idk I guess I still play this dumb asshole

[flammatory]

Tag me or something. Let me know if you have a preference for canon point (I usually default to post-show with some comics inspo). Also feel free to comment blank and I'll make a prompt.

Comments

FOR GRUMPY EARTHBENDER REGENT

[flammatory]

Making reparations was a gruesome, fraught topic, one on everyone's mind, and Zuko's no less so than anyone else's. It was necessary, not just to move on and eventually past the war but in order to be honorable, and Zuko takes his nation's honor just as seriously as he takes his own. Especially given how badly disgraced the Fire Nation has become in the rest of the world. This task seems as insurmountable as finding the Avatar had once been.

Just as he had when set that task, Zuko sets out from Caldera on a ship to achieve the impossible, grim-faced and resolute.

Of course, this time he's traveling in all the pomp and circumstance of state as the Fire Lord, so it's a rather different experience, to say the least. Uncle has determined to stay out of politics with a cheerful avowal that he's a useless, retired old man now (ha) so for this one, Zuko's on his own. He writes letters to Aang and occasionally Sokka, but they're not the sort to give political advice. On the whole... this is his responsibility, on his shoulders alone. Anyone else might crumple under it. It's a strain, but Zuko had fought long and hard to get here and if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's never giving up without a fight.

At least his father had set a good precedent of not standing on ceremony in favor of efficiency. Zuko wishes he could get away with even less formality than that, but as it is he has to tolerate a contingent of guards leading him off of the huge, sleek, steel ship to the shore of an unclaimed island, nearly halfway between the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom's shores. It was as close to a neutral territory as they could find, and as a consequence of the momentous peace talks about to take place, an incredible flurry of activity had taken place in order to build quarters sufficient to house both his and the new Earth Regent's diplomatic parties. He hadn't bothered himself with the details, fortunately. He had ministers for that sort of thing.

Zuko had perfected a more stoic expression than his family would've ever thought possible on his face over the past several months, and he leans on it like a crutch to contain his temper. The Fire Lord can't wear on his heart on his sleeve, or explode. He needs to be reserved. It doesn't come easily to him; he consequently tends to look forbidding, even on his young face, made younger with his hair swept up to the top knot with its crown. He's nervously conscious of just how young and inexperienced he is in comparison to the Earth Regent, who had recently come to power through some sort of internal strife coinciding with the end of the war. Zuko doesn't know the details because no one knows the details-- except that in the brutal atmosphere of upper echelon Ba Sing Se politics, Regent Vorkosigan had risen to the top, and no one had contested it.

That said enough. He's not some throwaway son who became the least-bad choice to rule. Zuko... will just have to find a way to compare. He has to, for his nation's honor.

He excuses himself from the fuss, his servants and security setting up his suite, and instinctively wanders to a garden. At least for now he's in travel clothes, without a crown or any robes of state (thank the spirits), and he settles himself by the fountain to gaze at the koi swimming in the water. It's not the same as the turtle-ducks at home, but it's something... And after befriending Katara, weirdly, the water is soothing to dip his fingertips into as he broods.

[use_everything]

The koi swarm up the to surface of the water, mouthing the air hopefully. They were relatively new instalments, much like most of the island, but koi learned quickly that a shadow over the water meant a stray piece of lunch might happen by into the happy, eager mouths below.

Indeed, it might be only the fact that the swarm of colorful, friendly fish suddenly vanish - strange given that one had taken to brushing up along Zuko's fingers.

The stranger doesn't appear to be much. A craggy, hard and scarred face is offset by a brilliantly garish shirt, undone at the collar, heavy, roadowrn sandals and.... by the looks of it, a small loaf of bread brought specifically for the fish.

"Hm. Rare to see anyone else here," the stranger gave as a greeting, voice deep.

[flammatory]

Zuko has to bite back his instinctive, How would you know? This pond hasn't even existed for more than a month, and instead modifies it into a more diplomatic reaction. He's learning. Slowly, incredibly slowly, but it is happening.

"Have you been here long?" he asks, conscientious of how recognizable he is even out of uniform, so to speak, and striving for composure. He realizes he hasn't actually answered the implied question and tacks on belatedly, "I forgot how claustrophobic you can feel after being on a ship for that long." Hence why he's out here.

FOR GRUMPY WEAPONSMASTER

[flammatory]

To say Zuko is nervous is a vast understatement. Somehow knowing that the man he's being dumped on for training and acclimization is also a traitor doesn't make him feel like he's any less one. The knowledge weighs on him so heavily sometimes it's like he can barely breathe, although at other times an odd, persistent anger simmers low in his gut, as if waiting for an opportunity. He can't decide how he feels about what'd happened-- so mostly, he doesn't think about it. Sokka's absent, amiable chatter keeps up a near-constant stream in his mind, mercifully distracting him.

He should find it incredibly annoying. Instead... he often finds himself sneaking out into Companion's Field to bury his face in Sokka's gleaming white coat and speak to him in Karsite, because Sokka always understands him. Can he be homesick for a place that doesn't want him anymore? He doesn't know.

