop; the long checkout lines at the Fresh Food Basket, where she both wants and doesn’t want more shifts; the faces of people in the city rushing about, busy, depressed, sensual, and empty, worried about not having more money and so fearful of losing the little love they have that they cling to it, clutching so hard that they’ll kill it and they know it. She tries to paint these things but she cannot seem to find a way to make the others understand the love and apathy and pride and terror, all of it, none of it.
Though she has never lived Chilton’s life, she can feel the heat of his lusts, the cutting pain of his losses, the cool thrill of his dispassionate observations, the warm tingling of his moments of joy. But those who have gazed upon her paintings have not seen what she wanted them to see. When people say anything about her work at all, they use words like “quotidian,” “realist,” “sentimental,” “outdated,” “parochial,” “limited.” Chilton’s poems are deemed universal while her paintings are not. Is this difference between them due to a gap in skill and talent or a disparity in something else—something immutable, faceless, immovable, unjust, something she can never overcome? The question gnaws at her—perhaps it’s the question that lies behind this trip that she cannot even fully explain to herself.
As her shadow grows longer and her breath shorter, anxiety mounts in her heart, threatening to tip over into despair. She looks back: the footprints are already disappearing; she may not be able to find her way back to the parking lot.
Frustration makes her want to scream. To take the train down here and to rent a car and to take off time from work, just so that she can try to . . . find something here that will keep her going—and now to fail. It’s all so ridiculous. She is a failure. Her mother is right. She has failed as a painter, as an artist, as a productive member of society. She might as well sit down where she is and let the storm take her, become one with the snow-swabbed cattails, one of Pascal’s thinking reeds.
Everything falls silent. She hears nothing. Not the distant traffic on the highway she took, not the Christmas songs in the mall parking lot she passed, not the last-minute rush of commerce and commercialized good cheer she escaped. Not even the howling of the wind. Snow falls around her quietly, in large clumps that stick to her jacket, to her hair, to her long lashes.
Something begins to glow in the south, beyond and through the falling veil of evening. Puzzled, she squints through the snow at it.
Suddenly, the sky is lit up bright as noonday—no, brighter. Her hands shoot up to cover her eyes instinctively. The frigid air that has been hounding her all day is replaced by warm gusts that caress rather than whip.
Cautiously, she uncovers her eyes. The snow and ice are gone. She stares, mouth agape, at the verdant grass that stretches from her feet to the cove shore, at the gentle aquamarine waves undulating beyond, at the sunlight sparkling among them—or maybe glints from dancing jellyfish? Dotting the grass are blooming flowers and glorious bushes she has never seen, as well as a few clumps of colorful mushrooms glistening like handfuls of jewels. Farther away, trees gently sway in the breeze, their leaves whispering incessantly, carrying on in a dreamy language she wishes she knew.
She looks about in wonder. She’s clearly not on Long Island Sound anymore, and this is no Christmas Eve.
There, she sees it, coming over the horizon, beyond the waves, a great sinuous presence with outstretched wings that seem to curtain the gap between heaven and sea, whose every inhalation and exhalation is a storm in the sublunary realm, a creature so grand that language deserts her. She stares at it, unblinking, greedily drinking in the sight, unwilling to be parted from it for even a fraction of a second.
Moment by moment, the creature approaches. Its shadow blots out half the sky. Its call drowns out all other sound. It seems to have a thousand eyes and no eyes at all. Each wingbeat feels like a breath taken by the universal lung, the perpetual bellows that drives all Life in the Dao De Jing. The creature is the platonic ideal of Creature, the very Form of all consciousness. Nothing in her life has prepared her for this.
In that moment, she understands all the poems she has ever read; she grasps all the paintings and statues and photographs she has ever puzzled over; she sees the grace in every sidewalk crack, every wearily slumped shoulder, every tired face asking, What is this about? She understands it all, sees it all, accepts it all. Everyone is heroic, the protagonist of their story, the only story they’ll know from the inside out—true, unflinching, joyous in the face of the void. There is light in everything. It is all so beautiful. She’s so delighted that she begins to laugh, only then realizing that she has forgotten to breathe and she’s growing light-headed.
“I’m looking at a dragon!” she screams, not caring who hears her. “A dragon!”
The great dragon sweeps overhead and disappears among the clouds. She laughs; she cries; she babbles with tears streaming down her face.
Eventually, she notices around her the frigid darkness, the heavy snow, the biting gusts of wind, the silence that swallows her shouts of joy like a bottomless well.
It’s Christmas Eve again, and she’s back on the shore of southeastern Connecticut. The world has returned to the quotidian.
But how can it? She has seen a dragon. A dragon!
She stumbles through the snow back toward her car, guided by wild hope, the search for Chilton’s house forgotten; she knows what she must do.
She paints.
She paints the dragon from every perspective: from above, as though gazing through the camera on a military satellite or the eye of God; from below, the way she remembers it, a mortal being peering up at transcendence; from the air, cinematically, as though the picture were a shot from a superhero film; from nowhere and everywhere at once, with the dragon fractured into a dozen perspectives all jumbled together in a prismatic collage.
She paints in a feverish state. No sleep, no food, no shifts at the Fresh Food Basket. She collapses to the floor, eyes still on the unfinished canvas, and slips into a dreamless slumber even as she tells herself she’ll be closing her eyes only for a second. She startles awake in the middle of the night, stumbles to the fridge to pick up the only thing she finds in it, a shriveled lemon, and starts to paint again as she sucks on it, having turned on every light in the apartment.
None of the paintings suit. No matter how many layers of paint she slathers onto the canvas, the dragon under her brush looks absurd, fake, insubstantial, like something copied from a video game box, or one of those calendars they sell at a discount at the dollar store: Unicorns and Dragons, Your Year in Magic, The Inner Druid. Instead of breathtaking, the dragons she paints are mere lifeless clichés, puppets with no soul, no presence, no transcendence.
Never has she felt so keenly her own inadequacy as an artist. She crawls into bed and clutches a thick pillow over the back of her head, sealing herself away, thinking she’ll never be able to face the world again.
Into her mind comes the poem where Chilton recounts the experience of going through the photographs of his father after his death.
A bearded bear in orange
Treks through Svalbard;
My sister and me, half-formed, one in each arm,
A progenitorial parenthetical;
Wedding, commencement, obligatory shots
From inside the airplane before he dove out of the sky;
Stiff poses with important men
Like logoed pens sticking out of a coffee mug;
I suppose I should cry, but I don’t can’t shan’t won’t.
Seven-and-seventy years in a shoebox,
The penciled dates fading, gone,
Scales of the dragon I can never know . . .
She wakes up, the seventh day after her return, and attacks the canvas anew. She paints what she saw on that New England winter shore: the preposterous grass, the impossible flowers, the lush, inconceivable trees, already fading. She paints the still-iridescent waves, the nevertheless-glowing sky, the yet-shimmering air, the wisps of clouds all pining after what was no longer there. She tries to paint the world not with the dragon in it, but the second after its passing.
Plato told his parable of dancing shadows of ideal forms, and Zhuangzi scoffed at the notion of capturing meaning with mere words. Because it is futile to apprehend the dragon with line and layer and color and shape, she tries to paint the trail left behind by the dragon, the echoes of its cry lingering over the trembling vegetation, the abating drift of clouds rearranged by its sky-rending wings, the way every speck of sea-foam, every fleeting shadow, every molecule of air cried out, It was here! Did you see it? Did you see it?
How can you not see the beauty in every moment of this world, the universality of every experience? The dragon is the Real, beyond mere Appearance, a realization of the Possible. Seeing the dragon and sharing it—this is her story. No one can see the dragon and be unmoved.
The brush drops from her hand, and paint spatters all over the floor—she’s been too busy to bother with laying down newspapers. She’ll lose her security deposit but she doesn’t care. Finally, she has created something that no one else could have—and it is absolutely, unconditionally universal.
Kay submits the painting to the spring show at ArtNow, her co-op. There are forty-six entries.
At the opening reception, like the other artists, she stands near her painting. Very few visitors stop. When they do, Kay avoids making eye contact, but she strains to catch snippets of their conversation.
“I don’t get it. Where’s the dragon?”
“What is that small thing in the corner? Is that it?”
“I think that’s a tree.”
“Why are there so many flowers if there’s snow around the edge? That’s weird.”
“Contemporary art is all weird.”
Why can’t you see the dragon?!? She bites down so hard that her jaw hurts. An artist craves an audience, but maybe not all audiences are crave-worthy. To calm her nerves, she sips from a glass of terrible wine.
In the end, “Best of Show” goes to Amondi’s photograph of plant specimens laid flat against a white background: milkweed pods resembling puffy green birds; a forsythia branch portraying a swarm of butterflies; a couple of young cactuses gently winding about one another in the manner of green caterpillars; a clump of mushrooms in the shape of a prairie dog, with earth still clinging to the stems. The title: “Vegan Menagerie.”
After the food is gone and most of the crowd has left, the artists mingle and move about the gallery, catching up with friends and checking out the other pieces.
“Happy spring!” says Olivia, probably the most successful member of the co-op, having sold at least a dozen paintings to people who weren’t related to her. She glances at Kay’s painting. “I see you went somewhere nice for Christmas break. Where did you go? Costa Rica? Belize? Oh!” The eyebrows circumflex as she listens to Kay’s response skeptically. “Connecticut? Huh.”
“Lovely. You have such an eye for color!” says Weiwei. Her eyes are so wide with delight and appreciation that Kay desperately wants to believe her—until she remembers Weiwei saying the exact same thing about her three-year-old daughter’s Halloween drawing, with that same expression.
“I’m reminded of this guy in Hokkaido who makes sculptures out of the bark ripped from trees by bears,” says Jack, who experiments with mixed media. “You should look up his work. You’ll love it.” The work shown at ArtNow always reminds him of other work by artists far away. She suspects this is Jack’s way to avoid ever giving an opinion—which is also an opinion.
As the evening goes on, Kay’s mood sours. These are people who have struggled alongside her for years—they’ve complained about the same public apathy, the lack of recognition, the unpredictable whims of the “art market.” They ought to understand her better than anyone else. Yet, no one seems to get what she’s doing. This painting, this thing she’s so proud of, isn’t connecting with others the way she hoped.
“The Passing of the Dragon,” Solana, her best friend, reads the title under her breath. Then she squints at the picture. “What prompted this sudden turn to allegory? I thought you were going to do more street portraits.”
“It’s not allegory.”
“Ah,” Solana says. She peers closer at the painting. “I’m not very good with the fantastic, so take everything I say with salt blocks the size of ice cubes—sounds like something Jack would make, doesn’t it? Cocktails served with salt cubes to challenge your tastebuds. ‘On the Rocks! For Realz!’ Sorry. I’m being unkind. He’s not that bad.”
“You were going to tell me your thoughts on my new painting,” Kay prompts.
Solana pauses. Kay can see she’s trying to find the best phrasing. “I don’t think it makes a lot of sense to have snow around a tropical forest. But what do I know? With magic, anything is possible.”
“No, it’s not ‘magic’ either.” Kay struggles to explain. “Magic” seems too small a word for what she saw, too close to a trick. Weeks later, she’s not even sure what she saw. Was it real or a vision? While the details of the incident are fading, the memory of that feeling of transcendence, of the world finally making sense, has only grown sharper. She knows that is real. She tries to hold on to it.
But as she imagines herself telling Solana about her Christmas Eve, she cringes inside. It’s too absurd. Solana takes pictures of old computer chips through a microscope, zoomed in so far that the etched circuits and components look like cityscapes. Her day job is designing chips for machine learning. Kay can’t see how Solana can relate to dragons, even if there weren’t any unicorns. “It’s . . . based on an experience I had. But I’m not painting literally what I saw. More the feeling of it . . .” Her voice trails off weakly.
Solana waits a beat. “Well, I think it’s very cool. If you do more in this style, you could consider bringing pieces to a sci-fi/fantasy convention. I bet they’ll get it. Honestly, I think we can all try to think more about untapped markets and being shown outside galleries—art is a business too, you know?”
Kay wants to say that she’s not doing this to pander to some “untapped market,” but she knows Solana means well, so she nods.
“Do you feel anything when you look at my painting?” she tries again, struggling to keep the pleading desperation out of her voice.
“Tropical plants in the middle of a snowstorm make me feel cozy,” Solana says. “I can see that working in a corporate office or a hotel lobby. Liv knows a developer who’s interested in supporting local artists.”
Suddenly, Kay feels very tired. Color seems to have drained out of the world. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
Kay opens a link forwarded to her by Solana.
Celebrate the centennial of our favorite poet’s birth this summer! Submit your Chilton-inspired artwork today!
“Y link?” she texts Solana.
“Thought you liked Chilton,” Solana texts back.
She presses the call button. “I do. But I don’t have any paintings based on his poems.”
“Oh, don’t be so literal. Anything can be ‘inspired’ by something else if you squint hard enough and write a convincing cover letter.”
“But why should I?”
“You didn’t read the whole page, did you? The Chilton Society got a huge grant from some billionaire who loves Chilton’s poetry, so they’re holding a big festival at his estate: writers, musicians, politicians, actors, all kinds of big names. If you get into this art show, thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, will see your painting. Liv will be so jealous. Can you imagine her face when she finds out you got in?”
Kay ponders the idea. Her eyes sweep over The Passing of the Dragon, leaning against the wall in a corner, bathed in the golden afternoon sun. A rush of excitement replaces her initial skepticism. An artist craves an audience, right? She imagines crowds thronging an opulent mansion turned into an art gallery for the week, everyone pausing before her painting, exclaiming in admiration.
She knows she shouldn’t be daydreaming like this. She knows she should trust only internal, not external, validation. She knows that seeking the approval of “the market,” pining for popularity, reaching for recognition—that way lies madness. These rules have been drilled into her since the day she told her high school art teacher that she wanted to be an artist.
But she can’t help it.
This is the best thing I’ve ever done.
She borrows Amondi’s camera to take a picture of her painting, taking her time on the computer to tweak the colors to be as true as possible. She agonizes over the submission email, in the end omitting the sighting of the dragon, knowing that telling such a story would mark herself in the eyes of whoever picks paintings for the show as a person to be avoided at all costs. Besides, she tells herself, surely they’ll see the dragon themselves from the painting. How can they miss it?
No, the painting isn’t about any of Chilton’s poems. But both Chilton and she are dragon-seers. Not literally, of course—she doubts that Chilton actually saw the same dragon she did, otherwise he would’ve written about it. However, in his poems she can discern the same sense of light, of transcendence, of connectedness with the world that she felt when she saw the dragon. There’s something universal that lies behind the work done by both of them—surely people can see that?
She takes care to tell the story of her Christmas Eve journey in such a way that “inspiration” can be read into it if one were so inclined.
Dear Centennial Committee,
The idea for this painting came to me when I was on a trip to visit Chilton’s summer house in Waterley, Connecticut . . .
“So which Chilton poem inspired The Passing of the Dragon?” asks the interviewer, a man with thick-rimmed glasses and almost no hair. He’s wearing a festival volunteer shirt: Words sting. Kay seems to remember him introducing himself as a retired professor.
“Well, it’s not inspired-inspired by any of them,” she says.
The man looks at her. Through the bulging lenses his eyes appear extra large and dark, like the eyes of some exotic deep-sea creature from a nature documentary. He points to the sign over the entrance of the tent they’re sitting in: Fan Art Contest.
