Ok, but what if Captain Kirk did a “morning announcements” thing every day? XD
“Good mooooooorning, Enterprise! This is your dashing young Captain speaking and we’ve got a lot of announcements to get through, so sit back and listen to the melodious sound of my voice.”
(*Crew stops whatever they’re doing throughout ship to groan and roll eyes collectively*)
“First up, happy birthday to Lieutenant Ross, Ensign Jones, and science officers Chotikua, Benson, and finally, Itaaeaguchi-sloohito’niknik’ra of security, who has reached the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-thirty-seven living cycles. He should be through the worst of the violently aggressive pubescent stage by now and emerging from his cocoon any time, but if you happen to cross paths with any of the other afore mentioned individuals today, give them a big hug. Oh, and just a heads-up, if anyone has plans for birthday cake later, due to a programming malfunction, the replicators are currently unable to produce vanilla or golden fronzelberry frosting.”
(Ensign Jones: “Aw, mannn!”)
“But don’t worry, we’ve got our very own Mister Scott and his faithful sidekick Mister Chekov working on it right now.” *Muffled Scottish cursing in the background* “Apologies for any inconvenience. Next, Mister Hendorff has requested that I remind everyone of the upcoming hostile takeover drill…and to please put the phaser rifles back in order on the rack when we’re done. It’s not that hard, just go by the matching color-coded stickers. His words, not mine.”
(Random crew member: “Pfft, ok, whatever.”)
“And now, in recreational news, the ship’s book group will be meeting next Thursday for their monthly discussion. This month’s novel is the thrilling mystery ‘Who Moved My Tribble”, by the best-selling author Otis Skyflip. There’s still time to read it if you haven’t already, and you really should. I did and it changed my life.”
(Random fangirl crew member: “I love you Otis! I love you! Save the tribbles!”)
“Also, the championship tournament of the interdepartmental volleyball league will be happening Friday night between engineering and medical. It’s sure to be a nail-biter and keep you on your toes, so don’t miss out! Speaking of toes, the Dinerian swing-dancing/karaoke/vegetarian potluck is the night after. The last one was a huge success, although, may I remind everyone that the carbonated froos-fassang flavored frappe…you know, the one with the rainbow sprinkles and whipped cream, is no longer allowed in the rec hall due to last week’s little ‘incident’. It took three days to get that stuff out of the carpet. I’m looking at you, Lieutenant Lester.”
(Lieutenant Lester: “Hey, I didn’t do that! I was framed!”)
“And…” *Someone else whispering in background* “Oh, yes, thank you for bringing that up, Uhura. Ok, would whoever keeps writing ‘command rules and operations drools’ on the walls of the deck three bathrooms please stop? It was funny the first time, but now it’s just stupid. And also it’s vandalism. Again, I’m looking at you, Lieutenant Lester.”
(Lieutenant Lester: “Wha–why do I get blamed for everything?!”)
“Anyway, before I get to the menu, a few housekeeping issues. It has come to my attention that the ship’s lost-and-found is starting to get a little out of hand. If you don’t claim your missing items by the end of this week, especially whoever misplaced the tank of flesh-eating cacti, everything will be donated to the Rigel colony. Well…except for the tank of flesh-eating cacti. And lastly, people are forgetting to turn the headlights off when they’re done using the shuttles. Turn the lights off, guys. We can’t have low batteries when the Klingons decide to attack again. Bad news.”
(Lieutenant Lester: “…..Ok, I may have actually done that.”)
“Alright, now the moment you’ve all been waiting for…”
(Random crew member: “Just say it already, geez!”)
“…the menu! Today we will be having Andorian-style enchiladas with the options of mild, medium or volcanic hot-sauce–there will be medics on standby, of course–purple guacamole, mixed galactic fruit salad, chocolate chunk cookies, and, by popular demand, Kaferian apple juice.”
(Entire crew: “YESSS!”)
“That’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Thanks for listening, I’ll be here all–”
(*Mic crackles*)
“Vaccines for Regulan blood worm-transmitted flu have arrived and are mandatory for all crew members, so get down here and–”
“Yes, thank you, Bones. As I was saying, keep being awesome, live long and prosper, have a wonderful day, all that stuff. Kirk out!”
@unchillginger‘s post had me thinking about how dex/parson would happen, and this is what became of all that thought. Because how did dex end up falling in love with kent parson? How did they end up talking? how did they even meet?