As it is, his short few days of allowed adjustment and recovery are over with, and he's delivered to the salle with a chipper "Good luck! Alberich is a bear" which doesn't make him feel any better. He steps in, locates his teacher, and bows by instinct, shallow enough not to be overly formal but distinct enough to indicate that even exiled royalty doesn't feel themselves above their teachers. Zuko can only imagine what the man thinks of him by reputation alone. He's all too aware that none of his reputation is good, and not in the fearsome way that Alberich's seems to be. His is just shameful.

"Herald-trainee Zuko reporting in," he says in a controlled, tight voice, Zuko's strain leaking around his edges transparently. But this is the best he can do. "But I'm... I'm sure you already know that." Already flustered. Great. His Valdemaran is clunky, and heavily accented, but not terrible; he'd been taught to a conversational level by his tutors growing up, and he doesn't presume to use Karsite first. Maybe the man hates Karse now. He needs his measure.

I love Sokka the Companion

[exiled_honor]

Zuko is not, by reputation, what anyone in a Karsite-turned-Herald-trainee. Too deeply connected to the Karsite elite, too zealous a participant in actions against Valdemar.

Alberich cultivates a particular reputation for himself, and is thus entirely inclined not to trust anything he hears about others. A reputation is easy to craft out of existing rumors, fears, and exaggerated incidents. Most people are not fortunate enough to craft their own, many are saddled with what their enemies make for them, intentionally or not. Alberich only half-controls his, and that only in Haven. He can only imagine what Zuko would have heard in Karse. A witch and a traitor. Likely they say that he set fire to that shed (or maybe it would be a village in the telling), rather than barely escaping from it. Possibly at this point they say he sabotaged the campaigns he led, making his supposed betrayal all-encompassing.

Alberich suspects that Zuko will prove not to be a zealot, nor someone who is simply running away (as some rumors have suggested). He suspects that Zuko will prove to be a young man who throws himself into a cause, and has, perhaps, learned the importance of examining that cause first.

The boy seems as tightly wound as some of the court ladies' hair when he comes in. Alberich is pleased to note the bow, though - there is always a risk with nobility.

:The poor thing's terrified of you: Kantor says with amusement.

:Well, we'll have to find out for which reasons:

"Herald Alberich," he says in Valdemaran. He wants a sense of how comfortable Zuko is with the language before they switch over, if they do. He raises his eyebrows by just a hint. "But I'm sure you already know that."

He turns, gesturing for the boy to follow him. "My office is this way. You will be tested in the salle, but not yet."

let's return to an AU crossover of two series I haven't canon reviewed in 5+ years

[flammatory]

Normally, Zuko's instinct would be to prefer to be evaluated on his martial skills. He's more comfortable failing there than he is failing in conversation in front of important authority figures, and he's done enough of both to have formed a preference. But he's so cast adrift internally, floundering except for the moments Sokka cuts in and bolsters him with either a sarcastic aside or a chatty, distracting remark. Somehow he always seems to know which one Zuko needs at which moment.

It's new enough having a Companion that Zuko hasn't gotten used to that yet. He gets lost in his own head so easily, like he's slipping bit by bit down a rockslide into a dark cavern, painstakingly slowly, and all his attempts to scramble back up make things worse... and then Sokka cuts in with something irreverent and it jolts him out of it.

He can't imagine giving this up. Zuko frankly hasn't bothered to fathom unconditional support since his mother disappeared. He would endure a lot more than exile in a land of demons and having to pass muster with a fellow traitor, even if he does miss his uncle.

He tells himself all this, but he's still jittery with nerves, and as he follows Alberich toward his office, his accent in Valdemaran thickens, hampered by his self-consciousness. But his grammar is smooth, proving he isn't as terrible a student as he always thinks he is in comparison to Azula. "Do we even really know anything about each other beyond our names?" he complains crossly, defaulting to agitated as always. "I hope you're not planning on testing me on that first, because half of everything I've ever learned has been a lie."

FOR TOLERANT SPACEDAD

[flammatory]

Zuko was still choked with grief when he was reassigned to General Kenobi as his new master, which at first glance he had no reaction to. No amount of meditation had allowed him to release his grief into the Force, maybe because every time he tried he heard Master Iroh's gentle, light-hearted voice coaching him on it with infuriating proverbs. He was old for a Padawan, he knew that, but Master Iroh had always told him that wisdom came in its own time and he was in no rush. That hadn't erased his embarrassment completely, but it'd helped that at least his own master didn't think he was a disappointment.

Now, he didn't know what he would do. He'd only recently taken the bandages off, revealing a healed eye but an ugly, face-consuming scar, and although the flesh was unbroken and smooth, the mental wound was far from healed. He still startled whenever he saw himself in the mirror.