Winning turns out to be quite a thrill. No, millions haven’t thronged to see her painting, not even tens of thousands. After all, who’s going to come for art done by no-name randos when they could be attending a concert from Kid Ika-Russ, who claims to be the “biggest Chilton nerd”? But, on the other hand, according to the RFID logs, over one thousand nine hundred and sixty-two visitors have passed through the tent housing the art contest finalists—that’s an order of magnitude more than any show she’s been part of—and they even voted her “Best in Show,” which means that her painting will be on display at the Chilton Society’s main gallery for a month. She’s never won any art prize before, not even in grade school. Sure, she did have to pay for her own flight and hotel to get here, but a win is a win.
“The idea of the painting came to me while I was on a trip to visit Chilton’s house in Waterley, Connecticut. But it’s not based on any of his poems,” she says. “I put this in the submission letter.”
“So you want to withdraw your entry?” the man asks. He puts the cap back on his pen and closes his notebook. He takes off his glasses and folds them away. His phone is still there on the folding table next to them, recording, but he’s going to get to that in a second.
“No!” she blurts. “Not at all.”
The man looks at her again. Without his glasses, his eyes look too small, almost like he’s squinting at her. “Tell you what,” he says after a pause. “Tell me the last poem you were thinking of before the idea for the painting came to you.”
The memory is already hazy, so she has to think about it for a bit before the title comes back to her. “‘A Visit.’”
“‘We reminisced late into the night’?”
“Yes. That one.”
The man puts on his glasses, flips open his notebook, uncaps his pen.
She lets out a sigh of relief. This seems a good compromise. She’s telling the truth and acknowledging the totality of her inspirations. She was thinking of that poem before the dragon appeared in the sky. Even if the two aren’t directly connected, maybe there’s some kind of sympathetic magic at work. What do people mean when they said that something is “inspired” by something else anyway? Can she really be sure that nothing in the train of thoughts that led to her painting involved one of Chilton’s poems? Didn’t Solana tell her that human artists aren’t any different from the machine-learning networks built by her customers? In both cases, the learning mechanism, mechanical or biological, absorbs and absorbs and absorbs examples of art like a sponge until you give it a squeeze, and out comes the juicy mash-up-fusion-origimitations? (She’s not sure she’s got that entirely right; Solana was talking very fast.) Can she really be certain that the aesthetic of Chilton’s poems, poems that she’s read dozens of times, hasn’t altered her own style in some way that’s hard to pin down? Isn’t all art derivative, copies of imitations of homages of allusions of retellings of yet more copies? All art is fan art. She’s sure she read some essay that argued that back in college.
“Tell me how ‘A Visit’ inspired your painting,” the man says.
An artist craves an audience. She’s seen a dragon and wants to share that vision, that feeling with the world. This is the best thing I’ve ever done. And this is her best shot at getting that break, putting her work in front of an untapped audience, people who otherwise would never see her painting. People who love Chilton as much as she does are the best possible candidates to see the dragon beyond the edge of the canvas, aren’t they?
She takes a deep breath. “It was Christmas Eve, very cold. I was in Waterley, Connecticut, on a pilgrimage, I suppose . . .”
Kay looks at her phone in confusion. Who are these people?
She just got back from a two-hour walk. She likes taking long walks along the river, where the elevated highway is only a distant hum over the wetlands preserve, and the shoreline path is filled with bikers and joggers and dogs and children. She likes watching their headphone-insulated faces as they pass her, their expressions intent, their minds far away. She wants to paint these faces, this feeling of being in one place but also another, of being embodied and disembodied at once. Now that she’s seen the dragon, she thinks she can finally capture them the way they deserve, give them the light that will make them glow. She doesn’t take her phone on these walks because she wants to stay in the moment. Stay here.
The message app shows 671 notifications. She’s not sure she can name that many people.
Her walks have grown longer lately, a way to keep herself away from her computer. For a while, after winning the art contest at the Chilton centennial, she had checked the forum hosted by the Chilton Society obsessively. Her interview had been published on the website, along with a high-res photo of the painting.
A few threads sprang up to discuss her painting. One evolved from a debate over which part of “A Visit” inspired the picture (“The mushrooms in the bottom-right corner must represent ‘constituent atoms falling apart from one another.’” “That is so literal!” “What do you expect from fan art by a middle-aged wannabe?” “People will do anything to get a little attention these days.”) to a political flame war before moderators shut it down. In another, posters searched for Mediterranean plants in her painting and reminisced about European vacations. A third was full of memes mocking her and her painting. A fourth, created in response to the third, was filled with messages intended to be positive: “She must have worked so hard on that. Look at how much detail is in every flower!” “It’s so creative! I’ve read ‘A Visit’ so many times, but never interpreted it as a poem about an angelic visitation.” “Bad fan art would render this scene of a visit from Chilton’s old friends from France into some Norman Rockwell schlock. But the genius artist behind The Passing of the Dragon depicted it as a surreal mythical dreamscape of lush plants blooming in the middle of a kingdom of ice and snow—Persephone in Tartarus. It captures perfectly the emotional tone of Chilton’s masterpiece, in which the magic of connectedness, the bond between old friends, weaves memory into a bulwark against the cold dying light of mortality.”
Even as she holds the phone, she can see more notifications pinging in, scrolling down from the top. The number on the badge in the corner of the app icon ticks up. She doesn’t want to open it. Instinctively, she thinks the notifications are related to the painting. She doesn’t know why or how. So far, she’s had to seek out the comments about her—borrowing trouble, as her mother would have put it. What has changed?
She thought that fourth thread in the forum would make her happy. In fact, she had printed it out so that she could savor the praise. But it depressed her more than the thread of mocking memes. They were praising her for her hard work, for her dedication, for her willingness to devote her creative energy to the celebration of Chilton’s poem. Whatever was good in the painting was derived from Chilton’s artistry; whatever wasn’t to their taste, on the other hand, was left at Kay’s feet.
Having an audience, she has learned, can be a terrible thing.
The painting isn’t fan art—she had made that clear, she thought, in the interview. Yet, no one seemed to have read what she said in it—or, if they did, they got out of her words only what they wanted to. All that mattered to them was that her painting was the winning entry in an art show devoted to works “inspired” by Chilton’s poems, and the last poem she was thinking of before painting her picture was “A Visit.” She had thought it obvious that “inspiration” was a complicated thing, a matter of degrees and shades and types and indirection, but they have reduced her nuanced answer to: “fan art.”
This hurt more than the mockery, than the made-up “facts” about her life, than the comments on her appearance, dress, technique. The subtleties of inspiration, influence, originality didn’t matter. Her ideas were irrelevant. The painting had simply ceased to be hers. Context had overwhelmed the text.
The pain, the pain that aches in her chest, that sucks the pleasure out of every thought, that makes it hard for her to get out of bed in the morning, is knowing that she is responsible for her own loss because she chose to enter the painting, to put herself next to Chilton, to find an audience.
She can’t even bear to read Chilton anymore. These fans have soured for her the words of her favorite poet. She knows it’s unfair, but she can’t help it. No artist wants to be subsumed by another, not even by a hero.
And worst of all. No one is talking about the dragon. They don’t see it.
Her phone buzzes again, vibrating in her hand, insistent, relentless, a little demonic, really.
“Never read reviews,” Solana said to her. “Never read internet comments.”
She knew Solana was right, but this wasn’t helpful. She felt awful already. She needed sympathy, understanding, grace, not a lecture about how she was wrong.
“Go paint something else,” Solana said. “Don’t obsess over what’s done. You’ll make something better next time.”
Kay was reminded that Solana hadn’t seen the dragon either. This is the best thing I’ve ever done!
Not even her best friend understands her, not really.
The number on the notification badge jumps up by ten, twenty. Who are they and what do they want?
She has already lost her painting to Chilton’s fans. Compared to that, what can be worse?
Resolutely, she taps the icon of the messaging app.
After days of obsessive research—it was the only way for her to feel she was making some progress, however illusory, toward getting her life back—this is her best reconstruction of what happened:
A group of activists in South America is trying to save a valley from commercial development, and lacking a charismatic bird or mammal or even flower to serve as an ambassador, they settle on a species of mushroom, the Splendid Soldier, a striking gilled fungus with a purple stem and a crimson cap. It’s critically endangered and exists nowhere else. They turn the mushroom into a mascot, make postcards and indigenous handicrafts, knit llama wool plushies of an anthropomorphized version (The Little Splendid Soldier) with big eyes and protest signs (not guns; never guns) and then try to get celebrities to post pictures with the plushies on social media.
They don’t have much success. It’s hard to get people to love a mushroom, even in the form of adorable plushies, and no celebrity takes up their cause. In fact, a popular singer who Kay has never heard of is caught on camera making disdainful remarks about the fuzzy oversized mushroom shoved in her face by an activist at one of her concerts. The obviously meme-able moment causes a minor ripple on social media before it’s forgotten.
Aaron H., a harried writer for a website fueled by “engagement,” stumbles across The Passing of the Dragon while randomly clicking around his browser. He has recently written an article about the minor commotion over the singer who cursed out the mushroom-hugging activist, so, his mind, like a neural network trained on cell phone photos of that moment at the concert, is primed to pick out the fungus. He notices the critically endangered mushroom in a corner of the painting.
“This is a picture of a poem by a famous poet?”
He’s on deadline. He has no time for research. He needs to write five hundred words and get them posted within the next thirty minutes to be paid fifteen dollars. He starts typing. “Famous Poet Supports Indigenous Claim to Valley.”
The article is so preposterous in its claim—the writer seems to have neither read the poem nor realized that Chilton died in the last century—that it goes viral. It fits perfectly into certain mass narratives that are always on the prowl for more confirmation. Some point out the absurdity of dragging a dead poet whose favorite subject consisted of the high-culture experiences made possible by being the heir to not one, not two, but three of the oldest family fortunes on Wall Street into a contemporary controversy over decolonization, as though Chilton could possibly have anything relevant to say on the topic. Others note that this particular article, high in opinion but low in facts, represents everything wrong with the “progressives,” ignorant of everything except their own righteousness.
In the incomprehensible logic of the internet, Chilton is soon forgotten but the mushroom becomes the latest social media sensation. Celebrities rush to take a stand, and the plushies now sell for hundreds of dollars online. The South American government with jurisdiction over the valley announces a halt in development plans pending further investigation (before quietly allowing work to resume a week later), and the activists celebrate a victory but warn that the work is not yet done.
Pundits and trolls continue to stir the discourse into a frenzy.
“Are we going to prioritize mushrooms over jobs?” “Indigenous voices must be heard.” “Capitalism needs to be saved from itself.” “Oh sure, American celebrities in private jets should definitely dictate policy in the Global South. Makes perfect sense, really.” “The development plan is backed by natives living in the valley.” “Are you seriously claiming there is a single monolithic ‘indigenous’ voice?” . . . It deteriorates into noise exactly the way you think it would, following the same little script you’ve seen play out hundreds of times.
Through it all, as Aaron H.’s original article is reshared, clapped, hashtagged, and memexed around the web, The Passing of the Dragon remains the hero image for the story, the icon for this latest outrage-hurricane to sweep through the attention economy.
Some hail the artist behind The Passing of the Dragon as a genius who boldly reinterpreted Chilton’s poem to politicize a revered figure of high American literary culture, thereby forcing the insular U.S. elite into engagement with the consequences of globalization and empire. Others denounce her as a manipulative third-rate propagandist who appropriated an indigenous cause and movement to further her own fame. The inevitable backlashes are followed by the unavoidable backlashes to the backlashes, as everyone scrambles for the moral high ground, with accusations of plants and useful idiots and counteraccusations of conspiracies and false consciousness. Buzzwords, devalued and bleached through overuse in the cultural wars, are cast about like clutched pearls. In the process of this debate that goes nowhere, keyboards clack, electrons zoom, servers grow overheated and are then cooled as the GDP ticks up yet another notch (after all, that fifteen dollars paid to Aaron H. must be accounted for) and our species further enlarges its carbon footprint and contributes to entropy in the universe.
Kay loses count of the unread messages in her inbox. Writers for sites fueled by various brands of fear or rage come to Kay. Some try to entice her by offering a chance to tell her story. Others try to make outrageous claims in the hopes that she’ll want to dispute them.
“Did you think people were too stupid to catch you when you deliberately altered a key element in a classic poem?”
“Be honest: when you painted the Splendid Soldier into Chilton’s poem, were you trying to troll the left?”
“Why did you mock the struggles of an indigenous people defending their own land by comparing them to a creature of European fantasy?”
“As a woman of color and a second-generation immigrant, do you identify with the struggles of the oppressed ‘mushroom people’?”
She tries to tell her story, the full story. She talks about Christmas Eve, about the search for Chilton’s house, about the moment when the world changed forever for her. She had painted that mushroom because it was on the ground, among all the wondrous flowers and shrubs and trees and waves and clouds and light, so much light, when she saw the dragon. It’s not a symbol, just one part of that vision of transcendence—though it’s difficult to recollect, much less to hold on to, that feeling of connectedness with the universe now, as she’s caught in a story she wants no part of.
She’s resentful that she even has to tell her story like this. It puts the focus on the personal, reduces her art to biography, to reportage, when what she’s really proud of is having figured out how to paint the unpaintable. She wonders if Chilton ever had to explain how he came to write “Che faceste dite su?” If Rodin ever had to explain how The Gates of Hell did or didn’t fit into some newspaper’s conspiracy theory. If Cézanne ever had to explain why he chose to paint apples instead of pears. Why do some artists have to explain and justify and defend their art and others don’t? Is it again about who is deemed universal and who isn’t? She hates this feeling of paranoia and bitterness, but how can she not be when they ask such questions?!?
Yes, yes. Their hands hover over the keyboards impatiently. But what about the mushrooms? What about the mushrooms?
Impatiently, Kay tells them that she doesn’t know why she saw the mushrooms; she saw lots of other wondrous things as well; she’s not sure if and where and when she had seen images of the Splendid Soldier before her vision on Christmas Eve. When pressed, she admits that she can’t rule out the possibility that she had perhaps seen the plushies somewhere on some tabloid site, perhaps in connection with that famous singer.
Even as she’s talking, she can see from her interlocutors’ bored eyes that they’re not listening. They aren’t interested in her story, in this strange, clueless, mad woman who claims to have seen a dragon. They already have the stories they want to tell; they already have the roles they want her to play. All she has to do is to drop the right keywords, and they will seize on them and apply the ready-to-wear labels onto her. No one cares about the dragon. All they want to talk about is the mushrooms. Why, why, oh why did she paint the mushrooms?
She stops talking. But it doesn’t matter; the conversation goes on without her.
“How a Failed Artist Rebooted Her Career As a Political Hack.”
“Of Mushrooms and Dragons: How to Be an Ethical Artist-Activist.”
“‘Mushroom Lady’ Blames Hallucination for Lies.”
“You Can Learn Everything about Bad Art from This One Painting.”
“She doesn’t even have the proportions right. The cap is much too large.”
“She needs to take basic drawing lessons. Those mushrooms look like the work of a drunk three-year-old. It’s sad how anyone can claim to be an ‘artist’ these days.”
“Do you think the tribe might have a trademark or copyright claim against her?”