Well, kids, sit down and I’ll tell you how, because it starts with a lost book and ends with love.
So here’s the thing about Kent: he never really got to go to school, like normal kids do. But he really likes learning! Not even classrooms, necessarily, just the reading and retaining information. He’s always got a book in his hockey bag, he listens to podcasts during the flights for away games. (And yes, he also loves a good party. These things are not mutually exclusive, y’all. Extroverts like to read, too.) his nickname around the guys is captain librarian, and Kent to this day has no idea where it came from, but it probably has something to do with his reading glasses, now that he thinks about it.
And Kents got a game in providence, while Jack is playing for them, so of course the whole Samwell team drove up and Dex is there, and they’re all leaving, and some of the guys are a little drunk, and Jack takes them all for a tour of the players area and during it, Dex finds a book. It’s “voices from Chernobyl” and in the front, there’s a phone number, followed by “if lost, please return.” The handwriting is neat, but Dex doesn’t recognize the area code, so he picks it up and decides that he’ll call the number and get a shipping address for the book later. It’s the kind of book he’d read, so no one really thinks too much about him carrying it around.
The next morning, as they’re all driving home, Dex starts reading it. Because it /is/ the kind of book he would read, and it’s actually been on his reading list for a while. About three pages in, there’s an annotation. It’s the same handwriting as the first, neat and clinical, but slightly rushed this time. The quote “death doesn’t care. The earth takes everyone.” Is underlined, and next to it, in the margins, “death can drag kit from my cold dead hands. You don’t fuck with a mans cat.”
Bad Bob diversified his assets in the 90s and bought, among other things, a small maple farm.
That’s the reason Jack is so particular about providing the maple syrup Bitty uses in his pies, because it’s literally his maple syrup. He goes home every year and makes it himself.
Somehow it takes a really long time for Bitty to figure this out.
Bitty and Jack return to Georgia the summer between Junior and Senior year only to find a large refrigerated shed in the back yard, filled with what looks to be two dozen unmarked oil drums.
“What the heck is all this?” Bitty questions, examining the barrel and finally cracking a seal to take a sniff. “It’s … maple syrup?” Jack is curiously silent, and when Bitty looks up at his boyfriend, he finds Jack’s face is very red.
“Honey?”
Jack hesitates. “Remember that farm I wanted to take you to, the one Maman and Papa went to every spring?”
Bitty nods, because how could he forget the way Jack raved about the ‘little patch of land’ his father had purchased outside Beauce.
“It’s a maple farm,” Jack whispers, and Bitty is somehow even more confused than he was before.
“That doesn’t explain why it’s here.”
“It’s syrup,” Jack breathes, counting the barrels. “It’s about . . . thirty-thousand dollars worth of maple syrup.”
“And why would there be thirty-thousand dollars of Canadian maple syrup at my parent’s house in Madison, Georgia?”
“Papa’s been fined several times by FPAQ for distributing his stock outside approved channels.” At Bitty’s confused expression, Jack explains, “The Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers. You know OPEC, in the middle east? How they control oil prices by controlling the supply? Same basic principle, but with maple syrup. Producers in Quebec have to sell through FPAQ or they can get frozen out of the market. Papa has the money to pay the fines, but he takes it personally now.”
“That’s insane, still doesn’t explain why there’s several tons of syrup hiding out in our shed like a secret meth lab.” Bitty goes back to the barrel and presses the stopper closed when it hits him. “Wait, is your father using my mama to fence illegal maple syrup?”
Jack shrugs. “Probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is all very illegal.”
Canadian Breaking Bad au.
Bad Bob, in full hockey gear, “I am the one who knocks!!”
Summary: Captain Steve Rogers was a trusted member of the
Emperor’s Palace Guard, but then his entire company was wiped out by the
Red Skull. Now Steve seeks only vengeance for the death of his sword
brothers and the man he loved. He thinks his is a solitary quest, but
on his journey he will find fellow avengers to help him.
@kit923 requested NHL!Bitty playing for the Pens (@sergeantsexface seconded Pens!Bitty!) and this is a little more pre-Penguins, but it counts, right??? Takes place after the NHL hack that leaks homophobic emails. Eric is fed up with the entire league and planning to make a statement by not signing with anyone. Then this happens.