So-- at first glance, he didn't react to his reassignment; he knew it was coming, and he felt hollow. Then it started to sink in, and he felt full-on incredulity. Him? The one he knew the other Padawan-learners sometimes wondered if he would graduate at all? Zuko was terrible at keeping his calm, decent with saberwork but miserable in composure, which was the most valuable attribute of all. He tried so hard to uphold the Code but always, always failed. And they were matching him with the famous (and infamous, on the other side) hero of the wars? Just what was the Council thinking?

Even so, it was distracting enough to start to drag him out of his mourning, dazedly packing his minimalistic things-- one tenant he had no difficulty following, at least-- in preparation for moving his quarters. Iroh's death had made more than one indelible impression on Zuko, and as he walked down the hall to meet his new Master, the deepest one coalesced like steel forming after the metal cooled: he would not stand helpless again. And, for that matter, he would show everyone who'd ever doubted him how wrong they were. That didn't mean his own self-doubts evaporated... Hardly. But his will to redeem himself was stronger than they were. It had to be.

He waits for the autodoor to slide open, steps in, and bows respectfully, braid sweeping forward over his shoulder. He can do this.

He owes it to Master Iroh. Every second of inattention he'd ever disgraced him with... He owes him that now, and so much more.

Voice tight and uncharacteristically quiet, he announces himself: "I'm here, Master Kenobi. Thank you for... for having me." It sounds like the polite nonsense a guest says when imposing, but of course, here it means much more. Kenobi didn't have to accept.

[obinaw]

Loss is, for better or for worse, simply a part of being a Jedi. If Obi-Wan lingered on all he has lost in the past, he is certain that it would render him immobile out of the sheer power of grief alone - his soldiers, his brothers-in-arms, his master, his Jedi, people he has loved and denied loving, people he had never gotten the chance to truly know. When word had gotten out about Master Iroh's death, even the Council had taken a moment's pause, mourning their lost comrade as they had mourned so many others, but after that, they had to decide what to do, and decide swiftly. Unbeknownst to Zuko, Obi-Wan himself had intercepted the Council's strategizing and requested that he take on Zuko for himself, something that had surprised the others, perhaps, less than he had surprised himself.

Anakin is grown, with a Padawan of his own, and Obi-Wan knows intimately what it is like to lose your master, albeit not at such a young age. He had never intended to be one of those Masters always guiding one Padawan or another but here, he felt he truly had the ability to do some good. And in these times, it is more important than ever to keep their Padawans on the right path, to avoid their judgment and actions from being clouded with the rage that inevitably comes with grief, a rage that each of them has grown to known and control at least once in their lives. He does not wish for Zuko to know this fact, however; to know this would be to know doubt, to think of himself as a burden, when that is not the case. He is honouring Master Iroh and his will, honouring the Padawan he had held dear, and there is nothing but honour in that.

"You are very welcome - and welcome here always, Zuko, now that I am to be instructing you," Obi-Wan says. He had risen before Zuko even opened the door, having sensed his arrival down the corridor, and greets him with a small incline of his head, a sign of respect that Padawans rarely receive. "I believe that we will achieve much together. And you have my sincerest condolences. Master Iroh was a dear friend of mine, and always spoke of you highly. It is an honour to carry on in his footsteps."

[flammatory]

It's true that Zuko's not in a mental state to be particularly understanding right now. Oddly, thinking of this as a Council-mandated reassignment is what makes it easier to bear; he struggles to imagine himself following anyone but Iroh, which he knows is an unhealthy attachment, and one he should let go of even with his Master's death. Easier said that done.

Obi-Wan's straightforward acknowledgement and gentle, respectful welcome makes his throat uncomfortably tight. He hadn't really expected less, but being confronted with it is another matter. Everything is still too raw for Zuko to be used to accepting sympathy, something he'd always been particularly graceless at anyway.

He forces himself to focus on his breathing and reorient himself to the present. Zuko wants to say something self-denigrating, but in the context of Iroh as his master rather than Zuko as the student... He can't. "Thank you," he finally returns, the picture of awkward. Suddenly it clears as he thinks of his own intentions again, and his tension resolves into determination. "I intend to honor his wishes for me as much as I can. I won't disappoint his memory, or his faith in me." That seems a Code-approved way of coping, with the teaching that those lost have never truly gone. It's nothing less than the truth of how he feels, anyway.

Apart from that... he doesn't know what to say, and Zuko has never been eloquent. Everything seems to have swelled up inside him-- too much-- until, curiously, it fades, leaving a sense of distance and abstraction. It all seems so unreal. What he has to hold onto is his training, is getting better, improving as Master Iroh would've wanted him to.

SURPRISE NINJA

[anomia]

Probably, Raimei shouldn't bring Kurogamon to school with her. It's definitely against the rules, and she's no longer at school near Fuuma, where they're used to quirky ninjas and don't enforce that rule too strongly. Plus the war for the Shinrabanshou in the world of Nabari is over, so she hardly needs to go around everywhere armed. It's not like she's defenseless without her sword.