“She’s trying to do something that L. G. Borhen had done so much better. But you know authentic activist artists never get any of the attention the poseurs do.”
An artist craves an audience. By that measure, she’s finally living the dream of every artist—her work is being talked about everywhere. Even her mother, who knows nothing about art and hasn’t bought a new phone in ten years, congratulates her on their monthly call. She hangs up and then drinks every last drop of alcohol she finds in the apartment.
Nothing in her experience prepared her for this. It would be one thing if they were critiquing her attempt to paint the dragon. She could live with that. She’s no stranger to withering commentary on technique, style, originality, execution. It’s the fashion among some “aspiring artists” at the co-op to formulate their critiques in the harshest terms possible in the belief that they are doing the victim a favor because a “thick skin” is necessary for artists. She’s never really understood their logic, however, since a thin skin, a vulnerability, a sensitivity toward the nuances of reality—a readiness to perceive dragons—is necessary to see the world’s beauty, to feel the tingling in the fabric of the cosmos that is at the foundation of all art.
But they’re not even talking about the dragon. In their eyes, her painting is only about the mushrooms. Mushrooms, mushrooms, mushrooms.
This painting is the best thing she’s ever done because it is the heart of her story, the clearest expression she has ever managed of the universality of the particular—and they aren’t even seeing it. She experienced a transcendent moment and tried to share it with the world, and the world then responded by kicking her in the teeth. This, this blindness is unbearable.
Kay can no longer paint. She reaches out to her co-op for support.
“If it were me, I’d take as many interviews as possible while people still care,” says Olivia. “You finally got your break. Strike while the iron is hot! You don’t have to talk about your fan art. Use the opportunity to sneak in your other paintings. Set up a Takuhatsu and get some patrons!”
The realization that Olivia is actually envious of her leaves her speechless. She finally blocks her when Olivia texts to ask for the contact info of bloggers who reached out to Kay.
“My neighbor was asking me this morning if I knew you,” says Weiwei. Her eyes are wide open, as though she’s sharing a compliment. “He’s very progressive. He thinks you’re amazing to have raised awareness for the people fighting for the mushroom.”
Kay opens her mouth, but then she sees that there’s nothing she can say in response. Nothing useful, at least. She closes her mouth and turns away.
“My advice: Don’t worry too much about sending a message,” said Jack. “You know, you remind me of that time when they asked Bob Dylan what his songs meant. ‘Keep a good head and always carry a lightbulb.’ Go Warhol. Trademark ‘The Passing of Mushrooms’ and sell your own stickers.”
It’s not about some “message,” damn it! It’s about not being turned into a prop in someone else’s story. It’s about believing that there is meaning in the universe, that you can see a dragon and tell people about it and not have them accuse you of having butchered mushrooms instead. She doesn’t say any of that, of course. Talking with Jack sometimes reminds her of trying to have a conversation with a pigeon. You think you’re making progress until the pigeon takes off, leaving a wet plop behind on the picnic table.
“You have to tune out the noise,” Solana tells her. They are having tea after dinner, while TJ, Solana’s husband, does the dishes. The swishing of the running water, the clanging silverware, the squeak as each clean dish is slotted into the drying rack, everything in its place, the chorus of domesticity polished smooth by time, even the garbage disposal’s deep drone serving as an occasional basso profundo, all of it makes her own depressed state seem unreal. She wonders if TJ, always practical and reliable, thinks of her as a whiner, someone with too much time and too little sense.
“You have to focus on the here and now, on things you can control,” says Solana.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? Art, especially art by someone like her, is always seen as frivolous, unnecessary, an indulgence. Even though she’s in hell, in more pain than she ever thought possible, an artist complaining about the reception of her work is never seen as worthy of sympathy. For those in the “real world,” the pain of artists is illusory, effete, a joke.
“Whenever I show my photos, some dudes will always come up to me and tell me how I got some technical detail wrong in the artist statement,” continues Solana. “They won’t even shut up after they find out what I do for a living. The world has never lacked fools.”
This should be comforting, but Kay doesn’t feel comforted. Unlike Solana’s microchip cityscapes, The Passing of the Dragon isn’t technical. She doesn’t have any objective expertise that she can lean on. She can’t dismiss the chatter as noise from idiots. Deep down, she can’t help feeling that the criticism is . . . somehow deserved. It is her fault. If only she had painted better; had given it a different title; had told her story better, earlier, more movingly; were someone other than who she is . . . if only. If only.
“The outrage-hurricane will move on if you give it fifteen minutes. It always does.”
Solana is right, but she’s also wrong. It’s true that for most people, fifteen minutes, maybe fifteen seconds, is all the attention and thought they’ll ever give Kay, enough time to scroll past a few memes featuring her picture, to tsk-tsk at The Passing of the Dragon and to laugh at how poorly she portrayed the famous mushroom, before being distracted by the next EyePunch video in their feed.
But while the internet has no attention span, it also never forgets. Kay is trapped in those fifteen seconds, in the memes, posts, screeching microblogs. Whenever someone looks up her name or The Passing of the Dragon, the top results will always be a snapshot of those fifteen seconds, a perpetual tempest from which there is no escape. This misunderstood painting, with those mushrooms that she hates, will be the capstone of her artistic career, the only thing she’ll ever be known for. She is the “Mushroom Lady.”
The grinding of the garbage disposal rattles her bones, becomes unbearable. She sets down the teacup. “I need to go.”
She stops searching for her name; she stops going to the co-op. She focuses on her job. No one at the Fresh Food Basket knows she paints; no one there has connected her to the “Mushroom Lady” (or, if they have, they haven’t said anything to her). She can just be an employee, playing a role, her own story as opaque to others as theirs are to her. They don’t know she’s drowning, and that can be strangely comforting.
She makes up games for herself: she memorizes the locations of the barcodes on items so that she can scan them without turning them this way and that; she devises methods to slide everything along the counter so that the motion feels smooth, rhythmic, efficient; she challenges herself to use as few or as many bags as possible; she makes the image of TJ concentrating on doing the dishes at the sink, oblivious to everything else, her mental ideal; she learns to still her mind so that working feels like dancing, a poem made from beeps of the register and strobes of the laser scanner. She finds solace in being busy and leaves art behind.
Solana comes for a visit. Kay feels awkward. She’s been avoiding her friend. She feels bad that Solana is working so hard to make her feel better, and it doesn’t work—it’s like Kay is failing her somehow.
Solana catches her up on the gossip at ArtNow. She talks about arguments with TJ and worries over her kids, about a new project she’s working on: zoomed-in photographs of the innards of old video game consoles, the thick circuits and leaking capacitors and corroded contacts like the abandoned houses and avenues of a ghost town, the lost Avalon of our collective youth, where dreams once roamed.
Until this moment, Kay hasn’t been able to admit to herself how lonely she’s felt. That’s the thing about depression. It oozes around you until all the color is drained and you think it’s normal, that the world has always been that way. But then a friend shows up and reminds you that that’s not true.
Kay listens. She’s comforted by the sound of Solana’s voice, by the aural and imagistic patterns in the everyday words, by the rooted presence of her friend. This connection, this solidarity—we may all be drowning, but we don’t have to drown alone.
Solana pauses and walks over to the painting, leaning against the wall, face hidden. She turns it around so that the canvas is once again bathed in the sunlight streaming in from the window. She gazes at it intently, studying it.
“I don’t see the dragon,” she says.
Kay’s heart convulses, but the pain isn’t bitter; it’s a sharp prick, cleansing.
“But I see someone trying very hard to share something beautiful, and I’m sorry that I can’t see it,” Solana says. “Please tell me what you see, what you want me to see.”
So Kay does. She tells her about the wings that drape from sky to sea, about the cry that lingers long after in the snowy air, about the overwhelming sense of oneness with the universe, about her own attempts to depict it, about Plato and Zhuangzi, about how she ended up making the painting she did, a painting of absences, penumbras, shed scales. She tells Solana about the mushrooms, about the flowers, about the trees and reeds, about the jellyfish in the waves. Solana listens, asking a question now and then, good questions.
The words are mere tracks and shadows and echoes; they can never be the dragon itself. But there is also a comfort in following the tracks, tracing the shadows, listening hard for the echoes. She doesn’t feel so alone anymore, and that helps.
“We’re all trying to tell our own story,” Solana says. “And we make other people parts of our own stories. We’re meant to bring our stories together, to speak and listen and know that the stories are real and they matter. I’m glad you are a part of my story, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your story as well as I should have. Thank you.”
Kay gets up to make the two of them some tea. It’s still early in spring, and the air is chilly. It’ll get better.
Because Kay can no longer paint, she reads.
She’s fascinated by the experiences of artists whose signature work was misunderstood, drafted into stories they didn’t agree to. Octavia Butler, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, even the curmudgeonly Robert Frost. She reads an interview with Chilton. Chilton! Who she never would have imagined in a thousand years lacked readers who loved and saw exactly what he wanted them to see.
“If I cared about being understood, I’d stop writing.”
I wonder if I ever saw what Chilton actually wanted me to see, Kay thinks. Maybe I’ve only been fitting his poems into my life, making his words part of my story, weaving his dragon scales into my armor. I won’t ever know what he saw and felt and meant when he wrote, “Someone lit a cigarette and coughed.” I don’t understand him either, not really.
Life is one long story we tell ourselves to make sense of the world, and in our quest for meaning, we make other people players in our own psychomachia. Sometimes the consequence of doing that can be terrible, like what happened to me. But it’s worth remembering that everyone is trying their best to look for their dragon, to find the heart of their story, and to then tell it as well as they are able: the activists trying to save their valley, the Chilton fans celebrating their favorite poet, even Aaron H., even the trolls who called me a plant and a hack.
It’s okay to take art that’s out there and make it part of your own story, to read into it what you want, desire, need—it’s inevitable, really. Maybe that is the only kind of universality possible.
But we should also try to remember that each artist has their own story. An artist doesn’t just crave an audience, but an audience who can hear that story, who can affirm that the story matters.
Everyone deserves that.
Although Kay can no longer paint, she starts a site to review the work of other artists.
She spends hours with Amondi, listening to her, before writing her post.
Kay writes of Amondi’s love of the capacity of the camera lens to flatten the world, to dissubstantiate flesh and bone. She writes about how whimsical and playful her vision is, how joy is at the heart of every photograph she creates. She writes about Amondi’s unfashionable belief that the eternal is also political, perhaps even more than the personal. She writes of Amondi’s ambivalence about the declaration that every photograph is a lie, about the nuances of shades of truth she sees in every black-and-white image. She makes no mention of Amondi’s family, background, personal history—Amondi hates how her work is always reduced to her biography, how people presume to understand her work when they know only a few facts about her. Kay listens hard and understands why sometimes a story is more complete when it doesn’t have all the parts.
The review doesn’t garner a lot of hits or views, but it is the only review that Amondi ends up linking on her website.
Kay follows Weiwei around, observing her at work. She coaxes Weiwei, who is reluctant to talk about her own work, with openness, with empathy. She makes tea for the two of them.
She writes about Weiwei’s watercolor technique: the use of layers of pigment and wash and shapes informed by complex mathematical formulae. She writes about Weiwei’s brush bringing to life ghosts and angels, the insides of things. Kay doesn’t make trite comparisons of Weiwei’s work to “Eastern” traditions or invoke “non-Western” philosophies, the sort of thing people like to do to Weiwei when they see her or her name and decide they know what box to put her into. Sure, brush painting influenced her, but so did her knowledge of the stars and her love of the Southwest, so why should Weiwei’s own story be subsumed into “grander” stories other people think are easier to tell? Kay tries to tell the story Weiwei wants to tell—she knows she’ll never get it 100 percent right, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t try.
Weiwei cries when she reads Kay’s post. Her wife asks her what’s wrong but Weiwei shakes her head and says nothing. She prints out a copy of Kay’s review and keeps it in her studio, so that she can see it whenever she needs to.
Kay writes about Solana’s circuitscapes. Instead of describing her images as metaphors for Big Tech, for the surveillance state, for the convergence of the digital with the physical, she writes about the wonder of exploration, of seeing the mechanistic as indistinguishable from the naturalistic, of admiring the physical exuviations of our infinite-facultied mind. She writes about the yearning for the numinous in Solana’s exploratory photographs, a mysticism that Kay hadn’t understood until she really listened and looked. It’s not something that she’s ever seen anyone else talk about in her friend’s work. But it’s always been there.
“Thank you,” Solana says, after reading the post. An awkward pause follows—some feelings cannot be adequately expressed by words. “I suppose I have seen my dragon, too.”
She even writes about Olivia. It takes time for Olivia to let down her guard, to trust Kay to listen. Behind the abstract formalisms in her paintings, behind the modernist references and ironic postmodernist reconstructions, there is a loving, premodern, primordial celebration of the color blue. It’s true: you can’t mistake a painting by Olivia; she has invented her own visual language, as idiosyncratic as the way she always wears a sea-glass charm. She may allow labels of this contemporary movement and that to be applied to her work, but beyond the commercial compromises, she’s really trying to appeal to sentiment, creating paintings that are romantic in the oldest sense of the word.
Olivia doesn’t thank Kay or even acknowledge the post when it goes up. But on that day everyone can tell there’s a lightness to her movements, a smile that she tries hard to not show.
(Kay does not write about Jack. Some artists really don’t have a story they want to tell, and that is fine, too.)
She doesn’t like everything she reviews—who can?—but she strives to see what the artist was trying to show. It’s surprising how rarely people do that.
The words are never enough—art, as always, speaks for itself. But the artists she writes about are grateful to Kay for listening, for trying to see, for being the audience they didn’t even know they needed. She feels grateful, too, for she has also found a new story for herself, which is both a continuation and a revision of the old, a story about seeing the light in everyone, a story that connects, that roots her, that brings her joy.
Kay doesn’t get much respect as a reviewer and critic—what she does is seen as insufficiently ironic, lacking rigor or distance. But she doesn’t mind. She’s not writing for other critics and isn’t interested in their good opinion. (The critics are also trying to tell their own stories, like everyone else, and maybe they deserve their empathetic audience, too—it’s just not going to be her.)
We’re all doing our best to see the dragon and record its passing.
Kay brushes away the snow and sits down on the park bench. There’s nowhere to set down the bundle with the painting so she holds it next to her, resting on her bag. With the holidays here and everyone bundled up in thick coats, the buses are especially crowded. Unable to squeeze onto one, she’s already walked ten blocks with the painting, and she still has ten more blocks to go before getting home. Last-minute shoppers throng the street, passing in front of her like cattails seen from a coasting train.
Solana offered to have TJ drive her to pick up the painting since Kay doesn’t like to drive in the city in winter, but Kay refused, saying she likes taking long walks. She’s now regretting that choice, just a little.
So much depends on a good blade,
Gliding over without cutting
The vague promises we make about Christmas.
She smiles as she imagines the street emptied of cars, slick with ice like a frozen pond. How she would love to skate home now, like she used to do as a girl, as Chilton had done as a boy. (After a long hiatus, she’s able to enjoy Chilton again, and for that she’s grateful. His words have given her so much joy in her life that being able to read him again feels like recovering a part of herself.) She’s a little sad that she’ll never know what story Chilton was trying to tell with the poem. If the poet is to be believed in that interview, he’d be okay with other people taking his poems and fitting them into their own stories, even if they were about mushrooms and eyeballs and storms of outrage that he knew nothing about. Maybe that’s a kind of transcendence, too.