It’s just another godawful luncheon, but today Jack has the added pleasure of every other donor asking Jack’s opinion about his ‘homosexual’ teammate going pro. After the third locker room joke, Jack excuses himself, desperate for air, only to find his father and Uncle Mario nursing their drinks on the club’s back patio.
He’s about to find somewhere less conspicuous when he hears:
“That’s not even debatable, Bittle is going to be scouted. Even if he’s just shipped down to a farm team, Bettman isn’t going to-”
Oh. Of course, Mario would be involved in all of this, he’s an owner. Jack knocks his knuckles against the railing, his manners winning out over his morbid curiosity. They stop talking abruptly, but his father visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just Jack and not another donor.
This sounds like a conversation that would have occurred late in 2016 – shortly after the Penguins won their fourth cup (second in the last decade). It’s also a time period when Crosby was rotating through wingers as they tried to find him one that would fit as well as Pascal Dupois.
If Bitty signed with the Penguins, and joined up in 2017 there are clear real life analogues to his game play (as far as we know based on the comics and what fandom has assumed) in the Penguins pipeline. Basically, other players and rookies actually playing at the moment with the Penguins who are also short and fast: Jake Guentzel, Connor Sheary and maybe Brian Rust.
i.e. all young players who are known for being very fast wingers who have or are currently playing in Sidney Crosby’s line.
Basically Mario isn’t wrong, Eric Bittle‘s play would really suit the fast play of the Penguins and, specifically, Sidney Crosby. And, ironically, if you were going to write a story about Bitty being signed by the Penguins, it isn’t actually that far fetched that he’d end up starting on Sidney Crosby’s line – because that’s what happened this past year with at least two other speedy short players.
And if he joined up after Guentzel and Sheary were already on that line? Well, Evgeni Malkin has also been going through wingers trying to get a good fit.
And if Evgeni Malkin doesn’t fit, then I bet they’d be wanting to try out a speedy winger with Bonino or Cullen alongside Phil Kessel or Carl Hagelin.
This entire reblog has made me realise I low key want a story where Eric Bittle moves to Pittsburgh to play hockey with the baby Pens, gets called up half way through the season due to injury and isn’t ever sent back down because he’s an amazing player, very fast and scores goals like it’s easy.
And then he discovers that Crosby’s rumoured sweet tooth is less rumour and more an invitation to come stay at Crosby’s home and make use of his no doubt ridiculously large kitchen.
Jack’s not worried, Bitty and him are forever.
Okay he’s a little worried, Crosby’s got an Aga. Bitty was so excited he was nearly crying over the phone.
i’ve put together fun fic prompt generator with thousands of possible combinations! each prompt combines different settings, genres, tropes, and a prompt idea to get you started in a direction. you can use one or more of the ideas or the entire combination if it works out, or just refresh until you’re inspired.
two versions! the safe for work version includes all pg-13 prompts, and the nsfw version includes a kink category as well as many more sexytime prompts.
fanfiction is a story written by a person in the fandom because breaking into the creators office and telling them that everything that they did is wrong and rewriting it is considered “rude” and “illegal”
One of our favorite definitions of fanfiction, from the Fanfic Definitions survey – results coming out on @fansplaining later this month! (via fansplaining)
Steve Rogers never got the serum. He doesn’t have superhuman abilities. What he has is a paintbrush, some stage props, a stomach full of spite, and a Bucky Barnes.
It’s enough.
Fic and Artwork Rating: PG
Warnings: –
Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers, side Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Characters: Steve Rogers, James “Bucky” Barnes, Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, Tony Stark, Chester Phillips, Howling Commandos, Original Characters, random hydra assholes
Wartime drama based on historical fact: Steve helps create the myth of the supersoldier through the top secret workings of the Ghost Army!
New works are being posted to the CapRBB AO3 Collectionevery day until July 4th. Remember to check them out!
GUYZ, this fic!!!! The basic premise is that Steve joins the Ghost Army and fabricates Captain America. No one is serumed. The Howlies include Peggy (for the punching) and Howard Stark (for making tank noises).
What I love about it is that it normalizes Steve and Bucky’s wartime experiences. There’s no over-the-top world-saving, no special serum that makes their experience unique. Steve’s still a tiny spitfire, and Bucky’s still coping with wartime trauma, and basically just being two people who care a lot about each other and being thrown into war. Reading it made me think about all the people who fought in wars, then came home and went back to their lives and jobs – no ice, no HYDRA, just living.