Nonetheless, it never leaves her side. Even in this reborn Shimizu clan, Raimei feels not just naked but negligent not to have Kurogamon with her at all times, her symbol of her role as enforcer for this new world. She feels closer to her mother than ever, and no matter how frequently or infrequently she sees Raikou, Kurogamon is hers alone to wield however she sees fit. That's the trust her mother had bestowed on her with this sword.

So it comes to school with her, wrapped in cloth but pretty unmistakably a sword. Sometimes it sticks out of her backpack when it's not hidden in her locker-- her compromise with the rules-- but she doesn't try too hard to hide it. If push comes to shove, she'll say she's a kenjutsu student carrying it around to go to practice afterward. That's not remotely true, but Raimei isn't totally graceless with deceit, even if she is a samurai and not a ninja.

Her new school apart from this is largely boring to her. She's made a couple superficial friends, but as a Shimizu it would be an especial disgrace to break the boundary between surface and hidden world, so it's not like she can tell them anything real about her. It makes everything fairly shallow. She keeps up adequately in lessons, enjoys athletics events and classes, and... that's about it. She's deeply impatient for the day she graduates, and can live as she wants, without this supervision from an authority she's never needed or had support her.

She runs home at full speed nearly every day, and maybe, in the absence of Kouichi, she bothers Miharu a little too much, a little too regularly. Only he never complains. She imagines he must be feeling lonely, too. Raikou does complain, in that blandly teasing big-brother way that irritates her immensely and makes her want to burst from relief at the same time, and they end up in sibling squabbles as they train and discuss clan matters and she teases him about Gau. That's what she lives for, what she thinks on all day while at school-- when she shows up.

So perhaps she can be forgiven for not noticing the transfer student at all.

[calyce]

She had been very lucky, the doctors had said.

Utena doesn't feel very lucky, confined to a hospital bed, watching the world crawl by from the window by her bed as her injuries heal. Sometimes she tries to recall what had happened, but memories of the car accident elude her. Had it been a car accident? That is what her mind had leapt to --she does seem to recall a car frequently, broad and gleaming, without a top: an American model-- but is it right? Had she perhaps been in an earth quake instead?

Don't worry about it, the cheerful nurse that changed her sheets had chirped. It's normal. You've been through a lot.

Utena wonders if it is also normal not to remember the past few months. She must have attended school, right? And yet, try as she might, she can't recall more than a few flashes, a smile and a hand on hers, warm arms around her shoulders and a loud (loud, so loud) voice in her ear. She can't even recall how long she had been there. Or what the name of the place had been.

All in all, it's a relief when she is finally released from the hospital. Her memories have not yet returned, but she'd rather deal with that somewhere else than in that stark, dull place. She even looks forward to going to school again. After such a long time stuck in her hospital bed watching the world go by from her bed, always the observer, never the participant, Utena itches to get back in the fray again. She even feels an odd and nostalgic longing for the inevitable head butting she'd have to do over getting permission to wear the male uniform.

By now, a few weeks into the new term, Utena has settled in. Despite the protesting and stiffness of her limbs, she had immediately signed up for basketball that first day, and now, a few weeks of training and games later, she feels good. Her body has grown strong again, her hands steadier and her fan club had increased with it. She had always been good at athletics, and it seems that here, as in most schools, that is enough to get noticed. The male uniform --it is surprising just how many loopholes you can find in the little handbook that they give you on the first day of class if you really want to-- probably helps.

And the longer she stays, the more she settles in, the less the gaps in her memory bother her. They don't fill, not completely, though sometimes strange things trigger small memories flooding back, but it becomes less immediate, less concerning. Everything, the accident, the school she must have gone to before, her lost memories become like something out of dream, half-lost and perhaps best left behind.

---

With a soft sound, Utena presses the door of her locker shut, holding her bag over her shoulder. Her muscles twinge faintly, pleasantly, still thrumming from another good training as she turns to leave, nearly smacking her head into the door of a locker, left half open, in the process. She hisses softly, more in reflex than actual pain, but the glare she levels at the offending object only holds for a second before it dissipates. There's something inside, something--

That's a sword, isn't it?

Dreamlike, without realising and certainly without knowing where that thought had come from, Utena pushes the locker a bit wider open to take another look at the cloth wrapped bundle inside. Something buzzes at the back of her mind, and suddenly her mind is filled with roses, long dresses and the sound of swords clashing. A girl. There's a girl too. A dark-haired, dark-skinned girl with something so sad in her eyes that it makes Utena want to move forward to grab the sword, grab it and protect her.

Who? She isn't sure. Doesn't seem to matter. All she knows is that she has to protect her.

[anomia]

Raimei bumbles in at that precise moment with all the grace of an ox. She's physically graceful, but that's about the only arena in which the word could be applied to her.

"Ah, I left my locker open with Kurogamon in it?!" she exclaims, bounding over. The excitable motion demonstrates that she wears black shorts under her short uniform skirt, probably for precisely that reason. With approximately zero sense of personal space, she reaches past Utena to recover her sword, holding it possessively with both hands.