She notices that inside the plastic wrapping, the cardboard pieces sandwiching the painting to protect it are coming apart. She needs to retape them. She removes her gloves and carefully unwraps the plastic, takes off the cardboard pieces, and holds the painting up while searching for the roll of tape inside her purse. It’s not snowing and there’s a lull in the wind; not too bad.
She’s not sure how many people got to see the painting at the show that just closed. The gallery is small (it’s the back room of a coffee shop), and the theme—“Invisible”—isn’t very catchy. But Kay doesn’t mind. She picked it because she liked the people she met there. They were earnest and didn’t know her at all. (There are still a few people at ArtNow who call her “the mushroom lady”; she still struggles with tuning them out.) Nobody made any comments when she brought in The Passing of the Dragon. Maybe they never saw it, or maybe they didn’t care. (Solana is right that Kay overestimates the importance and power of the internet.) She hopes that at least a few people who saw the painting at the show found a positive and comforting way to make it part of their own pursuit of happiness.
She finds the roll of tape. She sits down, supporting the painting next to her on her purse so that it doesn’t get wet. She rips pieces of fresh tape and tacks them on the cardboard piece in the back.
She stops to take a break. She’s almost ready to add the front cardboard piece and secure it with the new pieces of tape. Then she’ll wrap it up and brave the slippery sidewalk home, joining the crowd of weary pedestrians, each absorbed in their own coat and story, all ready to be anywhere but here.
The fog of her exhalation clears, revealing a man stopped in front of her. He’s been walking for a long time, judging by the beard caked in flecks of ice. The red plaid trapper hat on his head is as ruddy as his cheeks. Annoyed pedestrians part around him like river water around a rock.
He’s staring at the painting she’s holding.
She tenses. He recognizes it. She readies herself for whatever stupid thing he’s about to say.
“That’s beautiful,” he says. He lets out a long breath, and the condensation immediately adds to the frost in his beard.
She doesn’t say anything, still unsure about him.
“We go through all this . . .” His voice falters as he gestures at the world around them. He tries again. “And then to know something like that exists in the universe, and we’re lucky enough to see it.”
“In the painting?” she asks.
“No, that’s not what I meant. Oh, I’m sorry, that . . . that’s rude.” His face turns even redder. “I meant that I see something impossibly grand and beautiful has just gone through there, and this is the best we can do to remember it.”
Her heart leaps. “The painting is called The Passing of the Dragon.”
“Ah.” He nods.
“Have you seen it?” she asks, not daring to believe.
“No, I’ve never seen a dragon,” he says. “But I did hear the most incredible music, the music of the stars, once. It made my heart sing. I’ve never been able to hear it again, no matter how many times I’ve tried to recapture it. All I can remember now are faint echoes. Your painting . . . it gives me the same feeling. You did an amazing job. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
For a moment, she’s transported back to that Christmas Eve on Long Island Sound, when she briefly was in the presence of the dragon.
“Thank you,” she tells him. It’s inadequate, but these are all the words she can muster.
“Thank you,” he tells her. “Keep on painting the pictures you want to paint.”
“I will,” she says. She strains hard to not make another sound. It’s difficult to swallow and her eyes sting.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, and leaves. She watches as he disappears into the crowd.
She doesn’t know when she’ll begin to paint again, not yet; she can imagine it though, and that already feels amazing.
She wraps up the painting, picks it up, and begins the long trek home, almost gliding along the ice, lifted by the light between her constituent atoms.
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Anti’s First Fireball
SD-004 looked around the enclosure he was ushered into with curious eyes. It felt… strangely nostalgic. Like he’d been here before. But, that wasn’t possible. The white suits scientists had told him he was a fresh creation, just now being put into testing enclosures. And yet… the sea dragon felt a heaviness in his chest he didn’t understand, being in here. He swears when he closed his eyes… instead of these prison like walls… he saw bright blue open waters- the sun shining in large rays down on the sand. Colorful swarms of fish and… laughter- laughter and smiles that made SD-004 feel warm inside. But, whenever he thought like that- a piercing pain would spear through his temple. It made it hard to think. He’d been having way too many thoughts like that lately…
Even then- this enclosure was familiar in a bad way. Thinking about it… he felt a sense of dread and slight fear being put in here. The walls were stark white, almost painful to look at. There was only one window to look through, unlike the tank where he was most days where he was surrounded by glass. The sea dragon anxiously picks at his scales on his arms, wondering why he was brought here. The scientists had been saying he was doing good… better than he had been. The disks lodged on the edge of his ears itched and stung- but they had seemed happy that they were ‘working properly’. Whatever that meant…
Anti’s muscles bunched up in reaction to the mic in the tank sparking up. Someone was here. He turned back to look at the window to see a scientist smiling tightly at him. Chief Demerci… She was the head scientist in charge of him. He didn’t like her at all… not that there was anything he could do about it.
“Hello SD-004,” Demerci greeted, “How are you feeling today?”
The sea dragon’s fins bristled in agitation just listening to her speak. A fire that was dormant until she came back in lit up. The adolescent sea dragon bared his fangs and snarled at the scientist.
“Don’t waste my time acting like you care. Why am I here?”
The scientist doesn’t look surprised by his hostility- but she does look disappointed. She tsks, then reaches for a button on her control panel. A shock runs from Anti’s ear attachments and down his spine, making him go rigid and cry out.
“Anti,” Demerci sighed. The simple mention of that name had him seizing up more as if expecting something else- “Say Goodbye.”
The phrase has Anti’s eyes drooping- his expression going slack and body held at attention. The scientist looked bored as she addressed the tranced hybrid.
“Punishment will come when you choose to be aggressive to your superiors, SD-004. You are to address them with respect.”
Anti hardly blinks as he replies, “Yes, Chief Demerci.”
“Status report,” Demerci says shortly. The hybrid shifts slightly as a yellow glow comes to his eyes. He talks a bit more robotically, his voice slightly raked with static.
“Vitals normal. Anxiety levels at a medium. Mild headaches o-o-occurring from memory deletion. Command chip integration at 56%.”
Demerci makes a tch sound and leans back in her chair. “That would explain the attitude. We’ll have to work on that conditioning after this experiment.” She takes down a couple of notes before addressing the static hybrid again, “Alright, Anti, see you soon.”
Light comes back into the hybrid’s eyes quickly and he blinks sluggishly back awake, his body relaxing. Demerci studies him smugly.
“So Anti, how are you feeling?”
Anti goes stiff again for a second and yellow flashes in his eyes before he deflates and looks away from the scientist, picking at his scales again.
“F-Fine I guess…”
Demerci frowns but nods regardless. They can work on that more later.
The scientist sighed heavily before a small sadistic smile spread across her face. She leaned over her mic and grinned at the tiny sea dragon like a lioness stalking her kill.
“Well I’m happy to hear that SD,” she cooed with false sweetness, “Because you’ll need to be in ship shape to take on today’s test.”
Anti’s head jerked up, color draining out of his face. “W-What?” He whispered in fear, backing away from the glass to try to curl up against the wall. He knew what that meant- it usually meant pain… lots and lots of pain.
DeMerci showed no sign of remorse as she smiled cruelly and went to press a finger against another large button on the dashboard in front of her.
Something creaked loudly from the walls before a large creature emerged. But… it wasn’t just any creature.
It was another hybrid.
Looming over Anti was a reaper leviathan hybrid with dark skin, covered in red markings and blue scales. It had long flowing red hair. 4 soulless black eyes with gray sclera glared down at the young hybrid as it gnashed its razor sharp teeth. It’s mandibles spring out and aim at the merman.
Anti stared at this thing in increasing horror. His mind was screaming at him- something about this wasn't right- this was all wrong!!
Jackie Jackie! Where was Jackie?!
The creature didn’t care for its prey’s fear. It roared so loud it rocked the tank they were in before diving down at Anti like a torpedo.
Luckily, Anti was quick and he easily dodged. His body seemed to know how to fight this thing- knew of its weaknesses. He watched it prepare to loop around him- trying to attack his back. But. Anti kept in its path, blocking its attempts to maneuver around him.
“No fair Anti! That’s my big move!” A young voice whined in his ear
The hybrid gets frustrated at not making headway and roars before trying to tackle Anti to the ground with its long claws. Anti dives to the sand though- watching with a smirk as the thing barrels into the tank wall and disorients itself above him.
Demerci watches with a fascinated smile. “Your instincts are benefiting you greatly SD- you are the reaper’s natural predator.” But, then she sighs dramatically while picking up a remote off her desk. “However- I specifically stated you were going to use firepower today-“
Without another word- she presses a button. Anti feels his body spark up painfully and he screams and convulses on the floor. The shocking lasts for a couple more torturous seconds before Demerci relents. Anti slumps for the floor and breathes through gritted teeth- trying to push himself back up as the creature prowls back and forth in front of him.
“Use your fire breath, Anti,” Demerci hisses at the boy. “Or you’ll never be able to protect SE-002… and you don’t want that, right?”
Anti freezes slightly at that. His eyes spark with yellow orange light and he twitches, claws digging into the sand.
“No…” he whispers, eyes widening and looking distant. “I will protect SE-002… That’s all I was made for.”
Demerci smirks, happy to see the brainwashing slowly but surely leaking in. “Then, that hybrid is trying to hurt SE, Anti. Don’t let it succeed. Burn it-“
With a wild scream, Anti launches himself from the sand and barrels into the reaper hybrid. They roar at each other, but Anti manages to bang the creature’s head against a rock and drive it to the ground. The thing wiggles and screeches at Anti, trying to get free.
Anti pants almost feverishly, eyes glitching between yellowish and normal. He digs his claws into the creature's arms and pins it hard against the sand so it’s mandibles can’t bend. Then, he opens up his mouth and tries to summon a fireball.
It- it doesn’t feel right. His stomach bubbles uncomfortably hot and the feeling travels up through his throat. He gags slightly on the burning feeling- hot bubbles blowing in the hybrid’s face. The hybrid shrinks away slightly, seeming to fear what’s coming for it.
But it doesn’t come. Anti let’s go of the hybrid to grab his throat, starting to choke on the hot foreign feeling. His scar- it’s irritated and starting to leak hot water which furthers his panic. Worse of all, as the fire starts to escape the young sea dragon is suddenly bombarded by flashes of things he doesn’t understand.
He’s bent over in the sand while two other hybrids lean over him. They both look at him with concern- a concern that feels genuine and… brotherly.
Chase? Schneep?
Anti feels a painful pang in his chest as he coughs up hot burning liquid. Nowhere near close to a fireball. He feels hot water coming from his eyes and he reaches up to touch it, startled and confused.
Then, he curls up gagging and sobbing from the confusing sensations in his head and body. He starts to cry out names he doesn’t know why he knows, but for once- it feels right.
“C-Chase! H-Henny! Jack!! Help me!!”
The last thing Anti sees is Demerci’s enraged face before a powerful shock overtakes his body- then everything goes black.
When the sea dragon next opens up his eyes… he doesn’t recognize where he is. The lighting is eerie and dark- the walls gray and beat up. Anti tires to move only to realize he can’t- his arms and tails are chained up to the walls. He starts to panic- pulling on the chains and trying to catch his claws on them.
“W-What is this?!” He growls, but his eyes give away his terror, “Let me go! Let me out!”
“Now Now, Anti…” Demerci’s silky voice purrs over the intercom, but Anti can’t see her. “You’re here so we can help you…”
The restraints start to tighten on his wrists, pulling his arms taut. Anti starts to pant feverishly in fear.
“I told you today was the day you would shoot fireballs… so we’re gonna give you a little… ‘stimulation’ until you fulfill your full potential.”
“W-What?! Y-You’re crazy! You can’t do that-!” Anti tries to scream and thrashes as hard as he can.
But, then the shocks start to come. Sharp and painful through his restraints- lighting every one of his nerves on fire. The sea dragon hybrid screams bloody murder, trying and failing to break free.
Demerci watches mercilessly, humming under her breath as she casually cranks up the power.
Anti can’t form a single coherent thought- all he knows is awful aching pain. He feels like he’s been stripped down to his very essence.
The torture seems never-ending… even during brief pauses, Anti can’t even catch his breath to think. He’s assaulted by echoing commands and threats. They echo throughout the too warm water around him and buzz in his ears.
You are a monster.
Zap!
You were made to be a weapon.
Zap!
You will protect SE-002.
You will protect the Altera Arms.
ZAp!
You are a ruthless killer.
You know no mercy.
You listen only to us-
Zap Zap ZAP!
Let your instincts rule you SD-004.
Become the fearsome Sea Dragon you were made to be.
Serve Altera.
As more and more electricity enters his veins, a bubbling flame builds up in his mouth. Bigger and bigger- brighter orange that bubbles like lava. Until finally- Anti shoots his first fireball.
And after a few more rounds of shocks in between, he shoots a couple more. No hesitation, automatically as he’s told.
Demerci smiles.
Their weapon is finally complete.
SD-004 paces the length of his tank, back and forth swiftly as he watches the hatch in front of him with hungry yellow-tinted eyes.
Finally, the alarm sounds and the hatch opens.
The sea dragon hybrid grins and giggles madly in his throat as his opponent barrels through the water towards him.
The imperfect warper hybrid tries to pin him down with long blue-tinted claws. SD easily dodges then headbutts them in the stomach, making them fly through the water.
He doesn’t give them any room to breathe though as he catches them through their arc then slams them against the rock below them.
Laughing madly, Anti sinks claws deep into their arms then drags them down, watching in satisfaction as the ugly thing screams robotically. These ones weren’t nearly as fun as the pure organic ones… but prey was prey.
The merman tears into the other hybrid- showing no mercy as he cuts it to ribbons. Deaf to their screams. Ignorant to who they used to remind him of.
All that matters is the thrill- the need to hunt. The need to hurt. He was a monster. He was a weapon!
The water flows with orange hybrid blood before SD-004 finally backs up- and sends a fireball right on top of the creature. Putting it out of its misery.
He giggled and licked the blood off his hand. He looked up to see Demerci smiling down at him, nodding her approval.
“Excellent work, SD-004,” She praised, writing something down on her PDA before pressing a button on her dashboard. “Ready for the next round?”
SD nodded with a crazed laugh, shaking out his tails and arms, watching the hatch yet again.
“Lay it on me Doc~!”
---------
Anti awoke with a start, clutching at his chest. His heart was beating too wildly, his skin feeling clammy and hot in the cool water of their cove.
That… that was definitely a memory… A memory he desperately wanted to forget.
He could still feel the sting of the shocks- the elation of ripping into his prey. He didn’t even care back then that those hybrids were like him and his brothers. He only knew following instincts… following orders.
“Anti?” A soft voice reaches his ears and the sea dragon jumps. Then, he sees Marvin swimming over to him, green hair loose and floating around his head like a halo. His mask hung loose in his hands. He tilted his head at the older brother in concern.
“You okay?”
Anti finds it hard to find his voice. “...n...nightmare-” He finally croaks out, feeling a shiver go up his spine and down his tails.
Marvin hums then settles in the sand next to Anti, tucking his tails under him. He offers the sea dragon a sad smile.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The older boy is quick to shake his head.
