‘May I Have Your Name?’ I Enquire.

god this is going to be fucking Ground Zero for the next generation of Comet Girls I just know it. this is going to hit a few extremely specific and very unsuspecting types of people like crack cocaine. Right now people are typing "Char Aznable" into google because of this scene.

Day 260

Princesses do not get "Sad", we are overtaken by wistful melancholy, which further weakens our frail forms and compliments our gentle temperament. Now, do your little dance again, and do it properly this time.

i am now accepting applications for "treacherous stooge"

He left his village a long time ago.

He did it for simple reasons. He wished to serve his Lords. He wished to keep his village safe from all manner of threats that lurk in this world. He wished for a full stomach and a fuller purse.

They accepted him into their service, and decided to have him as a Man-At-Arms.

He thanked them for their understanding and care, when they have no such things.

They took his legs, and replaced them with segmented metal things, which would allow him to run and jump further and faster. They took his eyes, which insisted on blinking and flinching, and made it so that he would miss no shots through fault of his own. They took his arms, and gave him new ones, covered in blades and places to mount weapons and ammunition.

They sent him out among countless others.

…

It is much, much later.

He marches alongside his comrades. He marches alongside towering Implements, which fill him with a sense of dread and unease, despite the fact that they are on the same side. He marches towards his enemy.

Corrosion awaits.

The ground is stained a dirty orange. Leaves drop from the trees and hit the ground in a cacophony of falling rust. He sees things that were once people, now twisted into metal shapes. It smells of rot.

Alongside his comrades, he readies his weapons.

They burn it all down.

…

It is a bit later.

The area has been cleaned and secured. They continue marching.

The place into which they march is Corrosion no longer. This is the domain of Decay.

Half-dead and never-living things surround them and charge forwards.

Gunfire rakes through the air. Gouts of flame burst forth from some of the Implements. Others open fire with immense cannon. Some sweep through the enemy with oversized blades and crushing instruments. He joins his comrades. He fires upon the enemy.

The march continues.

Comrade and foe alike fall.

Implements stagger and are dragged down by the sheer weight of the enemy.

His ammunition runs dry. His comrades suffer the same fate.

The march continues.

Now they fight with blades alone. The march has slowed. Death is omnipresent, watching over both sides and exacting a heavy toll.

His comrades drop, one by one.

The march continues.

He marches alone.

The march continues.

He marches right out of the other end of the Decay.

…

‘... and for your services to The Court, you are to be rewarded with a place among our number, safe from the Corrosion and Decay that spoiled so many of your fine compatriots.’

He is knighted.

They take his lungs. They take his spine. They take his brain. They take his mind.

He thinks of his village, and how long it has been.

He does not understand.

But, he supposes, he does not have to. He is one of The Court now, and the actions of mere humans are far below him. He does not care any more.

His new brain and heart tick away steadily, and he rises.

any story featuring a Special Class of Disposable Boy (mech pilot child soldiers, science experiment psychic kids, living bioweapon, etc etc) is a transfeminine narrative whether the author intended for it to be or not

Her boss sits at the table, staring across at another man. Well, she notes dryly in her head, not a man. Never a man, at least not again. He’s pale, same as her and her boss. 

To some, he would look almost like a corpse.

To a small, unlucky few, they would recognise him as one.

She busies herself with tasks, pouring drinks, keeping candles lit, and delegating to the other servants. She checks the oven, ensuring the temperature within is just right. Too low, and the meal would be cold and unpleasant. Too high, and it would be charred to death and boiled and ruined.

It wouldn’t do for her to ruin a meal. It would be so improper to serve anything less than perfection, so she’s become adept at cooking. She knows the tastes and preferences of her boss perhaps better than her own. She knows how to pick the right supplier for her meals. She knows how to prepare and present them with an absolute minimum of mess and panic.

In the kitchen, a timer rings, snapping her out of her routine.

The meal ought to be perfectly warm by now.

She takes them out of the oven, checks them over with a keen eye. All parts unnecessary for consumption have been skilfully removed by her hand, and it’s in the perfect state to be served up.

She moves the meal on top of a trolley, such that it can be more easily served. Even her new lifestyle hasn’t made her strong enough to carry the whole thing on a plate, and it’s not as if it can exactly walk anymore.

She rolls the trolley into the room, and slides the metal tray onto the table. She stands in the corner, behind her boss, and looks on politely.

They start on their meal.

As they lean forwards to drain the meal, it reacts. She wasn’t careless enough to kill it, after all. That would ruin the blood. Sealed lips quiver. Hollow eye sockets twitch, trying to focus eyes that no longer exist. Muscles, devoid of limbs to attach to, tense and lock up. Its breaths become short and shaky. 

It attempts to scream.

So rude.

It should remember it has no vocal cords.

After a while, it stills. The meal is over now.

She removes and disposes of the leftovers before returning to her room.

People conceptualize egg spotting as this vapid-ass "tee hee, this guy likes the wrong video games for a man, so he must be a giiiirl~" nonsense when in actuality it's like

Here's a reoccurring pattern of fucking trauma responses that we KNOW is common in repressing trans women

And we recognize it