• 99% of this blog is queued
• serial tag yapper (sorry in advance)
• asks are open!
if you happen to know what my artist name is i ask that you please not share that this is my personal handle. i prefer to keep this account relatively separate from my art socials.
messed around with the sigil of the entity and i think i like this better
(he also now has an actual name--mendaxas--not that it'll ever be referred to)
i don't intend to really do anything with this graphic but it'd make a nice freebie artist sticker. i already use the sigil of my other demon oc as my signature and it's on all my business cards and artist freebies weheh
Following another attack on the Pentagon, Cecil pours himself a drink. It’s been a year since he inherited the charge of the office of GDA Director and all its burdens… but who's counting, except for the devil himself?
Mild content warning for language, violence, injury, and implied alcoholism/drug use.
~4.5k words. I’ve been itching to write some dialogue between Cecil and the entity, since up until now I’ve just been talking about them…
✨ Also on AO3 if you prefer to read on their platform. ✨
---
With the lights dimmed, Cecil Stedman stood in his office, alcohol on his breath and murder on his mind.
A few strands of hair came loose from behind his ears as he hunched over his desk, eyes hovering lazily over the second glass of whiskey he’d poured himself that night. Its surface rippled gently as rescue and recovery efforts in the background resuscitated Global Defense Agency headquarters one room at a time, dutifully wheezing the Pentagon back to life in the aftermath of the third attack since his tenure as Director had begun.
He’d already had a year to re-acclimate to the harsh reality of working for the GDA, but even he couldn’t shoulder the burden without periodic reassurance he was still doing the right thing. Casualties were normal. Death was normal, goddammit, and yet… sometimes he still needed to be told that it was so. A little encouragement from a few rounds of booze usually did the trick.
Grimacing, he shifted more of his weight onto his arms, white-knuckling the edge of the desk. Heavy with the weight of his own blood, his ruined slacks clung uncomfortably to a series of lacerations on his inner thighs, some of which sat precariously close to his arteries. Evidently he’d done a ramshackle job of tourniqueting himself, as the bleeding had yet to stop.
His drink beckoned him to indulge, already, but he was resisting the temptation in favor of one worse. The bottle, half-empty, was right there. His reflection, ugly and distorted in the darkened glass, seemed to wink at him in the mocking language of funhouse mirrors.
Briefly, he considered putting away the rest of it in one fell swoop. Fuck decorum, he thought. He just needed to take the edge off for a moment, and the inevitable buzz could do that… tide him over until the others were taken care of and there were more medics to go around. It’d be a welcome reprieve from his thoughts and the pain and the incessant prickling of his skin, which hadn’t stopped itching for a dip in the chemical bath since the adrenaline had worn off.
His train of thought derailed when a voice behind him spoke.
"It felt good, didn't it?"
Shit.
Somehow he didn’t flinch. Or do anything else that would suggest his heart just skipped a damn beat. Dumb luck, really. He already knew who—or rather, what—it was.
He felt something in the room congealing.
Gripping calm by the edges, he slowly glanced over his shoulder in its general direction, careful not to make direct eye contact lest he be read like a book.
Less so because he didn’t trust himself to put on a solid poker face and more because he wasn’t keen on witnessing its hideous, leering countenance so soon after their first encounter. He took in what he could from his periphery.
There on the guest sofa, dressed sharply in an off-white suit, sat his silver-haired doppelganger, a near-identical Cecil-thing with some additional, very visible twenty years of mileage. To those none the wiser it was indistinguishable as anything other than an old man with a coincidental likeness to himself. Cecil knew better, of course, but even if he didn’t, its jaundiced eyes, clawed fingers, and forked tongue were dead giveaways.
The first time the motherfucker had graced him with an appearance, it wore an enormous, bloody gash around its neck like a gory noose—“Bone-deep,” it’d jeered—and flaunted the crimson fallout down its three-piece with all the fervor of a man who’d never had to do his own laundry.
He’d told it he felt sorry for its dry cleaning service, and that there were a myriad of colognes it could choose from in the modern era that were more delicate than iron.