Marvin knits his eyebrows together in concern, “Anti… you can talk to me. I mean… if anyone knows what you went through its-”
“Shut up!” Anti suddenly shouts, hitting a fist against the sand. His eyes burn as he glares at Marvin and bares his teeth.
“You have no idea what I went through! The shit you went through is nothing compared to me! So stop acting like you get it! You don’t! Now leave me the fuck alone!”
The warper’s face falls, his gleaming blue eyes showing his heartbreak. Then, pink flashes in his eyes as he growls back, smacking Anti slightly with his tails in his haste to get up.
“Fine! Fuck me for wanting to help your sorry ass!” Marvin cries, trying to look angry, but glints of his tears leak into the moonlit water.
Without another glance or word, Marvin turns tail and rockets off into the midnight ocean.
Anti holds himself after he leaves, hating the feeling of timid eyes on his back.
He can’t tell Marvin- he can’t tell anyone about what he saw… what he knows… what he did.
They’ll hate him- hate him more than they already hate him.
He can handle this… they’re just memories. They can’t hurt him anymore…
#septnautical side story#antisepticeye#sea dragon anti#jezebeth demerci#abuse#experimentation#electrocution#brainwashing#torture#past memories#whump#sorry i know i need to get more refugee stuff done but this just came to me!#it was also inspired by an ask a while ago! :D#huffle tales
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I really like the looks of Calamity's sea serpent form, but let's have a little fun. Calamity's stuck as a leviathan mer too. but Pulling from her sea serpent look. [gotta entertain the artist too, i know you like drawing dragons]
//... i do like dragons... but i think... this is going to have to wait a while before i draw it, i’m sorry nonnie//
Her control of her magic was something Calamity took pride in. Knowing even how to stretch her senses out through tendrils of shadow.
That being said, so much control, only means agonizing panic when said magic began to act of it’s own accord. Refusing to respond to it’s master’s commands. She could feel her form changing, being torn from one to another, back again, as she fought against whatever insanity had taken hold of her.
Her pain, was not physical. It was all in her head. terror. of a mage with no control of their magic. It finally tore a high pitched cry of distress from her throat as she sank into the depths, unable to command limbs to move.
A long serpentine tail twitching as she lay stunned, staring up into the abyss. Gills flared open as she gasped.
[I promise her form will be drawn, i’ve just got more than i can manage on my plate at the moment]
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The crossover nobody asked for, The arcana and Subnautica below zero crossover. This was a fun sketch, not so fun to do Lucio’s prostetic arm but all is well.
I imagine in this universe? AU? whatever you might call it, Zarahalt (my mc) found the architect on Sanctuary Zero just in time for this bastard to upload his consciousness inside her brain. After busting her ass looking for the fragments necesary for Lucio’s new vessel, aka body, she found out this dumbass was the responsible for the Kharaa outbreak on planet 4546B,1000 years ago.
Also Architects are freaking huge and Zara is a pint sized human so the height differences is pretty accurate. And why would Lucio need a fur trim and a cape in a planet that’s 95% water? We’ll never know.
I know Al-an had mechanical arms floating around him but I’m a lazy butt and didn’t want to draw them.
I imagine their conversation going something like this:
Zarahalt: I’m curious,Why did your species thought It was a good idea to steal a sea dragon leviathan’s egg?
Lucio: for research my dear!! I thought It was a brilliant idea, I mean they are kinda similar, you see? Their appearances, their ancestry....the-
Zarahalt: wait wait wait, It was YOUR idea?! So the Kharaa break out was your fault!!
Lucio: Oh come on!! I was an Oopsie!
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More Subnautica pictures! They’re going to get increasingly spoilery as they go so you have been warned.
Here we see the majestic Ghost Leviathan in its natural habitat, gracefully swimming thru the flora in search of its next mea...
Uh oh, I think he spotted me.
No. I’m not coming out there, and you may not borrow a cup of sugar.
Cuddlefish! They’re a special fish you can find and hatch in the game, hard limit of five eggs to discover, and they don’t breed. When you release them they’ll follow you around and you can interact with them. The first one I release apparently bugged or something though because it just immediately swam away into the distance and I didn’t see it again. Released the other four and they behave as I heard they were supposed to though. Followed me as I swam around the base, and would even be outside the windows of whatever room I was in.
High five buddy!
And now the extra spoilery stuff...
Big mama Leviathan, the Sea Emperor. Unfortunately I didn’t take any screenshots while she was swimming around, because after this she didn’t swim anymore. She’s similar to an extra large Sea Dragon, but instead of clawed flippers she’s got those dull mantis things, and more of a jagged turtle beak instead of teeth. Also a plankton eater, entirely non-hostile. Truly the bro-est of all Leviathans.
After that, it was time to build my escape rocket and finally ditch this place. Rocket was fun, with a series of controls you go thru and turn on. Time capsule inside where you can leave a few items, a screen shot, and a message, and it can randomly turn up in someone’s else game. Up to 40 can end up in one game. I never happened across one in mine though. Forgot to upload a couple screenshots I took from space, but yeah, safely left the planet and Platinumed the game. There’s one thing I forgot I’d wanted to check out so I’ll probably do that later today so you’ll get a few more screenshots tomorrow.
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“Hah? If there’s nothing you need, then scram. I’ve got no time for pointless small-talk.”
Name: Leviotan Genov
Dorm: Octavinelle
Year: 3rd
Like/s:
Gambling
Musical instruments
Fairness and keeping to your word
Word puzzles and chess
Dislike/s:
Meaningless things/conversations
Debts and being indebted
Needless spending
Spicy foods
Twisted from: No one (he’s based on a Killer Whale/Orca)
Short Description:
A 3rd-year from the Octavinelle dormitory, and Viviane’s “older brother”. He appears to do as he pleases and minds his own business, to which he expects others to do the same. Despite his conscious distancing, he at times follows Azul’s orders and genuinely cares about one person; his little sister.
Personality:
He’s aloof and prefers to not bother intruding on other people’s business unless it benefits him, his sister, or his benefactors. That’s not to say Levio has no social skills at all, he’s actually quite pleasant to talk to…. if and when he actually talks to you. He’s also very observant and actually pays attention to what is going on in his surroundings, keeping information within his head until he can later use it on the perfect or right time. Also, due to being raised in a household that respects and highly values women in a positive light, Levi’s naturally inclined to be nice and courteous to women, even offering to assist any female that look like they need help— he’s actually kind that way, though he doesn’t regard himself as such and just considers it as a circumstantial attitude due to how and what type of environment he was raised in. Also, despite his rather gruff and tough appearance, he can actually be rather formal and patient, though he mostly reserves this side to gatherings or important parties and stuff.
Believe it or not, but he’s actually an instrumental genius. What that actually means is, he can pretty much play any musical instrument very easily even though he’s never used it in the past. It’s to the point that he only needs to hear a piece of music ONCE, and he can already replicate it to near-perfection. Despite looking and acting so seriously most of the time, Levio’s actually pretty playful and a bit of a snarky tease, since he whenever he’s in a good mood or around people he even REMOTELY is close with, then he’ll poke fun at them over small things on occasion like; say if that person’s crush is nearby, then he’ll do his absolute best to make his “friend” turn absolutely red from embarrassment. Though at random times, he will choose a random person and then try to push their berserk buttons for the fun of it. Levi genuinely cares about Viviane and would do absolutely anything and everything to make her happy and to stay that way; he’s almost worried about her due to her lackadaisical attitude and the fact that because she got so used to seeing sketchy-looking guys back at home, she has absolutely zero fear in approaching literally anyone.
With all that being said…. it will not be denied that Leviotan has a rather sadistic side. He also has a bit of a bad habit in gambling away anything— he more often than not ups the stakes and even often bets his life mostly for the thrills, though he quite easily crushes the opposition on that note since that’s his “finale”. Additionally, Levio may not look like it, but he is the type of person who WILL mess with and up your entire life and psyche just for the fun of it. Sure with his domineering size, he’s 198cm by the way, he could just easily beat anyone up, but he much prefers the way of “breaking them by talking”…. though he isn’t against in using both. Levi’s also not ashamed of actually using his “ties” and “connections” behind the scenes if he gets genuinely pissed off, or if one of his benefactors needs something done about it, or, god forbid, if you’ve done something bad to Vivi in which case, pray to whatever god out there that Lev himself does NOT deal with you; trust me, you’d rather wish you were dead than deal with an angry Leviotan.
Relationships/s:
[Will be edited in the future]
Trivia:
His first name, [Leviotan], is actually derived from [Leviathan] and [Lotan]; both are sea serpents/dragons with the former being from Jewish/Christian belief, while the latter is from the Canaanites— although the name also came to be used as a term for “great whale”.
His last name, [Genov], comes from the infamous Genovese mafia— the oldest and largest of the “Five Families”, and was originally known as the “Luciano (crime family)”.
He and Viviane may be siblings, but the latter is actually his adoptive younger sister-- meaning they share no blood relations. Still, he treats Viv as if she was actually his younger sister.
Viviane was also supposed to end up becoming the heir to the Genov family name due to their succession law of having a female lead the family. Though because of her adoptive status, and the fact that she vehemently rejected it(since it felt too “restraining” for her), Leviotan was chosen instead despite being a male. Both of them don’t really mind or care about this outcome in the slightest.
#twisted wonderland#twst#disney twisted wonderland#disney twst#oc#own character#twst oc#disney twst oc#octavinelle#my art#yasu art#leviotan genov#akdaskdlasd#i finally got this fucker up#i was a bit side-tracked due to excitement of the game coming out#lololol#also#this guy wont be my last twst oc#oh no no no#you underestimate my stupidity#as of the moment#my head is already plotting out to have duos in each dorm#quin and sei for heartslabyul#cirnu and bel for diasomnia#now#vivi and levi for octavinelle#lala and shir dont count because shir is already graduated
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The Scavenger CH 6 (Cobb Vanth x OC fic)
Chapter 6: The Secret
Fandom: The Mandalorian
Word count: 7421
Genre: Space Western
Summary: Nathsca tells the truth to the Marshal. Back in Mos Espa, the lone Captain Qod has a conversation with his employer. A pale slick is missing in the dunes.
A/N: I apologize for the missing chapter of the past week. A lot was going on so I bring you this really long chapter
FULL CHAPTER ALSO ON: wattpad.com/998747414-the-scavenger-chapter-6-the-secret
...
Fandom: The Mandalorian
Word count: 7421
Genre: Space Western
Summary: Nathsca tells the truth to the Marshal. Back in Mos Espa, the lone Captain Qod has a conversation with his employer. A pale slick is missing in the dunes.
A/N: I apologize for the missing chapter of the past week. A lot was going on so I bring you this really long chapter
...
The twins were setting down across the dune sea. The locals were busy trying to put back together with the whole town. Some repaired the fallen vaporizers, others were fixing the banthas' pen and the rest check whatever else was broke.
It's been 12 days since the dragon made its last appearance across Mos Pelgo. The Marshal kept note of how long would take before the leviathan's next visit. The last time was 18 days but, he arrived sooner than he expected. He needed to follow that thing and study it much as he could.
A lot was going on in his mind but, his attention was somewhere else.
Right after leaving the young scavenger in town, Cobb flew back looking for the pale slick but, he was gone already. He searched around the area before the night fell on the dunes. Wherever he was, there was no chance he would survive the night creatures or the sand people.
Before taking off back to town, Cobb step over a small device, he picked it up and dusted it off. It was a bounty puck. He gave it a long stare before making up his mind about checking what was in that.
The blueish hologram displayed the scavenger's face, full name, and how much they were offering for her head. He didn't mind the price, what got his full attention was the charges; piracy, murder attempt, theft.
Cobb switched down the puck and kept it in his pockets. He has been pushing that serious talk with her since she arrived in town. Something always got in the middle before he could say a thing. Also, the fact that he grew a soft spot for her had something to do with it. He was not mad at the girl, but he couldn't help her at all if she was keeping secrets from him.
The Marshal was unsure how many others would come to attack her or the town. Cobb was getting overworked with this and, he was not fully recovered from the first fight. The bruises from the recent one were swelling.
The night fell on the dunes and, the Marshal finally took off.
Back at his place.
Nath was curled in bed trying to stay calm and thinking what to do. She had all her hopes on the Marshal finding Plog. That scoundrel was the only one left that knew where she was. She needed to kill him and leave before Qod finds this place.
She is been playing around these past days, trying to be part of the community but, her mind kept reminding her of the facts; one of the most dangerous men on Tatooine would destroy the whole town, make her watch, and then kill her just to make a point.
Her face sank on the pillow and took a deep breath.
The door slid up and she jumped off from bed. He was back, she thought and rushed out of the room.
The Marshal placed the helmet on the table and took two glasses from the pantry, along with a bottle of spotchka. He poured down the drinks and then turned to face her.
He chuckled softly, looking at her wearing his vermilion long sleeve shirt. Nights were cold in the dunes, so it was normal that she looked for anything to cover up.
Nath felt his eyes scanning her and then she wrapped her arms around herself. "My tunic was dirty, I hope you don't mind." She muttered.
The Marshall shook his head and handed her a drink. Nath examined the blueish liquid and then gave him a puzzled look.
"Might help you to calm down. You were a bit jumpy." He sipped his glass.
The girl chugged it down, shut her eyes, and made a face.
"That's terrible." She coughed.
"You'll get used to it." He chuckled.
Nath shook her head and coughed a little more. "No, I don't think I will."
Cobb left the glass on the table and stripped off the armor. The scavenger watched him the whole time, moving around the house. She scanned the small house. It looked like he was just there to sleep and eat. He didn't have many things around, just the basics; bowls, plates, a bin with dirty clothes, an old broken blaster.
Now, she was studying the Marshal while they were silent. He looked tired but still, there was something about him that she liked, just, couldn't place exactly what it was. The liquor was taking effect. She suddenly felt warm, her cheeks turned a little red and her body felt lazy. It was not her first time drinking alcohol, but sure her first time drinking something that strong. Nath sank her body on the chair and sighed trying to put her thoughts together.
Cobb was busy cleaning up the remains of blood on his face. This trawler was way worst than the one he fought a few days ago. He could feel the bruise on his lower lip getting bigger and now he couldn't tell the difference between the new wounds and the old ones. The only idea that jumped in his head was to drown in spotchka to ease the pain and staying in bed for 2 days.
Nath kept watching him but felt uncomfortable about the silence. She needed to say something to break the ice and the first words finally came out from him.
"I couldn't find the guy. He was gone already." He said.
The redhead felt her heart sank with his words.
"If you ask me, I don't think he would survive in the dunes. He had no speeder, I found the crashed items but nothing else."
Nath took a deep breath trying to stay calm and looked down at her empty glass.
"Thank you and I'm sorry."
"For what?" He asked and looked back at her.
She shifted on the chair and rested both arms over the table. Her gaze met with his while she kept a serious expression.
"Thanks for everything and sorry for being rude to you and for bringing all my problems."
The Marshal dropped the dirty cloth and moved towards her.
He picked his drink and took a bigger sip. His thumb cleaned the small drop from his lip. Nath was staring at him longer than she usually does. His eyes met her icy gaze and smiled at her.
"It's ok." He said.
"No, you were right. I should have to tell you about it."
"About that?" He pointed to the canister that was at the top of the pantry.