I also love how Bucky and Steve fight with each other – their relationship is built from being stuck with each other and knowing each others’ stubbornness. It’s much easier to write selfless!Bucky and noble!Steve, so I have extra appreciation for the nuance here.
So I was rereading Harry Potter, when I came across this and thought- what if instead of Cedric Diggory, Cassius Warrington had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?
Imagine Dumbledore calling out the name of the Hogwarts champion and it isn’t a Gryffindor, or a Ravenclaw, or even a Hufflepuff, but it’s a Slytherin. A student from a House most people hate.
Imagine Cassius Warrington getting up, and three out of four Houses are booing at him and shouting things like “NO!” or, “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” or demanding a retry. But he’s a Slytherin- he’s been dealing with this shit since he got sorted, so he keeps his head high and joins the other champions.
Imagine Harry trying to catch Warrington alone because he doesn’t really want to associate with Slytherins (plus Malfoy has this tendency of being around the guy ALL THE TIME since he got chosen), but at the same time he’s also fair enough not to want him to walk into the first task unprepared.
Imagine Warrington walking over to Harry a few months later, and Ron and Hermione both jump into a protective stance, wands out, but instead of attacking Harry he just tells him to stick the egg underwater. (Because Slytherins don’t forget those who helped them out).
Imagine Warrington and Harry helping each other out in the labyrinth.
Imagine Harry being devastated when Peter kills Warrington- because Voldemort doesn’t care what house they’re form, a spare is a spare.
Imagine the uproar that causes among the Slytherins, because some of their parents really are Death Eaters and they know what really happened.
Imagine Slytherins fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts and shouting “This is for Cassius!”
Imagine Harry returning with Warrington’s body, and the crowd realizes what’s happened, but Warrington’s parents don’t show up. There’s no one to mourn him, to cradle him in their arms and cry for their son. The Slytherins know why. His parents were Death Eaters, too.
Imagine Slytherins reaching out, asking for help from classmates from other houses. They’re terrified, truly terrified because the being their parents claimed would never hurt them because they’re pureblood, they realize that he does not care.
Imagine Slytherins in the 5th book sneaking off to join Dumbledore’s Army, to learn more about who Voldemort is without their parents acting as a filter.
Imagine the shock when they’re told what he’s really done.
Imagine that a few talented Slytherins went with Harry and the others into the Ministry of Magic. The others are a bit wary but they prove themselves as friends.
Imagine them being confronted by Lucius Malfoy in the the Hall of Prophecy, and when the Death Eaters descend, they know that any one of them could be their parents.
Imagine the shocked gasp of a Death Eater as they realize their own child, a pureblood, is standing defiantly with Harry Potter. They choke back a cry. They can’t let their child know that they were about to duel to the death.
Imagine a DA Slytherin facing off against their own Death Eater parent. That they make the decision to let their child defeat them, because in that moment, they realize that they love their child more than they fear Voldemort. They go down, mask unveiled, and the Slytherin kid has to be dragged from the fight before he gets killed.
Imagine Book 6 Slytherins getting more friendly and cooperative with the other houses. Two years of Voldemort terrorizing the muggle and Wizarding world, two years where their parents just up and leave some days, cringing from the pain in their arm, two years after the death of the first Slytherin pureblood, Cassius Warrington, killed by Voldemort’s right-hand man, and they’re slowly hitting the breaking point.
Imagine Slytherin kids keeping tabs on their parents, sending the information to Harry, who shares it with the Order of the Phoenix, and hoping that their parents won’t be killed.
Imagine Book 7 Slytherins low-key rebelling against the new oppressive Hogwarts staff.
Imagine the final siege on Hogwarts, where Slytherins stand proudly by their fellow houses, knowing full-well they could be fighting their own parents. Some Slytherins know their parents were in the fighting. They hope to find them first and sneak them away. Their fellow students understand. Professor McGonagall allows 7th Year Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, to duel a death eater in her stead; her father is under that veil. She knows it.
Imagine the aftermath of the battle; every house suffered loses. Slytherin students crying over the deaths of friends they made in every house.
Imagine
a Cassius Warrington statue made in his honor, the first Slytherin to fight and die nobly with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, in the face of ultimate evil. He was a true Slytherin, and it’s in his name that Slytherin children and their families have cut all ties with the Death Eaters, denounced Voldemort, and are finally living in peace.