It had laughed at him then, and remarked that it was flattered by the suggestion it could pull off delicate.
Cecil wrinkled his nose. Simply imagining the putrid, metallic stink that had filled him that night summoned other memories… memories of raw senselessness and desperate vows of loyalty he couldn't really remember uttering.
This time the beast was clean, and no such stench assaulted his senses. Its suit was crisp, pressed and well-fitted—as expected—but at least this time its crimson shirt seemed like a deliberate choice rather than a product of malevolent rabble-rousing. Or maybe it still was, and it was just waiting for him to notice.
With legs crossed and arms folded, it grinned smugly at him through the dark. He didn’t need to be looking directly at it to catch the flash of its pointed teeth.
"Let's not pretend it was anything less,” it continued, its yellow eyes fixed on his. They produced a light of their own that eerily lit the highs of its face.
Cecil absently swirled his drink, pretending not to have heard, then turned his full attention back to the glass, silent.
"Drink won't help, Stedman. That tingling in your fingers has to run its course."
Cecil growled, his patience abruptly cut short. Sonuvabitch wasn't letting up. And it was right about his fucking fingers. "What the hell are you doing here?"
“Ooh, mea culpa,” the pretender whined coyly, splaying its fingers across its chest. “Spare some grace for the elderly, O Adonis. Can’t an old man surprise his friends with a spur-of-the-moment visit, anymore?"
Cecil scoffed, his fingers tightening around the glass. “I'm your project, asshole."
"I won’t say you’re wrong,” it snorted, “but I'm not lying."
"And you're not an old man, either."
"I’m checking on you, you ungrateful whelp," it snapped.
Cecil allowed himself a tiny smirk, taking secret pleasure in having pissed it off. The feeling was short-lived, however; a brief moment of reprieve against a lingering sense of unreality. The high melted off him and into his whiskey as he stared long into it.
“This isn't a good time,” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably as he felt the blood trickling down his legs touch new parts of his ankles.
The doppelganger frowned. “I disagree. There is no better time.”
Cecil glared without turning his head, a knot welling in his chest. "What do you want me to say?” he finally exhaled, after a pause.
It leaned forward intently, propping its elbows on its knees and resting its chin on a slack wrist. It wiggled its claws jovially - long, grisly things made for slitting the throats of men. "I want you to tell me if it felt good,” it said cheerfully. “This should be cause for celebration.”
“Huh. For once, I agree. I’m glad you found a new cologne.”
“Don’t change the subject. I’m not in the mood.”
“You always been such a bad sport?” Cecil jabbed.
The frames on the walls and the books on the shelves shook, as if disturbed by a tremor. “I am not in the mood,” it bristled.
Cecil’s jaw tensed and he shut up. Unfortunately, not even the supposed ‘immunity’ granted by his contract could give him enough confidence to keep provoking it.
It took some time, but he eventually found his voice again. “They just crumpled like tin foil."
To its credit, his guest let him speak, studying him intensely. He could feel its infernal judgment burning a hole in his back.
He chuffed incredulously, lifting the glass but never drinking from it. "It was so easy.”
"But of course," it affirmed.
Cecil surveyed his reflection in the whiskey. His own eyes didn’t glow back at him, thank God.
“They might, in time,” it mused offhandedly.
“What?” he asked.
It ignored him and carried on. “Surely you, of all people, knew you would only get the best from me," it purred.
A breath hitched in his chest. For a moment, he thought its voice came from his reflection in the glass. Why? he wondered, already knowing the answer to be in the slums of his self-image.
Its attempt at flattery annoyed him. He finally turned and glowered at the snake with as much disdain as he could muster. "Of course not," he hissed, further agitated by its likeness to himself now that he was looking at it. “You think I didn’t do my homework? All the souls in the world couldn't guarantee your word. I gambled."
"Yes, and any other man would be thrilled to have won the favor of the house,” it shot back. It lifted the weight of its head from its hands, cleared its throat, and the next time it spoke, its voice had fallen into a stereotypically thick, southern drawl. “Count yer blessings and don’t have a conniption, kid."