Her attention moved to the silver container and Nath nodded. She played with the glass on her hand, her feet drummed on the floor before making a choice. The girl rushed to take the canister and push it towards him.
Cobb rose his brow and took the pierced container.
"I was in a crew named the Shadows. We were just a bunch of criminals taking all kinds of jobs like stealing cargo from New Republic ships, trade what we could in the black market." She spoke. "I was their mechanic."
"You were a pirate."
"Kinda. I never s-." She paused. Of course, she hurt others before but not intentionally. She didn't want to think about that. The water, the screams. Nath shook the memory from her head and kept going "Qod is a dangerous man, ruthless, he won't stop until he gets what he wants," Nath looked down trying to keep going with the story.
"Our last job was a mess. We were taking cargo from a New Republic ship that was operated fully by droids. We would hack the system, take the cargo, and blow up the whole thing. But the intel was wrong. We lost two guys cause someone sold us. Qod got paranoid about everyone and weird things started to happen. Folks from the crew found dead, in prison or missing." She paused. "He left a few of us around.
Then, he met with some slave traders. Leftovers of what the Hutts were. They were looking for slaves... female humanoid slaves." She paused and pointed to the silver canister. "That was a payment for a few of them."
Cobb gave her a look before examining the inside of the canister. A small blueish glow came from the rare gems. He saw them before on the empire days when he worked on the mines with other slaves.
"I dunno why he wants them but, he didn't hesitate to let go of the women he knew." She looked away and frowned. "He was not aware of me being there. So, I heard everything. I tried not to panic and played along. Later that day, Qod asked me to join him in his chambers, sweet talk to me but, I put something in his drink. He passed out and, I escaped taking the gems with me." She twirled the glass on the table.
"When I first met him, he claimed me as his woman and kept me around just for his entertainment. For a moment, I thought he cared about me, now, I realized it was all..." She looked down at the empty glass.
The Marshal kept a serious face during her story. He could feel the blood boiling in his veins the more she kept talking about that man. He felt no sympathy for anyone related to slave traders or worst, the Empire.
"All those hunters were sent by Plog, a sneaky bastard that gives Qod all kinds of info. He keeps him around cause he is useful." She sighed and finally looked up to him.
"It's a matter of days before they find this place and me. And I don't want to put your folk in danger. I should go."
Cobb took another sip of his drink and looked back with those piercing eyes. Maybe her being there was dangerous for his community but he didn't want her to end as a slave or worst, dead. The Marshal set down the glass and lock his eyes with hers.
"Listen, the moment you set a foot in Mos Pelgo, you became my responsibility. I know the kind of men you are dealing with and ain't welcome. If they try to come here and push you around, I will have a conversation with them." He patted the blaster on his holster.
"You don't have to do that, Marshal. You don't know these people."
"I know them. Every bully I've ever met sends a bunch of heavies to do the dirty work. I guess that he will come to talk. Whoever paid him has more power and is not happy with him, so, he is gonna try to get those gems back."
"He will come and won't be alone, Marshal. He looks for the worst, willing to take down the entire town."
"Let me handle it." He smiled at her. "Trust me."
Nath was shaking and having no idea what to do. All the pain in her body, the stress, and all she wanted were to scream out loud. She thought about jumping on him, pulled him by the crimson scarf, and kiss him deeply to let go of all the steam in her body and feel something else rather than this frustration but, she didn't move.
What if he pushed her away? That would be embarrassing for her.
"Thank you, Marshal." She said.
Cobb gave her a light nod and reached out for her hand. Her heartbeat was rushing feeling his warm hand and looked into his eyes.
"It's ok, princess. I promised to look after you." He gave her a warm smile.
Nath blushed brightly, examining every feature in his face thinking about moving closer and give it a try, but her hand reached out the cloth to clean a small bloodstain across his jawline. He couldn't help himself and smirk at her. Those looks again, he thought.
The redhead stopped for a moment.
What was she thinking? She said to herself.
"Thanks for pampering to me." He teased. "I can get used to it."
She was feeling warmer than before but tried to keep herself cool and not act nervous with him.
"I hope you are feeling better cause I want the bed." She glared at him. "I refuse to sleep in that rug again."
"I told you, but you didn't listen."
"Well, you needed the bed." She said.
"And I still do." He pointed.
Nath rolled her eyes and moved towards him to check the wound on his side. He noticed the dirty bandage and made a face. Her eyes went up to meet with his and just at that moment, she realized she was that close. Cobb smirked back at her, he knew that look.
"Then, we have a problem." He said.
Nath frowned and, her cheeks were bright red. Cobb couldn't stop thinking how cute she looked with her flushed cheeks and angry face. Those freckles stand out even more.
"Wanna flip a coin?" She asked. "Cause there's no version of this that ends up with us sharing your bed."
"You know I was joking. Interestingly, your mind went there."
Damn alcohol. Damn pearly smile. Brush those ideas off, Nathsca, clean that wound, and just go, she thought.
...
Mos Espa
The smoky atmosphere surrounded the large crowded joint. Groups or folks of all kinds gathered around but none of them with a friendly face. Some were around for a drink, looking for a job, or just gambling.
Another blaster roared followed by a thud. The crowd remained quiet for a moment and continue with the atmosphere. The annoyed owner just yelled to his droid to take out the dead body and drop it somewhere out of town, just like the guy from 2 days ago.
Between the smoky and darker areas, in the lone booth, the man with the x-shaped scar was sitting by himself enjoying a drink. Once his glass was set down on the table, a droid rushed to take it away and bring him a new one.
His dark and pale eyes were busy examining a blueish hologram that displayed the tiny cargo ship from the New Republic. He studied the areas of interest, looking for any weak spots on the ventilation area, how many escape pods were working, the easier way to reach the cockpit, and all those kinds of details he wanted to keep in mind before a heist.
Qod wrote down all this in his journal, even draw the important parts of the map but the hologram faded when a large red palm was placed over the device. The one-horned Devaronian, Nurh Drart, flashes his yellowish smirk at him. Qod turned around to look at him but kept the same serious face.
Then, his attention moved to the Twilek, Jub'tadi, that scoot into the booth, sitting in front of him. The blue one stretched a little, placed his blaster on the table, and kept a mocking smile before he addressed to the Captain.
"There are rumors about your crew, Qod." Jub spoke and motioned his hand to a young Rodian pirate to sit with them. The green one had bruises across his face and looked up the Captain. He was about to mutter something but he felt the dark and pale glare upon him.
"We respect your crew and you, but these rumors...Our boss is not happy with them. It feels like you are losing control or maybe getting too slow for this."
Nurh made a grunt and spoke in huttesse. "Just get to the point, Jub. All imperials are the same, arrogant and weak. Tell him that."
The captain rose his brow and The blue one just threw a glare at Nurh. "I'm handling this." He replied in the same tongue and returned to Qod, speaking normally.
"As I was saying, my employer is not happy with the delay. He is aware that one asset is meaningless to you but he said that this missing asset was the finest on the lot, or at least the youngest, and that poke his curiosity.
Our first agreement was for 10 assets, not 9 and my boss is very specific with numbers." He explained and paused for a moment.
"So, just as a sign of respect for our long term business relationship, my boss is letting you know that we are calling the Guild and use your payment for that hunter that finds the asset first."
The red one rolled his eyes and spat. "Even a Jawa would be able to find it. I'm telling you, this old man is a joke."
Qod kept the attention on Jub and nodded lightly after he closed his journal. He cleared his throat and kept looking at the blue one.
"May I ask why you narrowed down to that decision?" He spoke with a deep and calm voice but his eyes could tell another story.
"Our boss is wondering if you are either keeping her for yourself or you lost her," Jub said.
Both men kept looking at each other in silence until the waiter droid approached the table to bring the captain his drink but the red one grabbed it. He examined the green smoky liquid, took a large sip, made a face, and spit it back on the glass. He slid it towards Qod and chuckled.
Qod's eyes finally moved towards the glass. The green smoky drink was now almost brownish, with the slime twirling around. Qod kept his attention on it.
"Your man here says she is been missing for two days," Jub said.
The Rodian kept his gaze down as he felt the Captain studying him. He tried to rush out from the booth but the Twilek kept him right next to him. He was shaking.
"He said that someone set you up in the last job. That you were sloppy." Nurh grunted and moved closer to the Captain, his head just a few inches from Qod's shoulder.
Jub gave him a look but, he chose to ignore it. The horned one kept pushing. "You are old, a relic of the fallen Empire. A shadow of what you were back in those days. To me, sounds like made-up stories." He spat in huttese and then laughed.
With a swift move, Qod pulled Nurh's hem and smashed his face right into the glass and table, making the shattered glass stick into his face. He growled in pain and backed off holding his face and feeling the blood running down his hands.
The Rodian rolled off the booth and watched Jub trying to reach the blaster but, the Captain was faster. He brutally stabbed his hand onto the table, making Jub scream.
Everyone in the joint watched this in awe and started to clear the space.
The Captain took the blaster from the surface and stood up. His face kept the same serious expression but, in his eyes, there was something peculiar about them.
The large devaronian was swinging a knife in the Captain's direction, who didn't hesitate to pull the trigger and make a hole through the skull. Jub looked at him in shock trying to pull the knife off.
"Y-you can't do this. We... our deal."
"I appreciate your candor. It's refreshing, and let me understand that you are not smart enough. You see, we give you Hutts fifteen percent of our profit in exchange for weapons that you took from dead troopers, not a whole squadron as you claim but I choose to believe your story and all your lies cause you are such clichés.
You making a deal with The Guild? Last time I remember they are not happy about how your people handled the situation with his missing man and the Sarlacc pit" He gripped the blade's handle, twisted it, and made the Twilek scream even more. Qod smacked him and pointed at him to keep looking at him.
"What I will not tolerate is being pushed around by two amateurs. Anyway, the terms in our agreement remain almost the same. Your boss takes this dead town that I have no interest in, you will get now five percent and I believe you will be able to explain why. If your boss wants to change our terms, tell him to meet me. As for the asset, I'm handing it in personally from now on. Once I bring her and the gems back, I want my weapons." He pulled out the blade and gave Jub a look.
"Next time choose your partner wisely." Qod finished and made his way out of the joint right before he turned around to shoot the Rodian hiding behind the counter. Everyone watched in silence. It took a while before the music resumed.
...
Mos Pelgo
Early morning.
The sky was painted with purple and small tints of orange. The twins were still hiding behind the dune sea. Creatures crawled out to stretch out and keep going on their way looking for food or new shelter.
The dusty town was still sleeping, the sand brushed away any trace from the dragon or their unwanted visitors. An old farmer was awake to feed the mooing banthas that shook their large bodies before starting the day.
Not so far from there, a blaster roared three times, and then it was followed by the sound of shattered glass.
Cobb Vanth stood tall holding the smoky barrel and kept it back on the holster. His hazel eyes focused on the holes around the wood, three to be exact before the fourth one broke the glass. He was not pleased with the result.
His fingers ran over the new bandage, right where the belly wound was, and returned his gaze to the next empty bottle. He shifted the side of the holster to his left and prepare his hand. He stretched his fingers, took a deep breath while not taking his eyes from the object.
The Marshal waited and then, he cross-pulled the blaster and fired into nothing when he flinched and felt the sting on his belly. He took a deep breath and placed his hand over his side.
He shook his head and focused on the next bottle.
The twins were coming out from the dunes. The rays peek through the window and hit her right in the face. Nath rolled in bed and pulled the sheets over her head but suddenly she kicked them away and looked around. Empty, she thought. She patted herself to check if she was dressed until reality slapped her.
Her head was killing her, her eyes shut for a moment thinking about that blueish liquor. The last time I drink that, she thought while holding her head. Her eyes opened for a moment to scan the whole room. It stopped right on the clothes pile; a blood-stained shirt and her trousers.
She huffed in frustration and covered her face. Nath was wondering what happened last night, trying to place her thoughts together.
She spoke with the Marshal, they drank a few glasses, then she checked his wound and after that, they went to bed together. She took a deep breath and repeated all the actions over and over until it finally clicked.
They went together but she tucked into the bed. The Marshal slept over the sheets and on his side, nothing else. He probably left earlier and then, her thoughts were interrupted by the blaster roar. She jumped off the bed and peeked through the window.
"Dank farrik." She heard the male voice in the distance and looked for the tall figure.
She saw the Marshal firing right to an empty bottle but he hit it at the second shoot. She noticed when he placed the hand on his side.
"That man..." Nath huffed and rushed her way out of the house.
Cobb focused on his shooting that he didn't notice when the redhead came out and slapped his arm.
"Hey!" She yelled.
He jumped and fired the blaster by mistake, hitting a vaporizer, making a small hole to let out the steam. A red light started to blink rapidly.
"Dank farrik." He frowned looking at the vaporizer. He would need to fix that later.
"You are not supposed to do that, yet, Marshal. You need to rest." She frowned back.
He rolled his eyes and finally met her gaze. "Listen, princess, I-"
His words stopped and his expression changed into a mocking smirk. He chuckled while his eyes scanned her. Nath gave him a puzzled look and blinked many times wondering what he had on mind.
"What's so funny?" She puffed her cheeks.
Cobb folded his arms and chuckled again. His finger pointed down at her. Nath lowered her gaze and blushed brightly looking at her bare legs, bare thighs. She huffed in anger, slapped his arm harder, and ran back into the house.
The Marshal laughed hard and then groaned feeling the sting on his belly. Ok, he had that one coming, he thought.
...
In the dunes.
The heavy steps made their way through the dunes, leaving a sand trail right behind them. He was breathing heavily, his arms hanging from his body, his lips were chapped and dry. Plog's skin was crimson, his face was covered with bruises and a large black eye across the left eye.
The slick squinted his eyes trying to spot any town or anything that called out civilization but there was only dust. Wherever he was, he was hoping not to fall into a Sarlacc pit by mistake or worst, be found by sand people or getting eaten by the dragon.
After the dragon made its way near Mos Pelgo, the valley that was guarded by the Tusken Raiders was empty. Even those brutal warriors were afraid of the mighty creature. Plog didn't spot any of them and for his luck, they didn't spot him too.
What kept him going to walk across the dune sea was that he needed to meet with the Captain and settle everything down. He wanted to kill that fake mando and take that brat where she belonged.
Plog was still in pain because of them; he could still feel his bare knuckles across his face or the strong kick right into his crotch. It was humiliating. That slave and brat needed to pay.
He was a man with status, with power, and everything he wanted. His blood was boiling just thinking about those two trying to take that away from him and making him look bad with the Captain.
But those days of Wan Plog, the sneaky informer of the Shadow seemed distant. He was crawling in the sand, probably waiting to die at some point until he felt the tremor on the ground.
"Is that the dragon?" He panicked and got up to take off but his feet stopped when his blurry vision noticed the large Sandcrawler stopping a few miles from him, down in the dune near an old crashed TIE
He smiled faintly. He never felt such delight at meeting with the Jawas.
The Sandcrawler lowered its gates and the group of small hooded figures came out. They rushed around the old ship, taking whatever pieces of rusted metal that worked for them.
Plog rushed his heavy feet and yelled at them, waving his arms trying to get their attention.
The Jawas couldn't pick on his bad accent and they whine at him, saying gibberish and keeping the riffles up. Plog stopped and kept his arms in the air.
"Hey, easy! I just need your help. I'll pay you handsomely if you drop me near Mos Espa." He smiled.
