Older boy of the Scamander family. When the Galactic civil
war starts, he enlists immediately because he is driven by the strong sense of
justice and a desire to protect his baby brother. The idea is ridiculous of course - Newt has been taken by the Jedi
at the age of 3 to be trained in the way of the Force, and no contact with the
family is ever allowed. But Theseus doesn’t care. Not really. He still
remembers fear in his brothers’ sunkissed green eyes, and his arms reaching
back to Theseus, and his own terrible longing, a hole in his chest that never
healed. So he enlists, and does his best, because may be if he kills as many
enemies as he can it will make the galaxy a little safer for his baby brother
hundreds of lightyears away.
His regimen is ambushed on a barren nameless world and
everyone is killed. Everyone but Theseus. He scrambles back to the base, one
hand on a blaster, the other – pushing his guts back inside. The base is
celebrating the victory, but it tastes like a defeat.
He comes home but there is no home left- his parents died in
an accident, a space battle that has gone horribly wrong. He buries them and
leaves, never looking back. He sets his way to Coruscant, to the jedi temple –
rules or no rules, Newt is the only family he has left, and he is going to find
his baby brother even if the Chancellor himself tries to stop him.
He is too late.
The war is over, the jedi are dead and gone, and the temple
is nothing but a pile of smoldering ruins.
Now, Theseus has only one thing left to live for- revenge.
He sets up a base on the Smugglers run – an asteroid belt deep in the Outer
Territories, and gets a team of misfits just like him, to smuggle, raid and
steal whatever they want from the newly created Empire and the “resistance”
alike. Theseus needs that for his final operation.
His target is Percival Graves, a jedi master who betrayed
his order and turned on his own people, joined the empire and is now enjoying
the luxurious life while other jedi rot in the ground.
Theseus may not be a jedi himself and may not know the way
of the Force, but he knows how to kill people, and he is very, very good at it.
He also has no idea that his brother is still alive.
He fights alongside clones and fellow jedi during the war
and almost sees it through, but leaves the Order a year before the massacre
begins. When the price is put on jedi’s head, he disappears, dissolves into the
shadows of remote unsavory worlds, tones down, pretending to be awkward and
unassuming biologist, and finally sets up a base on Kashyyyk (wookies, unlike
people, know how to show gratitude, and even if Newt finds the concept of a “life
debt” disturbing, he is in no position to refuse help).
He spends most of his time helping those in need- humanoids
and non-humanoids alike. When the rebel alliance is formed, Newt finally
realizes he can’t stay out of the fight any longer, not when so many races
across the galaxy are enslaved by the Empire. He contacts the alliance and
takes up a new name- Fulkrum. He spies, gathers intel, sabotages, releases
slaves and prisoners- anything that helps the people and upsets the Empire. His
ability to get the most heavily guarded data and ability to avoid capture even
through a planetary lockdown quickly make him a legend.
A rumor spreads across the Outer Rim that he is so good he
can go in and out of the Hutts palace without guards noticing. The truth is- he
doesn’t have to. After Newt saved Jabba the Hutt’s little son from a deadly
fever, he has a right of passage on all huttese territories.
He is on one of those territories when he hears a desperate
cry for help – another agent, another Fulkrum said they found something of
outmost importance, something that could tip the scale of war, but they lost
their ship and the planet is surrounded by the imperial forces.
“War seems like a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know. Then they get a taste of battle. For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they’ve been gutted by an axe… and the man breaks”- GRRM
aight so in my infinite resources of stupidity, i deleted my entire account in a second of thinking it was just a hoarded url instead. so i’m starting back 4 or 5 years from scratch p. much. anyways, please p l e a s e reblog if you’re hbo war or military history, because i can only think of so many people off the top of my head. thank you!!
[Several months into Percy’s disappearance, Annabeth has encountered a strange, unfriendly version of her mother reading a subway map.]
Annabeth(Pleading): Mom, Athena, please- I know you’re angry, but you can’t take this out on the Romans. We need them. We won’t win this war without them!
Athena(Disgusted): The Romans? You’re concerned about them? Is what they did to me not enough to make you see the evil they are capable of? What of the hundreds of your brothers and sisters they murdered when the camps last met?
Annabeth: Nobody was innocent. We killed thousands of their campers then, too. Mom, I’m begging you, I know what they did to you was wrong, but you’re the goddess of wisdom- you of all people, you HAVE to understand-
Athena(Enraged): Do not to presume to tell me what I must understand! You claim to be my daughter? Prove it. You WILL go on my quest. You WILL avenge me. And you WILL see that Rome falls.
[Athena turns her attention back to the subway map. Annabeth grabs her arm]
Annabeth(On the brink of tears): If we can’t unite the camps, everything you and I both care about will be destroyed. So for once in your very long life, would you please JUST LISTEN TO ME?!
[Athena slaps her hand away. Annabeth flinches]
Athena(Voice cold): You’ve thrown in your lot with them. You are no child of mine.
Physically, the clones are all exactly the same. They slept in huge barracks with hundreds of their brothers, and most likely shared communal showers, too. They must have had frequent medical exams to make sure they were in peak condition. And if they’re injured on the battlefield, that means getting clothing and armor hastily ripped away in order to reach the wound.