Cecil frowned, his forehead creasing. There was something just so… wrong about a face that was inexplicably his… even when presented as a case study for the importance of sleep… calling him ‘kid.’ And with that damn accent that he’d left behind all those years ago, too.
It was a cheap carny trick and he wanted his fucking money back.
He turned around again and finally threw back the whiskey, deftly resisting the urge to wince as it touched the back of his throat and warmed his bones like liquid fire.
His guest didn’t speak in the meantime, again having taken to simply watching him. There was a devious gleam in its eyes, perhaps anticipating—hoping, even—to finally provoke something more than a bit of mouthing off. The clank of the glass meeting the desk with more force than necessary was a good start.
Cecil wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, examining it briefly as if it weren’t his own. The pause he took was precariously long. "Fine. Yes,” he huffed indignantly. “Loath as I am to admit it, especially to you - yes. Yes, it felt good.”
The entity beamed. Its chipper attitude sickened him. "It's what you wanted,” it grinned.
"I asked for power," he contested immediately.
The doppelganger raised a brow, but its spirits went unsoured. "Did I not deliver?" it asked honestly.
Cecil scrunched his face and begrudgingly resisted the urge to whip around and serve it another helping of his finest, unspoken fuck you’s. "You did. But maybe I…” He hesitated. “This wasn’t what I meant," he said numbly.
"Ah, Stedman,” it crooned knowingly, in a way that made Cecil want to bury his sidearm deep into the crook of its jaw. “Stedman, you're a good liar, but only if it isn't to yourself. You already had worldly power—and much of it, in fact.” Its gaze momentarily broke to flit around the office, observing its self-evident grandeur, enough to speak for itself and to the rank of the person whose name embellished the plaque on the desk. “But if that was enough… you wouldn't have turned to us to ask for more."
Cecil glanced sideways, but not enough to actually look at the old devil. It could probably already smell the guilt on him; it didn’t need to see it, too. "I didn’t know.”
“What did I just say?” it scolded.
Cecil averted his eyes back to the empty glass. “I’m not trying to be facetious,” he grumbled.
It steepled its fingers and smiled.
He balled his hands into fists until he could feel his nails pressing into the skin. “The thought barely crossed my mind,” he mumbled, clenching them tighter. “A flicker, a moment of weakness, a fantasy flashing before my eyes when I realized we might actually lose. Nothing I haven’t imagined hundreds of times before. And then…”
He fell silent. Barely an hour had passed since the attack, but recounting the incident in any useful detail was like recalling a dream. He remembered Donald taking a shot for him. After that, the other players blurred into obscurity… mere blobs in his mind’s eye as he attempted to recollect them in the present.
His memory may have fogged, but he could still feel them, hear them.
They were mercenaries-for-hire, three of them—maybe five?— peacocking as Cui Malo or some other pretentious gibberish… The debrief said they’d come for experimental GDA tech. Leader of the pack put his greasy hands around his throat after they ‘accidentally’ incapacitated the rest of his people before they even had a chance to demand the goods. Idiots.
There were voices taunting him, barking things in words he couldn’t possibly understand over the sound of his own heart pounding in his head. They lifted him off the floor when he tried to throw his weight around and fuck up their balance in turn… pinned him against the nearest wall where he couldn’t find leverage. Put something cold on his thighs… and then pulled.
There was pain. The stuff flowing down his legs was probably blood. He couldn’t yell. And whatever they did, they did it again. And again. Still shouting all the while, of course, as if he could answer.
And then, faster than he could realize, everything turned to screaming… to a hellish cacophony of twisting and snapping and popping. The attackers, held in place by some invisible force, wriggled like prey in a predator’s clutches… before juicing in their own flesh, contorting helplessly as their bodies spilled out of them, whatever was left shriveling and crumbling to dust.
It was over in seconds. Weapons and soiled clothing piled onto the floor in pools of offal, detritus scattering like ash.
He’d dropped to the ground shortly afterwards. Donald was unconscious, but alive. He made sure of it before he even thought to consider what the hell had just happened.