The Jawas looked at each other for a moment. They examined the ragged man with burnt skin. Some of the giggled, others moved over to pick on his pockets but they groaned in disappointment.
"It looks like a Sarlacc chewed him and spit his pale meat" They mumbled their gibberish to each other and laughed watching the beat-up Plog.
The Jawas made up their minds and returned their attention to the rusted metal, picking on useful parts, carrying them to the crawler. Plog tried to speak to any of the hooded figures but they refused to talk.
"I can give you an imperial speeder. A new one." He tried to talk to them.
A Jawa stopped and studied him for a moment. He gasped and rushed to the group. The Jawas started to talk to each other, they argue for a while, looking back at Plog from time to time, and nodded in agreement. The smaller Jawa showed them a bag with credits and they looked back at Plog.
Plog rose his brow at them when they moved towards him and kept full attention on him.
"We will help you, skinny one. But you give us the imperial ship. Ship, not speeder." They spoke.
Plog was not a master at speaking with Jawas but he was certain that he understood the word ship or speeder. He smiled at them and shook their little hands.
...
Back in Mos Pelgo.
Nath spent all morning fixing the vaporizer that Cobb messed up. She replaced the pierced container and patched the steam tubes. They would need to change it eventually but so far it would work for a while. Unlike bigger cities, Mos Pelgo had a few vaporizers to keep the area fresh. Even though it was a small town, three vaporizers were not enough.
She cleaned the sweat from her forehead and picked her tools to go back inside. She crossed her way with Cobb, who was fully armored and she gave him a murderous glare. Nath was still angry about the little morning accident and worst, he gave her that smirk again.
"We are having a meeting in the cantina. You should come and don't forget your trousers, princess." He winked and pass next to her, heading towards Weequay's joint.
The redhead thought about throwing the wrench at him but she dropped the tools by the door and followed him.
...
In the cantina.
The folks were gathered around the joint, sharing tables, some having a drink or anything to eat. Once they saw the Marshal and the redhead walked in there was a small silence.
Cobb was not exactly their leader, but he tried to look for their interests and safety. This whole subject with the trawlers and Nathsca was something he needed to let the others know.
The young woman took a spot behind the counter and leaving all the attention for Cobb.
"Thanks, everyone for coming. I'm sure you are wondering about the strangers that keep coming to our town. Before we keep talking, I wanna let everyone know that Nathsca here is now one of us. She is been fixing speeders and the vaporizers for us, also she saved Triggar's daughter from the sand snake and I think she deserves a place in our community."
The locals spoke between them but they nodded in agreement while listening to Cobb. Nath tried not to make eye contact with anyone but she smiled back at Kyranj, Irella's mom.
"So, now that we all agree she is one of us, you should all know what happened yesterday." Cobb continued. "Those two strangers were looking for Miss Roznev cause like many of us, she was sold as a slave." He paused. "And in this town, we can't stand that."
The locals groaned when he mentioned the word slave and then some yeahs were heard on the back.
"These slave traders made a deal with pirates, lowlives, ex-imperials, and hired guns. We are not sure but there's a small chance they might come to our town looking for Nath and if they please they will come after us too."
"If she is bringing problems she should go." A man in the background spoke. Some locals agreed but others started to argue to defend the young woman. Cobb observed them for a while and cleared his throat to speak more.
"I made a promise to this town, to protect it. But I also made that promise to Miss Roznev. I know most of you didn't trust her a few days ago and I understand that, but Nathsca is a good woman. I think she deserves to be free just like us. We all know what it's like having that life and I'm willing to fight for her freedom." He finally looked back at the redhead.
Nath kept her gaze down for a moment before looking back at Cobb. She shook her head and mouthed. "You don't have to do this."
"So, I would like to put together a team to make shifts and guard the area, making sure we get ready if the strangers come here. We fought the Mining Collective, we fought the Red key raiders. To be honest, I don't mind fighting a bunch of pirates too. So, what do you say?"
The locals remained silent for a long moment before making up their minds. Nath gave Cobb a look and sighed.
"Seriously, you don't have to do this. No one has to" She whispered to him. Cobb signed her to wait. He had faith in the locals, eventually, some of them would do the right thing.
After that long silence, some stood up and were about to exit the joint. At that moment, Kyranj and Triggar stood up.
"We would like to help Nathsca, Marshal." Kyranj smiled and then looked around at others. The old Weequay stood up too and gave the Marshal a nod. Eventually, a small group formed to assist them. The rest just remained silent but no one dared to leave the joint.
Everyone heard the Marshal instructions. They would keep a watch around the city and the canyon. They needed to set up small traps, have all weapons working, and other details.
Nath found herself watching Cobb the whole time. Even though he was putting the plan together, he heard everyone's opinion to improve the strategy and make a better move. Nath noticed that every time he was thinking about something he would frown for a moment and run his hand through his hair. She couldn't help herself and smile.
Later.
The young redhead was checking the same vaporizer that kept making a strange sound. She opened up the container and took out the small canister. She thought about going out of town and bury it away, not minding if she lost it, but she decided to hide it just in case they might need them.
She knew the big cities, there was always someone willing to buy gems. Her ideas brushed from her head when she heard footsteps approaching her. She quickly placed the container where it belonged and stuffed the canister inside the vaporizer.
Cobb was placing a new set of the empty bottle to fire at them. He pulled two times to fire, hitting the bottle but once he tried the cross pulled he grunted in pain. Nath shook her head looking at him.
"You should stop doing that, tough guy. You need to rest." She yelled at him and cleaned the sweat from her forehead.
Cobb made a face and then flashed his charming smile at her. "Resting is not part of my day."
"I know you are the keeper of this place but you are not immortal, Marshal, just, stubborn."
"Just like you, princess. Fiery, stubborn, and pretty. Maybe not that pretty but you get the point." he winked at her.
Nath rolled her eyes and tried to hide that little smile across her face. He chuckled and lowered the blaster.
"Is that a smile?"
"What? Am I not allowed to do that?"
"You are, I guess you should do it more often." He tried the cross pull once more and fired but he missed again.
"Maybe I will smile more if you stop doing that." She rose a brow.
Cobb looked back at her, rolled the blaster on his hand, and kept it back on the holster.
"Show off." She moved towards him, cross pulled the blaster from his holster, and hit the missing bottle. She rolled the blaster on her hand and gave it back to him
The Marshal smirked at her and chuckled. "And I thought I was the show-off. I guess I'm done for the moment"
She frowned and he laughed, shaking his head.
"For the day, princess. Geez, you are quite moody."
"I'm not but you make me angry" she folded her arms.
"Why? For not listening to you? cause the feeling is mutual."
She had no idea what to say next and bit her lower lip. Her eyes were locked on his hazel ones, studying that peculiar shade between green and brown, her gaze lower to his lips and pearly smile.
"Maybe." She muttered.
The Marshal smirked and pulled her closer. The redhead gasped and blinked many times feeling his arm around her.
"What are you doing?"
He remained silent for a moment but keeping an intense stare upon her. His hazel ones studied her reaction just looking at anything that could give away anything. Nath locked her eyes on him and felt her cheeks getting warmer.
"I'm asking you the same, cause whatever this is, I'm getting tired of not figuring it out." He spoke. "It's hard to understand. One day you look after me, the next one you wanna kill me. I noticed the way you look at me and I'm sure you are aware of how I look at you. My point is that we are both pretty old to be playing around."
Nath was speechless and her heart was rushing.
"What's your deal with me, princess?" He asked. After a few days, he finally managed to pull out those words that kept jumping in his head since day one. What was the mystery about Nathsca that just kept him on edge? Yeah, she might be way younger than him but there was something about her that he just kept looking away rather than face the facts until now.
Nath felt the space between them getting smaller each second, she could feel his chest pressed against her, both palms against it, her eyes getting lost on his gaze, thinking about his lips until she poked him in the ribs and made him groan in pain.
"You are my deal. You need to rest before trying to do that. I know you wanna look tough but you deserve to rest as well, Cobb." She was blushing brightly. Her mind kept jumping around the idea of jumping into his arms and kiss him deeply.
Cobb gave her a look and shook his head. He would normally just back off and go to avoid an even more awkward situation but it seems she didn't remember anything from last night when she told him about all those times she gets funny ideas about him but that she is afraid that he might push her.
Any other man would take advantage of a drunk girl and just have his way with her not minding if she would remember or not, but not the Marshal, he wanted to make sure she meant it and just go as far as she would allow him.
"Fine, but you can't skip this conversation forever, you know." He lifted her chin with his thumb and placed a kiss over her forehead before leaving.
She took a deep breath when he finally let her go. Her heartbeat was rushing and her legs were shaking. Whatever effect he had on her, it was working and she needed to keep fighting against it. She didn't want to get attached again and get hurt or worst, lose him.
"Not again." She thought to herself and sighed.
...
Mos Espa. The Shadows shop.
The curious Sullustan was finishing up the cruiser, checking the energy levels, ready to take off at any moment. He cleaned the oil from his hands and looked back at the small group keeping an eye on him.
He was not exactly the best mechanic in town, but he knew how to put together anything, especially if the Shadows asked him to. The last mechanic that refused to work with them had a gruesome ending. His head exhibited right outside his house just to make a point. No Empire, no Hutts yet but this small pirate group knew how to pull out a show.
A tall zabrak, walked into the shop to check the cruisers and gave the mechanic a light nod. "He is here."
The mechanic just rushed to clean the rest from his hands and stood tall when Captain Qod made his entrance followed by the masked Chiss and another gunslinger.
The Captain walked between the cruisers, checking each one of them, writing down something in his journal. The sullustan was nervous just following him with his gaze.
"Not bad. You got these part from?" The Captain spoke.
The Sullustan just muttered. "Pod racing mostly. Those parts are used just once but with the proper engine, you can build a decent cruiser. I picked the best sets for your team, Captain." He smiled nervously.
"So, used parts of broke pods are you saying?" He kept the dark tone. The Sullustan gulped and regretted giving away those details. He didn't say a word. Qod moved towards him and patted his shoulder.
"I would normally disapprove that but since this dumpster planet had nothing else to offer, I will take them. Thank you for your service." He dropped on the Sullustan's hand a bag with credits. The nervous mechanic just nodded and quickly rushed to the exit.
Once the shop was clear, Qod turned around to look back at his team. "Any word from Plog?"
Everyone remained silent and the gunslinger shook his head. Qod took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. "Any idea of his last location?" The deep voice asked.
Qod walked around the shop and huffed, trying to stay calm.
He heard a small beep coming from his pocket and took out the device. A small and blueish hologram displayed Plog's tiny figure, waving at him.
"Sir, I found her." The distorted voiced spoke.
"And the gems?" Qod asked.
"I didn't see them but I'm sure she still has them. I followed her to a place called Mos Pelgo, an old mining town. Farmers and former slaves living there. It's guarded by a man in Mandalorian armor."
"A Mandalorian?"
"Not exactly, sir. He wears it but he is not Mandalorian. He is keeping the girl under his care."
"So, that explains your wounds and poor state, my friend." Qod nodded.
"Yeah, it was hard. I had to ask Jawas to bring me." He chuckled nervously.
"What did they want in return?"
"I thought they said speeder, but... they meant a ship."
Qod kept a serious expression looking down the hologram. "Ship? What kind?"
Plog scratched his head and mumbled nonsense.
Qod stepped out of the shop and saw his ship torn apart. All the important pieces were missing. He huffed.
"Where are you, Plog?" He spoke but before he got a proper answer he heard his voice behind the ship.
Plog was smiling nervously at him with his hands up. "I'm sure I can get you a better ship, sir. T-this one had failures and it's not like you cared right?"
Qod studied his expression for a moment and nodded. "Very well. Where's this Mos Pelgo?"
"West, passing the Valley of Wind and a bit further into West. I can take you there, sir. I remember the-" the blaster roar and made a smoky hole through Plog's head. His body dropped down and kept his eyes open.
Qod looked down at him and then back to his team.
"We leave now. Once we get the girl, we take down the whole town. Leave the Mandalorian to me." He frowned.
#cobb vanth#cobb Vanth x oc#cobb vanth fanfiction#cobb vanth supremacy#star wars fanfiction#the mandalorian fanfiction
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obey me! tidbits .
C.C. is Celtic, and part fairy or fae; or Tuath Dé / Danann, having been abandoned by her full-blooded Mother from her original birth place within part of Ancient Britain’s corner of Northern Ireland, the fabled Tír na nÓg before eventually finding herself living in the very human realm of the isles of ancient Britannia / Britain. Long before it established itself and wars were an every day occurrence. This lends itself to her natural longevity.
With a natural, immeasurable talent for magic and power ingrained in her half-fae blood, or Sidhe, C.C. roamed between the portals of time and space without an ability to control her magic; already quite powerful as a little halfling child; she eventually came upon a teacher who would be teaching her into about her nigh two hundredth century by her own blood’s natural favoring.
The teacher had ulterior motives, and whatever happened between that time and, only a few centuries later would the ancient Witch discover to be a transferred ‘curse’ of immortality, the already guaranteed long life sealed with a curse instead of the freedom of the fair folk to which she both and did not belong. This betrayal has scarred C.C.
C.C. has an enigmatic history with Leviathan @perfectbluu as a child, having witnessed him once upon the seas wreaking havoc in full form; a changeling child no one wanted in long spurned rags and stale bread for company. As he wreaked said havoc upon the mortal realm; she confused him for a ‘great dragon’ and not a serpent. The girl foolishly offered a loaf of bread near the dock before concerned acolytes and fellow supernaturals took her back into a safer portal elsewhere.
Eventually C.C. took residence in the Devildom after the entirety, start to finish, of the Witch Trials endured, and many other such things you’ll not find from her lips, finding no comfort among Man, long having been tortured, abused and manipulated in her innocent days by fire, quite literally, and other methods of heartache, tragedy and countless eternal stories that have gone into the thousands of her immortal life, one that would be consider blessed if not for the means.
She began research into her ‘curse’ , taking many Witches and Warlocks / Sorcerers as apprentices to stave off loneliness and to make them wise in the world of demons, to whom so many easily gave their soul’s natural providence of dominion.
C.C. has spent countless years in the Devildom establishing herself as ‘The Great Witch / Grey Witch / Witch of Fate’ and other both seemly and unfriendly nicknames while keeping her blood a secret; though her nymph-like hair color, her rich, sun-colored eyes and regal features denote an otherwordly sort of beauty that no glamour could imitate.
She is ultimately one of the key magical, non-demonic entities of myth that many young witches and warlocks aspire to be like, or in some cases, avoid due to unsavory rumors and far-fetched legends due to how long she has graced the earth both under hell and heaven.
Naturally gifted the power of seeing the strands of fate; C.C. has the natural given gift of ‘Sight’ and ‘Clairvoyance’, able to see the ‘red strings that bind’ and at times, even intervene but only on the personal vow of it being in the person’s best interest. She calls her actions of intervening for better or worse blended with knowing it is the right thing by her Sight, the Witch’s Scissors, because her Sight / Psionic abilities allows her to see the outcome. She uses it sparingly, as freedom of choice in longevity was taken from her; so too does she wish her students and proteges to find their own path. Although very few have become the latter due to either fear or unnecessary awe.