"I can't believe I was so careless..." She'd thought she was past that sort of inattention. Raimei's brow furrows, displaying at that moment her more usual sort of inattention: that of ignoring to the point of obliviousness those that are standing beside her. Belatedly, it registers, and she turns and blinks at Utena.

"Sorry, I guess it's a little weird to leave a sword in a school locker, huh? They're usually just for books and shoes! I don't blame you for looking."

for the samurai!

[shikisuru]

Shindou Takuto thinks he's been through a lot of strange and difficult things.

He's been told that soccer could have emotions such as sadness, loneliness, joy, and tearfulness. He helped lead his soccer club in a revolution against the government to release soccer from its control. He's been told that an organization from the future was going around changing the past to get rid of soccer. He's been told that he would have to travel through time as well, meeting historical figures and receiving their strength to become an even stronger soccer player. He's been told that he would receive strength from Oda Nobunaga. He became close to a tofu-seller's girl from the Sengoku Era. He played soccer with Liu Bei Xuande. He played soccer with velociraptors. He played soccer and helped save the future of the world.

He's been through a lot of things!

Being left on his own to entertain a girl, one who is apparently a (very distant) relative of his, one who asked something about ninjas almost right off the bat, is somehow more perplexing than any of those things. Of all the times for his parents to be out of the country... he couldn't even ask them what was going on, what with the time difference. At least he was able to stay calm enough to have her led to the sitting room and served some tea. Good thinking, Takuto. Just stay calm. Try not to stare no matter how weird this is.

He curls his fingers around his knee to keep himself from fidgeting, looking across the coffee table to the girl in hopes that he doesn't come off as rude.

"... How's the tea?"

[anomia]

There's never been a time when Raimei wished she could be less blunt more profoundly. She's aware she should be better at discretion, but she never talks to civilians enough for it to really come up. Her solution to the Shimizu clan's enforcement of the separation between ninja and mundane is to just not interact very much with the mundane. It's worked for her so far.

The problem is... now she has a relative (?!) who may or may not fall inside that law, and she hasn't had a chance to talk it over with Raikou on what their rule will be in the new world. He's so hard to get in touch with sometimes! She's left on her own, which she doesn't totally mind but is feeling some stress over.

"Hm? Oh, I haven't had any yet! I was thinking," she admits forthrightly, without an ounce of shame. Indeed, her tea is untouched in her hands, Raimei staring pensively and very intensely into the cup. Her head jerks up and she abandons her attempt at introspection as a bad job. (The usual outcome of her attempts at introspection.) "So, so, how old are you? Do you have any hobbies? If we're relatives, we should get to know each other!"

She's maybe a little overwhelming at full force like this, Raimei barreling through awkwardness with determination, but, truth is... Having anyone at all even distantly related to her other than Raikou makes her heart squeeze in her chest. It shouldn't mean anything-- he's not really a Shimizu-- but... but it does.

[shikisuru]

Overwhelming really is a good word to describe her with, but fortunately she isn't the first of her type that he's met, and her enthusiasm is tame in comparison to some of the people he met and got to know in the past few weeks. He tries to smile at her as naturally as possible when she lifts her head and their eyes meet.

Honestly, now that the initial surprise has eased up, he's confused but not bothered. She seems like a nice girl, if only a little strange, , and a little bit of strangeness does no harm. As far as he knew, the Shindou name went back more than a century; it would make sense if it had branched off from other name or had a name that branched off from it.

He just has to get to know her, then it'll be like getting to know Okatsu, or Kinoshita, or Jeanne, or Liu Bei.

"I'm thirteen right now, in my second year of middle school. I play the piano but at school I'm a member of the soccer club. What about you, er -- Shimizu-san?"

How soon is too soon to call someone by first name? Does it matter if they're supposedly relatives?

a Guide walks into a zombie apocalypse...

[paternally]

Giles is a Guide, but after that disaster with Ethan decades ago, he'd never intended to take another Sentinel. He'd helped Buffy in a temporary, emergency fashion in his role as her Watcher-- the Slayer was always a Sentinel and Watchers were correspondingly always Guides, but his role was to teach her and her chosen Guide how to function with each other, since Slayers operated somewhat differently than normal Sentinels. He was a guide in the traditional sense, as Watchers were meant to be. They watched, they didn't participate.

Not that Giles had ever followed that rule all that strictly after his abandonment of the Council, but in this one case, he had. He'd seen the wisdom in it. A man in his fifties had no business being permanently tied to a young woman, and sure enough, Buffy had found Willow very quickly. They'd fumbled at times, sometimes to the point of outright disaster, but they were stable now and barely ever needed his advice. His status as Guide rarely comes up anymore; there aren't enough Sentinels left in the world for him to go running across them all that often in the first place.

And good thing Willow had finally sorted herself out, seeing as the world had gone to shit.