Abruptly, a phantom heat washed over him. There was no fire but one passed through him anyway, blossoming like… like that forgotten feeling of passion, of primordial yearning he’d buried and traded for his career long ago.
Someone spoke nearby. Himself? Yes, it was his voice… but there was another. Alternating. Himself, yet stronger. Deeper. And his eyes… they burned. The same, invisible hand that had obliterated the enemy dug its fingers into his sockets, but not to punish… rather, it coaxed him into the back of his own mind, lifted the burden of responsibility from his addled conscience… then replaced it with mad cunning and seething malevolence. The horror of the moment suddenly seemed small… insignificant… meaningless against a new thirst for more.
And it felt good.
He slowly unfurled his fingers, staring blankly into his palm. Deep were the gullets of sin and atonement, their cosmic appetites insatiable by the likes of men… least of all by pacts with equally voracious, dark gods.
"It was too easy," he reflected.
The other him smirked. "Sic infit. Control will come with experience," it said.
Cecil scoffed. He knew the damn game, and this… thing underestimated him if it thought he hadn’t already caught onto it. Power was addictive… godhood even more so. He didn’t need it to tell him that was the source of the tingling in his fingers. “And in the meantime?”
"In the meantime, you can keep trying to resist the inevitable."
He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not surrendering before my expiration date," he asserted.
His guest dismissed him with an idle wave of its hand, its hideous claws once again on full display. "Hmm. Whatever you say," it snickered.
For the second time that night, Cecil was caught off-guard by the extraordinary sight of that which was ostensibly his being decorated so monstrously. Motherfucker had to be showing them off on purpose, he thought.
“And?” it sneered, its eyes glinting spite as it looked expectantly to him. “I know that’s not the end, my dear and inglorious messiah.”
Cecil brooded, itching to reach for his sidearm again. "It wasn’t how I wanted to stop them,” he continued reluctantly. “Dust in an urn doesn’t help me or this organization.” He wrinkled his nose, glaring accusatory daggers at the entity. “I’m assuming what I actually wanted got ‘lost in translation’ or some other pedantic bullshit.”
He waited for it to assure him the solution was straightforward; that it would get better with time, perhaps, or that he just needed to channel his thoughts more clearly. Instead, it simply winked and clicked its tongue at him.
Cecil looked away, his tone faltering to something more remorseful. “It was messier than I imagined.” He glanced down at the hems of his pants; his wasn’t the only blood touching his ankles. “This demon magic crap isn’t traceable, is it?”
“Maybe,” it teased. “Why do you ask?"
"It’s a yes or no question, for Chrissake."
Licking its lips, the doppelganger appraised him over the bridge of its nose with burning interest. "You confuse me, Stedman,” it hummed. “These were far from the first lives you've taken."
He didn’t respond. The glass lifted to his mouth so he could take a swig of air.
"I didn't expect it to bother you so much," it said.
Its expression didn’t change, bemused but unconvinced. It blinked slowly, its sickly, yellowed eyes gleaming balefully at him.
"People die,” he muttered solemnly. “They died before Radcliffe passed this curse down to me, and they’ll die long after I pass it on to the next poor, dumb bastard, too."
It canted its head. "So, what is this, then?"
His eyes dropped to a scowl, lingering on his hands. "Inexperience."
"The thrill of an adrenaline rush isn't exactly new to you, either,” his benefactor pointed out. “Have you forgotten what it's like to shoot up, too?”
Cecil threw a fleeting look at the whiskey bottle and considered pouring himself another glass. Fucker knew damn well enough it was more than an adrenaline high. “I didn't say that," he frowned, suddenly craving a stronger buzz.
It seemed to read his mind. For the first time since appearing, it stood and paced across the room, joining him at his desk. “Single barrel?” it asked curiously, studying the unlabeled bottle.
“Who knows,” he scoffed, following its gaze. He noticed immediately the entity did not have a reflection. “Radcliffe’s parting gift.”
It furrowed its brow at the mention of Cecil’s predecessor, the face it made like someone recalling an encounter with a troublesome neighbor. “Pour me one if you're going for round three," it requested, producing a second glass.
