1. He hates getting wet (water or otherwise), it reveals him when he's cloaked and dirties his ultra-fancy suit.
2. He's dramatic AF for no fucking reason. Just look at his in-game taunts.
3. He kinda like… slinks around like a cat?? If that makes sense?? The way he can both make himself the center of attention and fade/disappear into the background kinda reminds me of how cats seem to appear and disappear throughout their living space.
4. He consistently keeps himself very well-groomed. But when he's messy, he's messy. And sorta ugly. And it's always hilarious.
5. Cats in media are typically depicted as prissy/fancy and he's literally both. Unless they're a street cat. but that's Sniper lol
6. This. (1:06 for Spy's)
7. Doesn't appear to like affection unless it's on his terms.
8. Can come across as sweet, charming, alluring, etc. to people that haven't known him for long, but those that do know him know that he's an absolute bastard man. Although he does care for the team, he just doesn't show it often.
9. Literally look at how he moves. Cat!!!!
Just try to prove me wrong. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.
A young man sporting a dollop of white hair and refined features entered the communal kitchen of the Alliance carrying a large crate, wearing a plain burlap apron, rubber gloves, and waders over what usually would qualify as a stealth suit–a bit of an odd sight, but one Theron had gotten used to over time.
“Hey! You’re back early. Put ‘em down over there,” Theron glanced over his shoulder, nodding briefly at the young man, then motioning with his head at the kitchen island. Eight squeezed past him as he ran his hands under the faucet, careful not to bump into the other spy. They set down the box on the counter and patiently folded their hands, awaiting instructions.
Theron turned off the sink and flung the remnant droplets off his hands, drying them with a slightly stained checkerboard dish towel.
Even with his fearsome past, Theron found the quiet operative to be pleasant company most days, with Eight acting as his assistant in daily matters ranging from mundane chores to deadly missions. All at the behest of Lana, of course. She was the one who insisted on (see: forced) a pair of helping hands for him after he'd incorrectly assumed she’d wanted him to take on all her burdens.
Not that he was complaining about the extra hands. Certainly not today of all days–he was planning something special, and that required all of the help he could get.
Theron opened the flaps of the crate. Fresh from their gardening plot in the Odessen fields, the box was practically bursting with colorful root vegetables and leafy greens native to the planet. Purple, orange, striped yellows and swirls of blue–all packed with vitamins and the healthy color of a successful crop. Plain proof that their efforts to cultivate more organic food for the personnel had finally given fruit, after several long winters of withered stalks and exhausting meals of food chips.
Theron smiled wryly. He’d have to make a toast to Dr. Oggurrobb’s fertilizer and the Force Enclave’s agricultural knowledge later.
“Will this be enough?” Eight asked, mellow as ever. He watched him coolly through deep umber eyes.
“It’s more than enough,” Theron answered, a bit of uncertainty leaking into his tone as he stared at the foodstuffs. The vegetables taunted him from their comfy spot atop the counter next to the impressive array of knives and cooking utensils laid out side-by-side like an interrogation toolkit. “...I think.” He wiped the tip of his nose.
Theron hated to admit it, but he was no culinarian. Master Zho had never taught him (really, what could you teach a kid to cook in the wilderness besides canned goods and pre-packaged rations), and his stint as a SIS agent since his youth had left him with little time to prepare nor care. The extent of his cooking repertoire could quickly be summed up to sticking a frozen Orobird leg in the flash oven and waiting for two minutes, sadly.
So why was he making an effort now?
The image of the Commander’s tired face weary from battle and sleepless nights, aging lines etched deep into their skin with the carvings of a destiny too large for one person, flashed in Theron’s mind. He’d seen the way they’d fought–skipped meals, denied themselves sleep, hid the way their gaze turned vacant when they thought no one was looking, left their cafeteria plate practically untouched, compounded blackened bottoms of endless cups of caf, the stims—the Commander was burning themselves at both ends.
Hypocritical as it was, he couldn’t stand watching them drive themselves into the ground. The galaxy’s fate was important, but…not as important as they were to Theron. Yet he found himself at a loss; what words he wanted to tell them to eat better, to sleep more, to stop hurting themselves fell short whenever the Commander gave him that one look. That look of resignation, deep as the dull ache that would settle in his chest afterwards.