Imagine a story in which Harry wasn’t in love with his fellow champion’s girlfriend, but after her boyfriend’s death just hugs her so long, so hard, and says “he wanted to win for you. You should know–you should know he won, he did it for you” and gives her the best hug and shoulder he knows how to be because her parents aren’t there either and she must know why.
Imagine Harry staring over her head at everyone else until Hermione steps up–it doesn’t take long, but it takes long enough that when she does all eyes are on her as a source of motion–and says “we’re never going to forget this. They’re not going to get away with it” and the girlfriend just latches onto Hermione and everyone is in wands-out stance convinced she’s about to attack the shit out of Hermione, and then the girlfriend stares into her eyes and says “do you promise me” and Hermione just gives her this super-firm nod and says “I promise” and the girlfriend just collapses on her, sobbing.
Imagine Dumbledore trying to give some flowery speech about inter-wizard solidarity while glossing over why, because Slytherins have always been a touchy subject, and Ron gets to his feet and says “Professor, I need to say something important” and Dumbledore is so surprised he just cedes the floor, and Ron–after that awkward moment when he realizes everyone is staring at him–says he didn’t know Warrington particularly, but he knows how Warrington and Harry played. That each was always cheering on the other. Both wanted to win, but neither was willing to undercut the other by underhanded means. He finishes up saying “I think–I think it’s important everyone should know he died being what a champion should be. Because he could have abandoned Harry and instead he stood up with him to play the game the honest way, and he died for it. And–and Slytherin House should be proud, and we should all be proud, because Warrington was a good bloke.” He sits back down all flustered because he didn’t actually stand up meaning to make a speech. And then Pansy Parkinson stands up before Dumbledore can take back control of the room and says “I want to tell Weasley thank you.” And all of Slytherin House raises a glass–to Warrington, to Weasley, to Potter–and the other houses follow suit. Many years later, Wizarding scholars will say that was the moment Voldemort truly lost.
Imagine later that summer. Harry gets several owls on his birthday, all unsigned. The birds are plump and pretentious and well-cared-for. He will never know which Slytherins sent him their treasures: parchments with hexes developed by the Death Eaters; a strange locket that will only open if he whispers a special spell but that always shows him the picture he most needs to see; a page torn from a potions book that, brewed properly, will allow him extra time to summon a Patronus by giving him a few crucial seconds not just of happiness but of bliss. It doesn’t matter. Harry knows these gifts not as birthday gifts but for what they really are, and he treasures the locket and copies out the potion to send to Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, and when first summoned by the Order of the Phoenix he marches straight up to Dumbledore with the hexes and says “I can’t tell you where I got these, Professor. But they’re in use by the Death Eaters and I think you should have them.” Months later, Sirius will recognize the spell Bellatrix shoots at him, and will dive out of the way just in the nick of time.
The final battle. Everyone is there. Sirius somehow ends up herding a group of Slytherins. They all stare at him and he at them, across a centuries-old divide Voldemort has only succeeded in deepening. Then he remembers the hexes. Harry’s locket, now tucked under Sirius’ shirt because Harry’s friends are with him in this battle but most of Sirius’ are dead. The moment that happiness potion saved Remus’ life, his very soul. Snape’s final words to Harry, finally seen not as mockery but real true advice. What Harry said Voldemort said–his first words in his new form. They are kids, and they are sharing the same kind of hurt he once wouldn’t admit to, watching his mother burn his name off the family tree. “When we go in there, it’s going to be hell,” he tells the Slytherins. “Some of you are probably going to die. I might go down too, and if I do I want your best curser in the front. But I want you all to remember one thing. There are no spares.” Later retellings of the battle never fail to mention the moment a group of angry, screaming teens burst into the Great Hall, wearing their green and silver as the badge of honor it should be, shouting NO SPARES, NO SPARES at the tops of their voices in between hexes and curses and the occasional physical punch. When Hermione is present, she always interrupts the storyteller to be sure everyone knows about the moment Blaise Zabini shoved her to the floor, dropped on top of her, fired off three curses in rapid succession and said “stay alive, Granger, we need you” before jumping back to his feet and vanishing into the melee–how, for all anyone knows, those may have been his last words, and she will not let his sacrifice go unnoted.