Huh. So it knew he’d already knocked one back before it got here. "You forgot to say please."
The pretender scowled, roughly setting the tumbler down next to his.
Again, Cecil knew when to quit, but clung steadfast to his spite. He refilled his own glass before begrudgingly tending to his visitor’s, glowering at it all the while as the sound of whiskey hitting the bottom rang unusually loud in his ears.
It waited patiently to be served its share. "Regardless of how you feel about the messy business of taking a few more lives," it said, "you can't tell me this hasn't accomplished exactly what you wanted."
"And what did I want?” Cecil challenged, forcefully corking the bottle.
“You shouldn’t ask questions you know the answer to, it’s not polite,” it scolded irritably, snatching up the glass and stealing a sip. It smacked its lips and offered him a playful smirk, appearing pleasantly surprised. “Well, well, well,” it cajoled, “Radcliffe must have really liked you.”
He rolled his eyes, returning the bottle to the desk. “You give him too much credit. It was delivered in a dusty Merry Christmas bag from 2018.”
“Hmm,” it mused, swirling its drink. They’d spoken of Radcliffe a few times, and Cecil could never tell whether it thought favorably of him, but apparently, it at least agreed with his taste in spirits. “You wanted power,” it repeated, returning to the topic at hand. “Power to save the world, as I recall.”
“Mummifying a gang of would-be thieves feels akin to using a nuke to swat a few flies. Hardly what I would call saving the world."
It chuckled, visibly amused. "Yes, yes, using a sledgehammer to crack a nut and what have you,” it smiled. “I never grow tired of your turns of phrase.”
Cecil frowned, fighting down the rise in his throat.
It shifted to face him so it could lean on the edge of the desk. “You may think it was overkill, but you did save people, didn’t you?" it said coarsely.
Cecil looked away, his eyes glazing over, staring at some distant terror. “Coulda figured that out with just a gun,” he mumbled, more to himself than the entity.
"Donald lives," it hummed matter-of-factly, lightly tapping one of its claws against the glass, “and you didn’t lose all your people.” Its lip curled mischievously. “Quit yer bellyachin’, kid. I reckon keepin’ a few more lives outta hell woulda suited yer fancy enough to—”
His indignation came rushing back. "Stop trying to speak my language, you’re not good at it,” he snapped. Bastard was laying it on thick.
It tilted its head inquisitively, but ceased as requested. "You're upset I've upheld my end of the deal, and that things are going smoothly?" it asked in genuine puzzlement.
"Now you’re just putting words in my mouth,” he grumbled. “Thought that was against the rules." Cocksucker.
The old devil tutted. "Language,” it reminded him curtly. “And that only applies to the contract itself. We’re just talking.”
Cecil blinked, unable to decide whether it had just read his thoughts, but also vaguely aware that the buzz he had been wanting so badly was finally starting to hit. Jesus, it was about time. “Fuck you,” he growled.
It drank again, indulging in a much longer, more deliberate sip than the first, studying the distorted image of the director through the bottom of the glass as it let the whiskey sit on its tongue, apparently unfazed by the acrid taste. Neither of them spoke until it had its fill, at which point it seemed to have an epiphany.
It ran its tongue across parched lips, grinning at its younger self. "Surely you aren’t flustered because you've had a taste of vigilantism,” it probed, its eyes flaring with fiendish delight.
Cecil took this as his cue to drink and unceremoniously threw back his final round, expertly poker-faced as he yet again squirreled away anything that might signal the burn was bothering him… or worse, that the pretender was on the right track. The mask seemed to work; he suffered no comments from the gallery.
As a bonus, he couldn’t notice the pain in his thighs anymore - but that was because it had migrated to his skull. And between the alcohol and his uninvited guest, he wasn’t sure which was making it worse.
Unfortunately for him, it kept talking. “O Lord, glorious in power, your right hand shatters the enemy,” it sneered, probably keenly aware he was suffering a migraine. “Vigilantism is baked into your job description, even without my help. Or did you forget that?”