Of everyone, Giles and the rest of Buffy's friends were best-prepared to deal with it, but that was a relative term. It hit them as hard as anyone else, they were just better organized, knew what they were dealing with right away, and had a huge cache of bladed weapons stored up. Over time they had come to their current set up: a large, converted government building with a long red banner tied to one side of the roof, flapping in the wind. It was unmarked but not overly tattered, its out-of-place existence sign enough to any survivors that cared to try their luck with them. The area around the base was assiduously patrolled -- not only by Buffy, though she was patrol leader -- and kept clear of walkers, and any assorted other demons that tried to take advantage of the situation, though that was rare these days. With so many fewer humans, there was less reason for them to come to this dimension. Less prey.

They're an appropriately paranoid lot and anyone approaching encounters posted guards in short order, and a lot of suspicion. Passing through and joining up are two entirely different propositions. Giles has made sure they're remote enough that there wasn't a large enough local population to sustain a consequently large zombie population, which also means they don't often get people trying to join them. It brings their informal members up to about two dozen, and no more, more like an extended family compound than a town or a militia. Part of what keeps their numbers small is that Giles insists on screening everyone himself, puts them on a probationary period, and has no hesitation in kicking people out.

After the first couple times it'd gone sour, no one contests his judgement anymore. He dourly wonders how he ended up head of this little cadre, seeing as he'd never meant to be, but fact of the matter is that Buffy won't trust anyone else to handle administrative matters and as the Slayer and primary defense-- what's kept them all alive this long-- no one argues with her. With Dawn dead, she's become a different, harder person.

Giles himself is mostly just tired. At least there's enough daily tasks to keep him occupied: he interviews everyone who stops through, just to take information. Visitors are led to his de facto office, filled with mismatched bookshelves and his most precious possession, a hot water heater. He nurses a mug of tea very slowly these days, since sometimes they run out and he can't be sure when they'll recover more.

He's a tall, worn-looking but composed figure, in an old leather jacket, sweater and jeans, in practical dark colors, leaning over a huge area map spread across a dining table, corners weighted down with leather-bound books. "Come in," he says curtly, when there's a knock on his door.

[carolnator]

"Oh, hello." Carol peers out from behind the door with an anxious titter, closing it behind her. Hunched, her chin tucked and hands knotted nervously in front of her chest, everything from her hair to her boots tired and faded, she's mouselike in behaviour as well as appearance.

"Is it alright if I sit down? My back..." She walks with small, quick steps, stopping to hover behind the chair and look up at Giles meekly. She's a small woman, but the way she holds herself makes her look even smaller. Fearful tension makes her eyes and voice tremble, adding to her air of fragility.

"Where are my manners, first let me thank you for saving my life. I don't know what I would've done if that girl hadn't come along- Betty? Bless her heart. And thank you for welcoming me. It's been some time since I've seen a friendly face."

She wipes a tear away from her eye with the hem of her sleeve, pursing her lips. Buffy had found her walking down the interstate during a supply run. Just a lost woman looking for her way home, with only a backpack and a knife to her name, going entirely the wrong direction.

It wasn't too far from the truth. Carol had lost her home when Rick banished her, and she'd left the guns in the trunk of the nearest car she could find.

She'll need them later. She always does.

[paternally]

It's highly implausible anyone had managed to get here without any sort of ability to defend themselves, and as someone who's an expert on demons, who often disguise themselves as innocent humans, Giles is far from uncritical. But he doesn't win anything by being openly hostile, and he likes to retain what remnants of civilization he can in this absurd world.

"Please do have a seat," he says politely, in the disarming upper-crust British accent that makes most people dismiss him as a physical threat. Giles gestures toward one of the chairs set around the map-table. "It's our general policy to make contact with anyone moving through the area, so Buffy brought you in as a matter of protocol. No thanks necessary.

"My name is Rupert Giles. Would you like something to drink? I'm afraid our only coffee is instant." Not that he drinks it, but he's hoping she's like most Americans and won't ask for his precious tea supply. The offer itself is meant to set his visitor at ease, lull them into old, often forgotten habits of human cooperation and courtesy...

FOR PETITE SLAYER-KUN

[paternally]

It went unspoken in the Watcher's Council that no one expected the newest Slayer to last long. He was an aberration -- a male Slayer? That young? -- and consequently, what also went unspoken and understood was that Giles would fail his assignment. No one is assigned a Slayer twice, so assigning him to the doomed one was an intentional, specific move to get him out of the way and off the roster. Afterwards, after his Slayer's death, he would be shuffled to something quieter, probably something archival with his skills.

The whole thing pisses him off. Dismissing him is bad enough, but dismissing a young boy's life is something Giles cannot stomach. The injustice of it rankles him too badly to let it go, and although Giles had always intended to do his best by his Slayer, to train her as well as he was physically able, to stand by her through tragedy as duty demanded, now he finds himself incensed and determined to go above and beyond.