So, clone troopers probably have absolutely no concept of modesty or body-shyness, and would think nothing of undressing or being nude around people they don’t know.
(nobody really cares until the time a few weeks into the war when some troopers from Torrent Company start casually disrobing… right in front of Ahsoka. Anakin considers the worst part to be the fact that not even Rex understood what everyone was making a fuss about, so he had to explain to the Captain why a group of adult men stripping with a fourteen-year-old girl present, regardless of their intentions, is EXTREMELY INAPPROPRIATE)
also this just reinforces the fact that clones have no agency and even their bodies belong to the Republic haha goodbye
YOU HAVE STOPPED THE GODDAMN APOCALYPSE,
YOU HAVE BEEN TO BOTH HEAVEN AND HELL, (MANAGED TO EQUALLY PISS OF BOTH,)
YOU CONVINCED ANGELS TO FALL FOR YOU,
YOU SAVED YOU LITTLE BROTHER HUNDREDS OF TIMES,
YOU BEAT THE MARK OF CAIN,
YOU TRICKED DEATH NUMEROUS TIMES,
YOU HAVE COME BACK FROM THE DEAD EVEN MORE,
YOU HAVE STOPPED THE OLDEST AND MOST DANGEROUS CREATURES TO EVER WALK THE EARTH,
YOUVE MADE A NAME FOR YOURSELVES TO THE POINT WHERE DEMONS RUN FROM YOU,
AND YOU HAVE DONE ALL OF IT WITH A SMILE AND A GIVE EM HELL ATTITUDE.
IF YOU CAN DO ALL OF THIS,
THEN YOU CAN BE HAPPY WITH THAT LITTLE NERDY ANGEL OF YOURS.
[mother earth will swallow you :: lay your body down]
“Killian,” she weeps. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The Dark Ones stand face to face on the shore of the lake, as the avatars of all their forebearers scream and swoop around them, as the wind rages, as the sky weeps, as the stars fall. As Emma Swan holds Excalibur in her hands, and Killian Jones stands in front of her, arms spread, baring his heart to her.
(He has. He always has.)
“Now, Emma,” he manages, barely above a whisper. “Bloody hell, love, do it. Kill me. Destroy the darkness. You’ll be free. You’ll have a future.”
“No,” she sobs. “Not without you.”
“Do it!” Something of the demon shows in the black flash of his eyes, even as they glisten with the tears of mortal heartbreak, the impossible task, as he knows what he is asking of her. Tried to bait Rumplestiltskin into killing him, to spare her this, and yet it failed. It had to come to this. It always did.
“Do it,” he repeats, voice barely steady. “I trust you, Emma. You’ll do whatever you have to. There isn’t much time. You have to. You always did.”
Emma’s hands are shaking like a leaf as she lifts the engraved blade, as she can barely stand to point it at his chest, almost blacks out at the idea of driving it into him. The magic hisses and snarls, the Dark Ones past dive and dart at the Dark Ones present, as the shield grows weaker and weaker. In another moment, they will break through, and all will be too late.
“I love you,” she cries. “Killian, I love you.”
“I know.” He manages one frail, final smile for her, does his best to look brave. “I’ll see you again one day.”
Emma is drowning, clutching for herself, feeling as if the dagger itself is ripping through her. As she swings her arm back, and drives Excalibur home.
He staggers. Goes to his knees. She gasps, retching, as she throws the crumbling-to-ash-blade away and crawls to him, gathers him into her arms. “Look at me,” she sobs. “Look at me.”
He does. She can see the light of him, of her pirate, of the man who gave up everything and more for her, the warm, warm blue, shining up at her. As the darkness comes screaming out of her, of them, as she can feel it scour through her, as she feels as if she’s come up from a deep, deep dive, as she breathes, as she clutches him to her chest and weeps as if she cannot stop.
He does not.
A star falls from the sky, and its reflection splashes in brilliant, blinding circles into the water, as the darkness pulls him from her arms, as his body goes under. As she falls flat, almost incoherent with grief, clawing toward the edge of the lake, unable to take her eyes off him for a moment. As the darkened streetlamps come on again, as the world starts turning again, but stops in its tracks for her. As she shakes, and shakes, and screams.
Killian Jones is falling, falling, falling, falling, through nothing. Through space and time, through dimensions, through life and death itself, the burning wound still in his breast, Icarus flown too close to the sun. He is content to fall, for in this transcendence he is nothing, and he is at rest, and it is good.
He is only barely aware of sensation again, but a strange, fogged, impossible sort – twisted and yet clearer, not the demonic magic, not even life itself. He has gone beyond that. Something rocking beneath him. The sound of water. At one with the sea, forever here to soothe his soul – yet he is a fool to hope so. He is a sinner, he is the dark made flesh, he is destined for no easy surcease, no peaceful hereafter. He will wear the chains he forged in life, and now for all eternity. He will burn.
It’s Emma, he thinks, with a leap of terror. She’s followed him down here. He hasn’t saved her after all. The darkness still has her, he failed, he –