"Ain't my first time playing that game, either," he retorted, color flushing his cheeks—though whether it was because he was drunk or merely embarrassed was unclear. If the other him made the distinction, it didn’t prod.
It stared piercingly. "That may be,” it said, taking another drink, “but you’ve always been beholden to the… rules of the house, as it were. Its consequences. It's a little different doing it on your own terms, yes?"
Exasperated, Cecil pressed the empty glass up against his temple. It was a useless gesture; he always took his whiskey neat, so it should’ve offered him no relief, but oddly, some of the pounding seemed to subside, anyway. Placebo effect… or maybe that was just the booze working from the inside. “Get out of my head, motherfucker," he groaned, falling back into one of the chairs meant for his appointments.
He grimaced sideways at it, knitting his brow at its appearance again. This time he could see every last detail that went into its diabolical mimicry and he fucking hated it. "I answered your questions,” he growled. “Aren't you done running your mouth, yet? You hoping to get me to prove something to you, too?”
To his surprise, the Cecil-thing backed down unconcernedly, merely finishing off its helping and sliding the tumbler back onto the desk. Then its lips stretched taut into a feral grin, allowing him an up-close glimpse at its jagged teeth.
How he wanted to wipe that stupid fucking smile off its ugly mug. That was his face, goddammit.
He wanted it to leave. Landing a few swings into its jaws and sending it off with its tail between its legs were his ideal parting words. But there was something lurking behind its mask that shredded his nerve, made a mockery of his steadiness… and the longer he looked, the more his fury sobered.
Summoning the grit to speak again took noticeable effort. “Is my soul not enough?” he eventually croaked after what felt like millennia, lowering the glass into his lap.
The question barely hung for a moment, but it was long enough for the director’s fire to reduce to a smolder, and only then did the pretender loll its tongue at him and laugh with hideous finality. "How pleasant to chat with you, again, Stedman," it trilled gleefully, a new, devious glint in its eyes as it placed a hand on his shoulder.
This time, Cecil couldn’t stop himself from flinching, its icy fingers like the hand of death reaching straight into his body to stop his heart. Instinctively, he tore his eyes away and focused on the wall opposite, landing on one of the placards he kept behind the desk.
It leaned in, moving with calculatingly torturous intent, until its cracked lips were mere inches from his ear, its putrid breath warming his hairs. He dared not look at it again, terrified he’d behold some yet-unseen, transmuted version of himself, remolded by an otherworldly menace that didn’t belong on the face of any man.
To his great relief, it didn’t force him to gaze upon it, but having to listen to it speak again was its own punishment.
"We'll talk again soon," it crooned, with a deep, bassy sensualism that caressed his skin like an infernal lover.
It moved outside his field of vision and he soon felt the pressure lift off his shoulder. Warmth instantly followed. He waited, staring, resisting the urge to follow it with his eyes as the seconds ticked by with nightmarish slowness, expecting his frighteningly-acute sixth sense to settle down once it had left him in peace. But that peace never came.
Somewhere in the background, he heard the rescue teams blast through another door. The office quaked and the lights flickered. Dust sprinkled onto the desk from above. All normal things for a disaster site, but nothing that told him the entity had gone. Bastard could still be watching him from the shadows, for all he knew.
The glass wavered in his trembling grasp. Morbid curiosity finally eclipsed his sense of self-preservation and he unraveled like a sprung trap.
But when he whirled around to face the rest of the office to tell it off one last time, he was alone.
[Description: TikTok video from @/diabetic4one in which a kid is standing in front of a microphone in a school gymnasium holding up bird plushies and very precisely imitating the sounds each bird makes, as the audience of other children becomes more and more excited and impressed. Below it is a still from the video of a kid in the front row turning around and making a "mind blown" gesture. /end description]
i dont want to be in a fandom that critisizes the choices of fictional characters like they are human beings. i want to see THEORY and ANALYSIS and STORY STRUCTURE and CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!! I WANT PARALLELS AND MOTIFS AND VISUAL CUES!!! They're not REAL they are TOOLS so stop acting like they are people who made bad choices and should be punished. of course they made bad choices!!! that shit is funny and cool to watch!!