The Council might have the privilege of distance, but Giles isn't going to watch a child die in front of him. It wasn't about proving the Council wrong; it was about defying the darkness in the world, scraping together something good.

It's too bad he never learned Japanese and that there's no time to waste after a Slayer is Called to go to them. It's the most vulnerable point in their career, when they're exposed constantly to supernatural danger but with no clue what's going on. Giles is forced to resort to spellcasting to learn the language he needs to help his Slayer, leaving him with a profound migraine as he boards the plane on a twenty-hour flight to Japan. It's still there when he gets off, and being magically induced he already knows no pill is going to help it. Yet he doesn't have a choice. A headache is better than being mutually unintelligible.

He will do this. That determination doesn't exactly convey well on Giles, though: he's a dowdy figure in an old tweed suit (complete with suspenders) carrying an old-fashioned, battered leather travel bag, and there's not a lot of ways for an adult male foreigner to safely approach an elementary school student without looking suspicious as hell. He gets in late, and is traipsing over to his hotel across the dark streets on foot, head throbbing the whole way, as he tries to come up with a plan. This is all so last minute and rushed that the usual protocol of inserting himself at the Slayer's school just wasn't feasible.

Good thing he runs into him all on his own, in circumstances that leave little doubt who he is.

[amadaman]

Not a lot of things made sense, but this state of confusion was nothing new. After being shuffled around from relative to relative in the first year since his mother's death, he had finally been settled at a distant uncle and his wife's house for the last few months. However with the recent events, he couldn't say with any amount of certainty how much longer this arrangement will last. He wasn't too broken up about it; his uncle was never home enough for him to get attached to, and nothing felt right since his mother's death anyway. It was only frustrating, feeling out of control and left at the mercy of adults who waved around paperwork and talked about convenience and childcare and never talked to him about what he wanted.

Not a lot of things made sense, but what made the least sense at the moment was what happened yesterday on the way back from school. His uncle had been furious, although he did his best to hide it (not very effective, nevertheless), and his aunt nearly fainted when she heard. The police officers who got involved had a thousand and one questions too, but he had just as many questions and answers to none. What was he thinking? How did he do it? How was it possible? He didn't know. He saw a car roaring down the street, he saw an old man making his way down the street right in its way, and with a feeling like a punch in the gut was some instinctive, irresistible urge to go over there and stop it, so he did.

So he might've stolen a steel pipe from a nearby construction zone. So he might've damaged the pavement when he stabbed one end of the pole into it. So he might've totaled somebody's car (it was a guy on the run anyway). So he might've caused a minor pile-up because of it. He couldn't explain to himself, let alone anybody else, how he was capable of doing any of that, but at least the old grandpa was okay and even thanked him for saving him.

That was a day ago. Right now it was the night after, and he wasn't at the house because he didn't want to deal with the questions. But maybe he should've stayed inside anyway, because running into a shifty, scary looking guy attacking someone was not unheard of in this part of town but also nothing close to how he wanted to end the night. He has no idea, at this point, if the girl is okay, but he does know that he might not be coming out of this okay with how crappy his luck usually is and with said guy chasing after him with what is unmistakably what the manga writers like to call 'murderous intent'. Why did he intervene? Why did he decide to run up there and kick the guy in the head like that's a good idea? He liked superhero shows but he had no dreams about being one?

That matters very little now, he guesses, compared to the question of how should I take care of this guy? that's running through his head as he leaps over a few garbage cans and wooden crates lining the alleyway next to a grocery store, crashing through a pile of cardboard boxes, and rolls out onto the side street on the other side, right in the way of some guy in a suit. Crap crap crap.

He unceremoniously slaps a banana peel from one of the garbage cans out of his hair as he gets to his feet and turns to anticipate the weirdo he knows is chasing him. And if someone asked him later why he yelled to the second man, "Run!" -- well, he doesn't think he can give a very satisfying answer to that, either. It just felt like the right thing to say.

[paternally]

Well, that solves his worries about how to introduce himself. He'd run right into him. There's no real question of who this is-- Giles has a whole file, picture included-- and then a vampire in its demonic visage barrels right after him, and Giles yelps in a very undignified way and stumbles back.

"Wait!" he calls out futilely, frantically digging into his bag and unearthing a stake, fumbling it into a defensive position. "Come back, you-- you need this--"

The fact that Giles hasn't run and is instead dawdling around makes him a prime target for the vampire, who slows, then jerks to a halt, conflicted between his revenge and this seemingly soft target of an old man. Giles isn't quite that helpless but he's only the Slayer's trainer, not the Slayer her-- err, himself. It's hardly the same.

FOR LADY DUNWALL

[vorbarra]

Gregor had really got himself in over his head with this one. Sure, he's not a slave anymore, but when he'd finally managed to escape, the relief hadn't lasted long-- it's more like he's jumped from one fire to the next. As a slave he'd been closely scrutinized and constantly monitored, so it's a relief to be free of that and free of the continual labor, but it turns out that he's no more prepared for life as a homeless, penniless commoner than he had been for life as a slave.