Theron snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d been wringing the dishcloth far too tightly for too long. Eight stared at him, puzzled. He released it. His knuckles returned to their previous pink.
“...Sorry. Just. Tired,” Theron shook his head, massaging his temples. Tired. Yeah. He was sure someone else was too, and he hadn’t asked Eight to come here to watch him have a breakdown. Pushing off from the counter, he clapped his hands together, mustering up a second wind. “Let’s get to work. Shall we?”
Prepare the young makrin legs by soaking them in water and shaving the fibrous exterior with a peeler.
Theron stared at the unassuming pile of…legs that resembled roots more than they did the limbs of any creature, and secretly shuddered. Makrins weren’t particularly uncommon on terrestrial worlds, but their crabby, tree-like appearance and tendency to wallow in loam didn't make them his first choice to eat. He wasn't exactly opposed to adventurous cuisine, but he wondered how exactly the legs of a chitinous creature equaled something that would make the Commander more appetized.
As if sensing his cause for pause, Eight peered over his shoulder where he stood frozen with peeler in hand. “The Jedi recommended them for use in medicinal dishes. When eaten boiled, it lowers blood pressure, and contains many nutrients.” He said thoughtfully, as if reading an entry from an encyclopedia.
“Is that so.” Theron inwardly balked at the mention of the Jedi–a little known fact was that Master Zho had raised him on Jedi cuisine, most of it vegetarian, but even then he hadn’t sampled every bit of agriculture the galaxy had to offer. Makrin legs were a bit out there, but seeing as they were native to Odessen, recommended by the enclave and another piece of stress relief on a plate for the Commander? His survival training told him the harmless limbs could only benefit, despite their gnarly appearance.
Remove the tips and fibrous base. When cleaned and processed, set aside.
He buckled down and began shaving the legs. Lack of proper nutrition was always a deciding factor in conflict–Theron had seen his fair share of soldiers who contracted disease from improper eating and lack of supplies– and he would feed the Commander any bit of ugly vegetables if it meant seeing a little more life restored to their pallid cheeks. His fingers found their rhythm as he removed the tough outer skin from the legs exposing their soft white core beneath the blade of the peeler, their texture reminding him oddly of Dantooinian tubers with an extra coat of slime.
Slice and dice half of a medium-sized onion.
Theron had to pretend he wasn't looking particularly emotional as he chopped the onion. Or maybe he was simply brought to tears at the thought that their food could have flavor for once, all thanks to the Alliance’s team of scouts who procured such supplies for them from the unmapped regions of Odessen’s wilds. Eight was among that team, hence Theron's willingness to let an Imp spy of all people join him in cooking. There was only a small handful of people he could use to conceal his efforts from the Commander, and Theron would make use of both his ability to obtain food in secret and his espionage skills to see this through, opposing factions be damned.
And if others worried about poisoning, well. He didn't pride himself on being Chief of Security for nothing. The safety of the Commander was his priority, as were the characters of those he chose to fight alongside them. They were his responsibility. His to trust with their most important fight and everything in-between. Theron couldn't afford to keep the old grudges that the Republic and Empire maintained in these desperate times, and he would not fall victim to their need to blind themselves with their unending war. He had to fight for what was important, and that was…people. Not sides.
Theron would always be a son of the Republic at his heart. But now his heart belonged to another, and those lines had long blurred.
Slice the glowshrooms length-wise, removing the head from the stems. Set aside.
Clean and cut the rootleaf in half, then the following halves into quarters; chop into smaller squares until you have about 1 cup’s worth of rootleaf. Store the rest in a cool, refrigerated place.
Unpackage the Synth-Ham, Republic Ration #0625, and slice to desired thickness.
Theron opened the can of mystery meat and upended it onto the chopping board. The green ham-like substance plopped onto it with gelatinous grace. He poked it with his cooking knife. It jiggled away from the tip.
Eight placed an empty pot next to him along with a can of opened grophet sausages and an unwrapped package of Imperial ration Glowblue Noodles, their signature color shining through the foil. Theron quickly thanked him out of the corner of his mouth.