“The LEGO Movie was my favorite movie of 2014, but it strikes me that the main character was male, because I feel like in our current culture, he HAD to be. The whole point of Emmett is that he’s the most boring average person in the world. It’s impossible to imagine a female character playing that role, because according to our pop culture, if she’s female she’s already SOMEthing, because she’s not male. The baseline is male. The average person is male. You can see this all over but it’s weirdly prevalent in children’s entertainment. Why are almost all of the muppets dudes, except for Miss Piggy, who’s a parody of femininity? Why do all of the Despicable Me minions, genderless blobs, have boy names? I love the story (which I read on Wikipedia) that when the director of The Brave Little Toaster cast a woman to play the toaster, one of the guys on the crew was so mad he stormed out of the room. Because he thought the toaster was a man. A TOASTER. The character is a toaster. I try to think about that when writing new characters— is there anything inherently gendered about what this character is doing? Or is it a toaster?”
— Bojack Horseman creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg commenting on how weird gendered defaults in entertainment are, and why we should think twice about them. Excerpted from this longer original post.
(via 360degreesasthecrowflies)
every explanation yugioh has ever provided for Shadi’s Whole Deal: a compilation
Early manga: Shadi is a mortal human man. He’s alive. He rides airplanes. His family has guarded the tombs of pharaohs for generations. He’s motivated by things like petty revenge, intellectual curiosity, and a desire to protect Egyptian artifacts.
First half of Memory World: Shadi is a member of the Tombkeeper Clan. His side of the family got into a fight with the Ishtar side, and they each took some of the Millennium Items in the divorce. He’s motivated by the same duty the Ishtars were raised with: to help the Nameless Pharaoh regain his memories. Every fucked up thing he’s done (giving Pegasus the eye, lying to Malik, trying to kill Yugi’s friends, etc) was presumably part of a game of memory-restoring 4D chess.
Second half of Memory World: Shadi was never human. He’s a shapeshifting supernatural being that serves as Zorc’s equal-and-opposite counterpart. He’s also maybe the human incarnation of that tablet with the Millennium Item-shaped indents in it? Bobasa and Hasan were both him, shapeshifted. His motivation is to stop Zorc. Everything he’s done was presumably part of a game of anti-Zorc 4D chess.
DM anime: Shadi is a ghost. We mostly know this because of an anime-added scene where he saves Honda and Otogi from falling and then vanishes, and they’re like “was that a…g-g-ghost?” We don’t know when he died, or who he used to be. He isn’t Bobasa, the anti-Zorc, or Hasan (but he does briefly pilot Hasan’s Memory World RPG avatar, mostly as a convoluted way for the anime to adapt his death scene. Yes, he dies despite being a ghost). We never really get a motivation for why he did anything.
Capsule Monsters: Shadi has been a ghost for thousands of years. He’s been fucking with people the whole time (including Alexander the Great). Motivation: the lulz?
DSOD: Shadi used to be a mortal human man, up to about 5 or 6 years before the start of the series. He somehow got on his hands on the Secret Eighth Millennium Item. He trained a bunch of children to use it to make a utopia dimension. Then Zorkura killed him. After that, he was a ghost. His motivation was…4D chess for the utopia dimension? Which didn’t actually work?
watching jerma's old stardew valley vids from ten years ago for the first time. this poor guy had like 5 cabbages planted and like 8 string beans on his entire farm. and a meteor hit his farm and obliterated half of his string beans. he attempted to break the meteor with a cherry bomb which only served to destroy 3 of the 4 remaining string beans. he destroyed the remaining string bean in a fit of rage
Guy makes a really stupid decision and gets in a car accident -> no real damage from accident but insurance goes up -> starts beating himself up over his stupid decision -> gets depressed -> starts to realize he's single and had crash been worse he'd die alone -> realizes he's never had a relationship or even a crush and starts wondering what he'd want out of a relationship -> starts to realize he doesn't really like girls so he thinks he must be gay -> realizes he likes girls and boys about the same amount, so he must be bi -> later realizes that "same amount" is none at all -> he's ace
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