The aftermath. Malfoy holds out a hand to Sirius, badly injured on the floor. Sirius asks how Malfoy is willing to trust him. Malfoy nods at his chest. “You’ve got my godfather’s locket,” he says, and when Sirius and Harry finally speak after the battle Harry gives his full agreement to the very first thing out of Sirius’ mouth. They give the locket to Malfoy. Sirius grits his teeth and closes his eyes and opens them and says “He probably saved my life, giving Harry that.” He doesn’t say thank you. Malfoy hears it anyway.
The school reopens under a single banner: the four Houses united. The House rivalry is reduced to just that–a competition in fun–with those deep divides slowly healing to scars, and eventually away to nothing at all.
Imagine it.
When we stand, we stand united as one
And then there would be no hope for any uprising of evil, no users of the dark arts would dare to attack. There would be no neglected Slytherins turning to a darker cause. The unity Cassius Warrington’s death caused would come to save the world, time and time again, as would-be-Voldemorts find no followers. No children will ever have to fight their parents, or family. There would always be peace.
oh christ somebody added to it and now i’m a soggy emotional wreck
I’m crying because this is what slytherins should have been and truly are
This is beautifully written and I wish it was in the books xx
This is such a fantastic read. A Slytherin triwizard champion sounds awesome.
mace windu and anakin skywalker: lessons, in trust and other things
In
another world, Obi Wan has to leave for a mission after Naboo. He agrees to go
only after the council promises to let him train Anakin, and only because he
sees that a battlefield—another one, at least—is no place for a young boy to
start his training. He tells Anakin before leaving, and Anakin waits.
In
another world, Mace sees Anakin sitting on the steps that line one of the
larger training rooms. The boy is quiet, intensely focused on the training
droid ten feet away, eyes not even glancing down as his fingers fly over the
programming tablet. The droid is holding a staff, like the one Obi Wan
described to the council when he came home without a master. The sabers are
blue, but the movements make it obvious whose technique Anakin is so determined
to learn and defeat.
Mace
shifts and Anakin looks up, fingers already stuttering to a hesitant standstill
over the pad, mouth already opening on unsure words: to apologize, to explain.
To defend before attacked.
In
another world, Mace sees a young boy spending the few moments he has to himself
selflessly, for a man he’s known for a handful of days at best, and only after
he has completed what is expected of him. Mace sees an initiate who will need
to forge a unique path among the jedi, and he remembers the way he too, in a sense, had made his own way in the Order. In another world, Mace senses this boy’s
tumultuous fear, and remembers how hard, how differently, he’d worked to get
through his own.
He steps
inside, closes the door behind him, and tells Anakin to add another lunge at
end of the program’s third attack. This is how they start: small steps, and
smaller words. It’s enough.
Mace does
not train Anakin, but he helps.
In
another world, when Mace Windu sees inside the heart of a newly freed slave
child who has suffered too much, he breathes in and thinks, shatterpoint. Mace, who has seen the ugly scars left by slavery and
imprisonment in the outer rim, knows Anakin needs more than what the old set ways of
the jedi will give him. His
compassion outweighs his caution, and he teaches Anakin how to work with the
things inside him that the jedi warn against.
In another world, Mace Windu does not give into the council’s
fear.
He
remembers that sometimes hatred, too, is a right, one they cannot thoughtlessly
strip from a boy who grew up with the threat of a chip ready to explode inside
him. He teaches Anakin how to channel the fear and anger and cracked bits of
hate, how to use their own energy to loop them away, and eventually, how to
catch and direct that darkness in a fight.
It’s like
winding up thread, Anakin
says once. You have to wrap it so
it doesn’t tangle when you pull it out again. I used to do that for my mom,
sometimes. Mace blinks. It is not
inaccurate, and Mace tells him so. Anakin smiles, carefully proud. He doesn’t
hold his mother’s memories territorially close to his chest yet, and in another
world, it isn’t Mace who makes him start.
He feels
Anakin’s attachments, sees Yoda’s narrowed eyes, and decides there are enough
masters to tell the boy to let go. He focuses on teaching Anakin what he knows
best. Anakin still trains in Shien So, but in another world, he has more than a working
knowledge of Vaapad, too.
In
another world, Mace’s soft spot for younglings and new padawans is not lost to
the war.