C.C. ultimately reunites with Leviathan, finding familiarity in the yellow eyes that are not mad with bloodlust, but familiar all the same, stumbling upon him at some point in the Devildom prior to the MC arriving. She considers him her closest friend and one that has not left her in the flow of time. Aware of who he is after that long time ago as an innocent witchling girl; she finds relief that for his hermit-like ways, he seems more at peace in his hobbies.
Ultimately, C.C. will if not in her main verse always harbor deeper emotions for the Avatar of Envy, Annie’s to be exact, having a history only she remembers awoken by him proposing a Pact, something she has avoided for many an age since her mistake with her first pact with a demon named Mao. She is notorious for being immensely and frighteningly powerful without having excessive amounts of demons for ulterior motives. Which lends herself if she falls off the beaten path as a legitimate threat.
When summoning Leviathan, as discussed, he will take the form of a massive draconic Serpent just as she remembers him, but with sanity and reason. She generally does not call upon them, viewing their bond and mutual hurts and joys as sacred.
Despite her curse expanding an already assured existence, C.C. still finds great purpose and an ability to see forward into her life’s endless flow due to her natural fae-given abilities, thus encouraging her timeless body to for ‘boredom’s sake’ partake in the studies of the Devildom if only to be a comforting source for young Witches. This has stopped her from becoming entirely cynical.
C.C. is easily one of the most powerful non-demonic entities in the Devildom and mortal world by hard work, natural talent, and sheer cunning. As a Witch, she is a paragon to many who seek her out for wisdom or teaching; finding she is a surprisingly gentle if not cryptic teacher known for both her beauty and her strictness.
C.C. will only ship generally with @perfectbluu in Obey Me! Verse as she is highly protective of him and feels they have kindred spirits; only generally talking a liking to Beelzebulb, Satan, Lucifer and Mammon. That can easily change according to how they treat her chosen demon of pact, and will not hesitate to challenge them on their treatment of him and his hobbies as a coping mechanism, in the same sense she would feel a kinship with Solomon. A softness for Luke, and a wariness but quiet appreciation for the kindness of Simeon. She generally is too old and too busy to waste time on silly scruples of race.
Basically C.C. is known as both an enigma, her origins a secret, her age unknown, and renowned for both beauty and brains. To many witches and young magic users, she is an ideal, if not eccentric and gentle teacher who oddly enough always seems to have a knack of knowing just what might benefit their life’s path…
#.* ◇ ─ : they may rule hell; but they don’t rule her. ╱ ❪ verse: obey me!❫#i discussed a lot with annie!#i can't say she's irish since...she's celtic / old english but originated for a brief time in the unchanging world of the fae.#her green hair is a quick sign that she may be of other race.#ironically in a lot of fan.fics of c.c. she is described as a fairy and hoo i've wanted to explore how she is both nymph witch and maiden.#or fairy if you will.#but yeah she's loyal to annie's levi and did not push the pact on leviathan. it was an intensely emotional reunion and bond of two hearts#that few if many can understand.#. * ◇ ─ : to give form to a forgotten color. ╱ ❪ c’s world. ❫#basically she pretty she cryptic and you don't f with her the end
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In the White Light - Prideshipping fic Chapter 14
Also on AO3.
Note: Sorry for being slow with this fic lately. But I’ve been ABSOLUTELY SWAMPED at work.
Chapter 14 – The Edge of Dawn
Floating in a mostly dark space, Kaiba could hear bits a conversation in the distance. “…rich boy…”
It’s that damned Wheeler… Kaiba closed his eyes tighter, feeling no desire to wake up. So I must be inside Leviathan.
Kaiba…
Is… Is that you, Critias?
I know you don’t want to awaken, but I bring you good news. The pharaoh has beaten Dartz in battle. It will only be a matter of time before Leviathan falls.
“Haha…” Kaiba opened his eyes. “I knew you could do it, babe.”
“Eh?” Joey, who had been talking to Pegasus and Yugi, paused. “So. The rich bastard is awake. What brings you here? Ya charge into battle with the pharaoh and lost, huh?”
“Go to hell, Wheeler. After all I have been through, the last thing I need is to take shit from the guy I hate most.”
“There they go again… Huh?” Yugi sighed. Then, all of a sudden, he began to feel warm and glowed.
______
“Joey boy! Kaiba boy! Yugi boy!” Pegasus exclaimed. Their souls… Leviathan must be taking them!
I wouldn’t be too sure about that… So were Kaiba’s thoughts as the souls of his companions and him drifted back into the real world. While Tristan and Téa needed a bit longer to wake up, he and Mokuba woke up in no time at all.
“Ugh… My head…” Mokuba tried to slap himself awake until he realized his brother had waken up too. “Ah, Seto…?”
“Mokuba! You’re… okay…” Kaiba spoke as he stood up.
“Hehe, of course I am! It’s not the first time I’ve been thrown against a wall.”
Kaiba remembered his terrifying first transformation. “Now’s not the time for jokes!”
“I agree!” a familiar voice sounded in the distance.
“Ugh, you’re back too…” Kaiba looked past a running Joey to see Yami Yugi staring straight at him. “Babe…”
“Kaiba…?” Yami Yugi only took a few steps forward before running to his boyfriend. “K-Kaiba… Thank the gods… You’re really back!”
“Did you really think you could get rid of your greatest rival so easily?” Kaiba readily accepted the hug Yami Yugi gave him. “Even if I happened to leave you, I will always come back to you, babe.”
“Kaiba… My love, I know you weren’t gone for long, but it feels good to have you by my side again.”
Kaiba showed no shame in intensely kissing Yami Yugi in front of everyone, particularly Joey. “Whoaaaa! When did they become an item?”
“It’s… a long story.” Téa didn’t feel like elaborating.
“All right, you lovebirds.” Joey’s intervention broke the emotional reunion. “If rich boy and I came back, then where’s our Yugi?”
Yami Yugi turned away from his friends.
“He’s still trapped, isn’t he?” Tristan worried.
In his much shorter form, Yugi turned back. “What are you talking about? I’m right here!”
“It’s really you!” Téa shed tears of joy while she, Tristan, and Joey joined Yugi in a group hug. “I thought I’d never see you again!”
I guess I ought to show some respect. Kaiba barely tolerated this display of friendship.
“Still…” Joey suddenly broke the group hug when he began to feel uneasy. “Something tells me this isn’t the end of it. Everyone else’s soul is still gone.”
“Mr. Kaiba!”
Kaiba recognized the voice calling from outside. “It’s Roland! Come on, let’s go!”
“Right!” Joey, with the help of Tristan, lifted Rafael’s body off of the ground.
Unsurprisingly, the storm from earlier had not abated. “What’s that huge… city thing in the middle of the ocean?” Tristan asked.
“By the looks of it, I would say it’s Atlantis,” Joey replied. “I know! Hey rich boy, you can change into a dragon, can’t ya? How about you fly us up there?”
“No way, Wheeler. This is my fight alone!”
“Come on, Joey, you guys just got back! You don’t mean to go out there again?” Téa whined. “You could get your souls taken again… Or worse.”
“And I wouldn’t try to ask anything of Kaiba, especially for him to transform,” spoke Tristan. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”
Before Yugi could say anything, he felt something in his pocket; to his surprise, the three Egyptian god cards were in there. The presence of those cards gave him resolve. “Téa, I know you’re concerned, but we’ve got to save everyone. And Kaiba, I’m sure the pharaoh has told you several times, but we’re a team now. You may not see him, but he’s right here with me.”
“…Okay, Wheeler and Yugi. I’ll do it.” Kaiba’s sudden response shocked everyone. “But I’m going to have to ask all of you to stand back.”
“Y-You got it, man…” Joey watched as Kaiba’s transformation kicked up wind and light. “I… Just wow.”
“Are you going to just stand there and gawk or are you going to get on?” Kaiba growled.
“Wow! Seto, you can talk as a dragon now!”
“Er… Yeah, whatever.”
As Yugi and Joey climbed on Kaiba’s back, Mokuba asked excitedly, “Hey, can I ride you too?”
“No, Mokuba. You’re going to go with Roland and the others to find somewhere safe to hide.”
“Hmph.” Mokuba reluctantly accepted this answer. “But after all of this is over, you better let me have a ride.”
“Yeah, yeah, just get in the bloody chopper.” With that, Kaiba stretched his wings twice before speeding off into the slowly forming hurricane.
“Whoooooo!” Joey didn’t seem even a little scared of the rocky ride there. “This is better than the theme park!”
“Can it, Wheeler. I’m not a roller coaster. Oh!” Kaiba noticed a couple of dragon monsters in the corners of his eye. He had to do a barrel roll to avoid them, and the recoil of his Shining Neutron Blast nearly knocked Yugi off.
“Kaiba, come on…” Yugi began to see stars. “I’m not exactly in the mood to start plummeting towards the sea.”
“Nice one!” Joey looked around, and thankfully, there were no other monsters. “Say, rich boy, any idea where Dartz is exactly?”
Yugi looked around too and noticed a green pillar of light shooting from the center of Atlantis. “Look, Kaiba, that’s probably where Dartz is!”
“Gee, I wouldn’t have thunk it!” Kaiba flew near this green pillar of light, but he soon began to feel weak. “Urgh…”
“Kaiba?” Yugi showed concern as Kaiba’s body started blinking like a car light. “What’s wrong?”
“I… I think I’m going to fall…” Kaiba abruptly reverted to human form as he, Joey, and Yugi started diving to the ocean.
“Waaaaaaaah!” Joey shrieked as he held his Duel Disk tightly and fished for his strongest monster. Thankfully, the trio managed to land on the floating city safely. “Thanks, Red-Eyes, I owe you one.”
“And I owe Kaiba one for leading you three right into my trap!”
Yugi knew that voice well. “Dartz! How are you still alive?”
“I really don’t feel like telling you that, little Yugi,” Dartz answered as an ice sculpture of himself appeared, as did the body of a giant sea serpent. “But I will tell you this; I don’t even need your guys’ souls anymore. You see, I’ve offered a much stronger soul as a substitute – mine.”
“And what a waste of time, as you’ll soon find out,” Kaiba angrily replied as he tried to find the will to transform but couldn’t.
“I’m afraid you’re powerless, Kaiba. You see, the power of the Great Leviathan seals your shapeshifting powers!”
“Powerless?!” Kaiba roared as he held three cards in his hand while he and Yami Yugi readied their Duel Disks. “Oh, I’ll show you powerless! Go! Vorse Raider, Gadget Soldier, and of course Blue-Eyes Ultimate Dragon!”
“Luckily I’ve come prepared with my Red-Eyes! Flame Swordsman and Jinzo will also be joining him!”
“Then I’ll summon Dark Magician, Summoned Skull, and Kuriboh!” Yami Yugi declared.
“Great, that bloody puffball will stop this giant sea serpent…” Kaiba knew firsthand the power of the seemingly harmless Kuriboh.
“Do you really think that all of those puny monsters will… Eh?” Dartz watched as the trio summoned their respective dragon cards alongside their monsters.
“That’s not all! Here’s Legend of Heart! Now, dragons, show us your true form!”
“Still powerless. Or do you need me to remind you?” With a snap of his fingers, three giants tentacles came out of Leviathan, encircling the three companions.
“Eyaaaah, gross!” Joey fell into Leviathan headfirst. “Guys, this is gross!”
“No kidding!” Kaiba struggled too, but he found it in him to half shift. “Dammit! If… If only I could transform…”
“My love, stop…” Yami Yugi couldn’t bear to watch Kaiba straining to transform. Happy to see Kaiba slowly relax, he continued, “I know what to do.”
“Okay, babe. I will trust you.” With that, Kaiba withdrew his wings and gave in to the abyss below.
———
“Ngh…” Even if he wanted to wake up, Kaiba’s eyelids felt heavy.
“Yo, rich boy! There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know!”
Before Kaiba could react to the sound of Joey’s voice, a full bucket of water splashed him awake. “Aaah! Fuck it, Wheeler!”
“Man, Kaiba, take it easy! I just wanted to tell you where Yug is. How ‘bout a little gratitude?”
“Yugi!” Kaiba shot up and surveyed the surroundings; now, Atlantis barely floated above the sea. “Tell me, where did he go?”
“I take it you’re not talking about me.” Yugi showed himself. “We’re now free because the pharaoh unleashed the Egyptian gods.”
“Yeah!” Joey added. “Now they’re all fighting Leviathan… er, somewhere up there.”
Kaiba noticed a large aurora strewn across the otherwise dark sky. Taking a few steps forward, he spoke without looking back, “Okay, you dweebs, try not to die while I’m out there.”
“Kaiba, wait!” Joey tried to stop Kaiba as he jumped into the sea and emerged in dragon form. “There’s nothing you can do!”
“I should have known…” Yugi simply sat on the ground and stared at the aurora.
If only for the sake of KaibaCorp, Kaiba thought as he flew into the thermosphere, close to outer space. Though this area was home to erratic temperatures and very few life forms, Kaiba hardly felt any effect. Looking past the lights, it took him some time to locate Yami Yugi, locked in battle with Dartz.
Despair tempted Yami Yugi as he watched Leviathan engulf Obelisk in his tentacles, and attempted to trap the other two gods. “This monster can hold his own even against the Egyptian gods… If I can’t win here, then what can I…”
“Hahaha… My Leviathan is millennia older than your Egyptian gods! Now, Leviathan, attack!” Dartz pointed at Yami Yugi, taking advantage of his dropped guard.
Kaiba dove as fast as he could at the word “attack,” and his Shining Neutron Blast barely parried said attack. He temporarily ignored Dartz to admonish Yami Yugi. “Pharaoh! How dare you start losing to someone other than me! And for fuck’s sake, cut out the pity party! Or do you not remember your first battle in Battle City?”
Yami Yugi recalled the battle against Yami Marik, winning him Slifer the Sky Dragon, and Kaiba’s pep talk that helped him win. “I remember.”
“Then fight, dammit! Raaaah!” Kaiba shot another blast at Leviathan, freeing Obelisk from the binding tentacles.
“It can’t be!” Dartz was dumbfounded at this intrusion. “Leviathan should be able to seal your dragon powers!”
“Unfortunately for you, there’s only one champion, and that’s me.” Kaiba flew shoulder-to-shoulder with the three gods.
“G-Grr…” Dartz didn’t want to believe that his time was at an end. “Leviathan, turn that blasted dragon into scrap metal!”
“You will do no such thing!” Yami Yugi ordered the three gods to attack simultaneously while Kaiba added his own power. “Your formerly vengeful souls have transformed into kind souls full of light.”
“You… You can’t mean…” Dartz thought aloud as the four monsters’ attacks approached his monster.
“That’s right! Leviathan is powerless now!”
“No…” Dartz groaned as beams of light emitted from Leviathan, slowly tearing him apart. “No! Damn… you… pharaoh…”
Kaiba looked down to Earth; not only was the aurora gone, but so was the hurricane – and his will to retain his dragon form. “Please tell me that this is over, babe.”
As much as Yami Yugi wanted to say “yes,” he knew they still had one more task. Looking at the disintegrating Atlantis, he answered, “My love, Joey and Yugi are still on Atlantis. Before it crumbles, we need to save them. Can you hang on for just a little bit longer? Please?”
“Guess I’ll have to,” spoke Kaiba as he and Yami Yugi descended back to Earth, thankful that at last, the world appeared to be at peace.
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