He's always long suspected that he's not good for anything but being a cardboard cut-out, and he's just self-pitying enough at the moment to indulge that line of wallowing. He's in an alleyway crouched against a dumpster trying to ignore his hunger and decide what to do. He does have some pride -- he is Barrayaran somewhere deep in there, apparently -- and it rankles at the thought of begging, of the Vor reduced to charity. Gregor doesn't often think of himself as anything all that special, but whether he likes it or not he's the person his whole bloody empire has put their honor and dignity in, and here he is, run off, ex-slave, destitute and starving.

No... he'd rather not beg. But stealing doesn't do much for his honor either. What does that leave him with? Work? He wouldn't mind that in the least, but who's willing to hire him? His accent is obvious and his skills are minimal. Not to mention Gregor has not the first clue how someone goes about acquiring a job in a system other than rampant nepotism. He knows there's some sort of interview, but without ImpSec pre-checking everyone, what do people actually do? It's not until this moment that he realizes how very ignorant he is of everyday life outside of his little bubble of remote privilege.

Hmmm... Maybe... if he could get himself cleaned up, he could try to get hired as a translator. That is one thing he is qualified to handle.

He's speculating on this with no small measure of hopelessness as he weaves through the streets of Dunwall.

pre-canon for this if that's alright

[patrimonies]

Dunwall is her's. In truth, so are all the Isles, but there is no place that Emily feels at home at than in Dunwall. During the days she suffers through the routine and pageantry of her title, feeling as if it will stifle her in short order -- all of it she bears with the promise of escape at night. To the rooftops and darkness, a place she's beginning to know better than the streets in daylight. The routine of her subjects as they conduct business -- both legal and illegal -- there's a rhythm to it.

Which is why he stands out. There's something about the way he moves that catches her attention first, as if he doesn't know where he's going. He's not dressed in the finery that Emily knows the upper class of Dunwall wear -- the people she'd normally suspect of being lost in certain parts of the city -- but nor does he look like he belongs with the lower classes. They all move with a purpose, or loiter in one place. Not him.

So she follows him, up on the rooftops when she can, moving to pipes and overhangs to get closer the longer she follows him. It's her city, after all, and she's Empress: what he does is her business. She doesn't notice a change in the streets until it's nearly too late -- they've gone from respectable streets to the back alleys filled with the remainders of the Hatters and the beginnings of a new group, who still haven't managed to get a firm foothold in Dunwall. Corvo had imparted enough knowledge that she's confident in her ability to get out unscathed, but she doubts this stranger is as lucky.

It's a few seconds of scrabbling to find an empty bottle and a good vantage point -- a small ledge where someone had set up a secret hideout and plenty of empty bottles of alcohol. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Emily lobs one at the wall near the man, far enough away from her so as not to draw attention to herself, far enough away from him to not shower him with glass shards, but enough to grab his attention. She hopes.

FOR KAWAII KOMPYUUTA ROMANSU

[arkproject]

Catherine can't say she's all that happy about being a human again. She'd have been content to ride around behind Tex's sensory inputs probably indefinitely, cheerfully running background processes and shamelessly eavesdropping on Tex's entire life. It's not like she's at much risk of going insane or anything, like most A.I. are-- she'd pioneered a whole new technique for just that reason. A technique not without its drawbacks, but one that worked for her purposes just fine.

She was the only Catherine around anymore. Life was simple, in her view; and then she took physical, organic form again and life became complicated. She'd known how she perceived feelings and senses wasn't quite the same as a program, she'd known that her systems were reinterpreting the data to mimic what she expected as a human, but it's not until she's staggering, clumsily reaching out to grab onto something to hold onto (Tex? Warm and firm-- soft skin--) and she heaves in a fresh breath of air that she realizes the full extent of how far off her perception of things had been.

And she hasn't even gotten to the emotions part of things yet.

"Whoa," she says faintly, the vibration of her vocal cords startling her. "Can I go back in yet?" It's a weak joke, but not an insincere one.

[failureisntachoice]

Having an onboard passenger, even one remotely connected to her, had been an experience. It helped that Catherine maintained their boundaries and everything was simpler and efficient when she could call on the other AI to assist. Training routines and weapon modifications had become trivial with another processor and mind to pick ideas from. Something that may be changing altogether depending on how this change went, one that Tex hopes will be for the better.

She's there when Catherine makes the switch from digital to physical. It's an adjustment she remembers dealing with not too long before and if she wanted to, she could pull up the precise feeling of disorientation and disconnect once feeling became a factor. When Catherine reaches out, she offers her arm and rests her free hand on the woman's shoulder to steady her. Whether that would help ground Catherine or throw her off even more, Tex isn't sure, but she figures it's better than watching the AI fall on her face as she maneuvers her new body.

"Don't tell me you want to give up already," she teases as she scans Catherine's form. Nothing abnormal yet. "It hasn't even been a minute."