Arrange the rootleaf, onion, makrin legs, and glowshrooms at the bottom of the pot in even layers.
Add a helping of Mandalorian Spiced Sauce on top.
Theron couldn't forget Torian and his people. They were the ones who suggested using their own spices for the hotpot, as “no other spice in the galaxy compares to that of a Mando’s.” Though he’d initially expressed some reservations at setting the Commander’s tongue aflame, this special mix had been made with their preference in mind; Shae had been so impressed by their valor that she presented several crates worth as a gift after the battle of Darvannis. Spices were a luxury if not a grand gesture in wartime, and not one Theron intended to use lightly.
Add the Synth-Ham, grophet sausages, and top with a slice of ration cheese over the previous ingredients.
Finally, add the Glowblue Noodles and 3 liters of Orobird stock.
Theron blinked at the finished product. “Wait a minute. This is…”
“Revanite stew?” Eight once again helpfully supplied.
It was Theron’s turn to ask the questions as he raised a suspicious brow towards his sous-chef. “They ate this during the coalition, when the camps combined. How did you get the same recipe?”
Eight smiled quietly to himself, in his mysterious and elusive way. “Our Commander was there. It was their idea to share food across factions. I still haven't forgotten its taste. If you ask any of the soldiers from that time, they will say the same.”
Theron stared at him, speechless. To think the same recipe he’d been making this entire time was a result of their union on Rishi…he recalled seeing Imperial and Republic soldiers bonding over a cookpot, but hadn't joined in, content to watch the proceedings from a distance. So much had happened during Revan’s rise that he’d failed to pay enough attention to something so innocuous as a moment of camaraderie between unlikely allies.
It had been their idea to eat something both Imperial and Republic that fateful night. To form the basis of their Alliance over a simple, warm bowl of soup.
Theron felt his heart swell.
He…he had to remind them of what they had built. What they meant to him. With this.
Set on top of a burner and deliver to recipients with bowls to share.
Theron held his breath as he wheeled the cart of foodstuffs to the Commander’s quarters, careful to avoid jostling the stew that balanced atop it as he reached his destination. He rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.
A puff of pnematic air revealed the Commander, yawning wearily from yet another sleepless night of work and burdens. “Yes–” They stopped. “Theron? What are you doing here?” They eyed his cart. “And what's with all the food?”
Theron cracked a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you could use some dinner, so…I brought you some. If you don't mind, that is.” He quickly added, feeling out of place in the deserted hallway.
The Commander smiled, a genuine one that reached their eyes, crinkling at the edges. “I’d love to try whatever you made. Come in, we can eat it together.” They stepped aside to allow Theron room to maneuver.
Enjoy with your intended party.
As expected, it was delicious.
Not as filling as seeing the Commander laugh to the point of tears at his explanations as to why he'd been so secretive all week trying to hide the fruits of his cooking from them, but filling nonetheless. He'd give it a 5/5, personally, as a true soup for the soul. (And a note to make it again with less sneaking around).
If the Commander was satisfied and satiated... so was he.
In your younger days, your father spoke the gospel, like God himself: how can you know who is evil? How can you know who is good? He starved the kitchen, but his words rang through and true. How can you know anything when you’re just a child?
Years later, you still don’t know. The edges of truth are always jagged, rough and ugly. You wish no one ate that apple. You wish you stayed ignorant. You wish your mind stayed suspended in the wings of make-believe—your only juvenile salvation—like curtains on a traverse rod, cloaking the bleak apertures of unworn socks. One moment you’re playing tag with your ragtag band of friends. The next, their body blown to rags. Only their dog tags returned. And each day barks, like a dog, violent and scared.
Someone out there tags you with a new face, a new name. You wish it were that easy to forget. It’s as the poets said—love is so short, forgetting is so long.
You remember hearing your friends say before, over a game of poker, that most, if not all of life is a gamble. So you wait and wonder if anyone will take their odds on you, when they discover they’ve been stacked against you from the start.
Elsewhere, someone pilfers a win. You sit with your loss, dressing it up in polished Berlutis until it’s time to go. Grief slips away, momentarily; a father in the night with secrets to hide.