Mace Windu’s guidance is not that of master over apprentice,
but it is enough. It is enough to loosen the knot of mistrust choking young
Anakin’s every thought in front of the council, and it is enough to slacken Obi
Wan’s mercilessly demanding standards for himself in front of Anakin. Anakin
finds someone to remind him that his master is young and new and imperfect and
will not begrudge Anakin his weaknesses or differences, and Obi Wan finds someone
to remind him that his apprentice is young and new and imperfect and will only
find comfort in Obi Wan’s own uncertainty.
Mace and Anakin. In another world, theirs is a relationship
of distant, reluctant affection. There’s a genuine bond between them, but it’s
quiet, left unsaid. Mace leaves the voicing of such things to Obi Wan. Obi Wan,
no longer solely responsible for teaching Anakin Skywalker, finds it much
easier to voice them.
Small
things change. During the Clone Wars, when Mace thanks Artoo, Anakin still has
something to say. But instead of that’s
more than I ever got, it’s a thank you and a smile? That means
he really likes you. Mace still shakes his head and looks away. But this time there’s
amusement in the tension at the corner of his mouth, and Anakin knows how to
read it. Small things change, and those changes add up.
In another world, Mace Windu trusts Anakin. He talks with
Anakin about seeing further than most, and being unsure what to do, which path
to take. Anakin still dreams of his mother, still returns fissured and aching
from Geonosis and Tatooine. Mace does not understand completely, but he
listens. He respects Anakin’s loss—his sacrifice—and he trusts Anakin’s grief. It is enough.
In another world, Anakin trusts Mace. That trust means Anakin isn’t afraid to
talk to Obi Wan, even when it seems there isn’t enough time, about his past and
his mother and his weaknesses, about Padme and Dooku and all those moments
when something terrible tried to unfurl in his chest. In another world, one day
Anakin trusts Mace with these things too.
In another world, Anakin Skywalker and Mace Windu know that
they will never agree completely, but they do not arrange these differences
into a minefield between them.
Mace sees the more shadowed parts of the Force become still
with anticipation when Anakin and the Chancellor meet. In another world, he
lays out his fears in front of Anakin, discusses them with Anakin as equals.
Mace acknowledges his own attachment to the republic, how his faith is
breaking, how he houses a weaker echo of the same monstrous fear as Anakin.
Anakin, already intimately familiar with the tangled threads of Force visions
and shatterpoints and gifted sight, listens. He listens, and because he is
trusted, he doesn’t need to stay.
In another world, Anakin still grabs Mace’s hand, desperate
for a right answer in this maelstrom of wrong wrong wrong—
Mace still asks where Anakin has been injured, still asks
what’s wrong, still puts an arm around his shoulders and helps him sit. But the
concern runs deeper this time around. Anakin still falls apart in front of
Mace, still shakes with the burden of too many stars and people, still
struggles to articulate his discovery of the sith when all his voice wants to
do is scream and scream and scream.
But this time: when Anakin Skywalker begs for answers, Mace
pauses to give them. It is a handful of moments, it is years of trust, of
respect. It is hours and days and months spent together in the training rooms,
it is instance after instance of their pain and anger and attachment, all
spoken out loud and addressed and smoothed. It is enough.
It is not Obi Wan’s presence, but it is enough to hold the
tide.
In another world, in an office with huge windows and too high
a fall, Mace tells Anakin not to listen, and Anakin doesn’t. Anakin tells Mace
to have faith, and Mace does. It is enough. It is more than enough.
Mace
Windu brings change to the Jedi Council, in another world. He learns from Anakin, in this; tradition will only carry them so far, will only tide them over so long, will not do what open arms can do. Mace learns to let go. He relaxes his too-tight grip on the past, and
the Force breathes easier for it. He argues with old friends, pushes for new
thought, for revision, for softer judgement. The Order, too,
breathes easier. It becomes a different kind of home for its newest
members, who were raised in a war-torn world, whose lives and families are
already too full of sacrifice to ask for more.
In
another world, when a boy with burning dreams and too much in his heart puts
his trust in the jedi, they do what they were always meant to do: they make him
family.
Anakin
Skywalker passes on Mace’s lessons to countless others. And his own lessons,
too. It’s about time someone
started a new form, Mace tells
Obi Wan as they watch Anakin smile and adjust a young padawan’s stance. I was getting bored.
In another world, Mace Windu sees a scared, hurting child
unsure of his place, and he does what the jedi were always meant to do: he
brings him peace.
Steel Phoenix Studios 