By fate, or by chance, or some incredible happenstance, someone does. Someone takes their odds on you. The die rolls. And dawn, like a strained smile, breaks again, but the slant of light that creeps in is tenuous at best.
Morning comes, and with it old ghosts. Your mother’s legacy speaks another truth: to love again is to gift someone a blade. You give them power over you. You give them the power to hurt you. You give them the power to crucify what you tried to bring back to life. You give them your end. What she omitted to say was, you give them your beginnings, too. The genesis is always the most frightening bit, tremulous and unclear in its wake. And how can you have faith, when you’ve grown so cynical? But when you taste the apples in her mouth, you think neither of Eve, nor the snake that doomed us all to hell. You just think it’s sweet. Soft, like a mist. Perfect, like Eden before sin.
Against all odds, it seems, love came knocking. One day your hands are drenched red; the next it's laced in your lover’s. Who claims you as hers. Who writes on your body, a brand new poem; sunshine and salvation.
Now you stand in the kitchen, born anew; an island of love and light stretching beyond all contours of time. Your lover’s words ring through and true. Remember, beloved, that you are dearly loved.
Leonardo (2012 and Rise) angst from a leadership perspective
I have been in CAP for 2 years, and one of the core curriculums of this program is the study of leadership as both a science and an art. So naturally, when I see characters thrust into a leadership position, I immediately start foaming at the mouth and planning how I can use what I know to create the maximum amount of angst for the given scenario.
And when I saw both of these Leos in their respective leadership positions (and these can apply to Rise!Raph too), I began to plot their imminent demi- I mean the struggles they might face as leaders of a team. There are numerous elements that go into being an effective leader, and if anyone wanted a comprehensive list of those, I am sure it wouldn’t be hard to find. However, this is a compilation of the leadership characteristics that I believe can be the most angsty. (I did not go through over 2 years of leadership training to write angst for these characters. It is merely an added benefit)
Do with this what you will.
The first characteristic of leadership that will be covered is technical competence. According to the wonderful internet, Technical Competence is, “the knowledge and abilities required to apply specific technical principles and information in a job function or role.” 2012!Leo maybe be able to say that he does not have all the answers, like his Rise counterpart, but someone who has been in the position of leader for as long as 2012!Leo must maintain a certain level of technical competence as leader, because it is his duty to ensure that, even if he doesn't have all the answers, he does have most of them. Technical competence is a vital part of being a leader, because your team doesn't have to look to you for all the answers, but you still must be competent enough that your team can look to you for knowledge and guidance in a time of crisis or danger. I imagine Leo likely has to train and study more than the others, because he has to have the technical and mental ability to guide them through the missions when they fail. He doesn't need to have all the answers, or make all the plans, but he does need to be competent enough to be someone for them to fall back on when they need to. He must be someone that the team can look to, and rely on. He must be the back up if all else fails, and ready to step in when the team stumbles. This standard likely creates a level of isolation, because they can rely on him, and he in theory can rely on them, but even then, there is a separate expectation that Leo has to uphold, and relying on his team too much might make him appear weak or untrustworthy.
Leo must also, as a leader, be willing to make the tough calls. I know this is touched on in the show, but I’m going to go into this a bit more. Being a leader means taking advantage of a situation and making most, if not all of the choices during a mission or even out of it. Leo is responsible for making the difficult choices and carrying the team through those difficult choices even when he doubts himself or feels like failure is imminent. If Leo shows any signs of doubt or fear, the team will sense this, and their performance will suffer as a result. He has to be able to look at a situation and make the appropriate call, sometimes in a split second. He can't risk hesitating or taking too long to make a choice, or else it might already be too late. He must be able to make the tough calls, and more importantly, make the right call in a timely manner. And this is tricky, because in a high risk situation, you might have to make an incredibly difficult call in only a minute with only half of the information that you need. This one has the most potential for angst. I mean c’mon.
Another key part of leadership is the importance of finding the balance between being lax and being serious and strict. Now, due to this, both Leos find themselves in a unique position. Because this isn't just their team, it's their brothers. So there is a line that must be balanced between serious and playful, and should Leo veer to far into one of the other and lose that balance, he could not only risk his relationship with his brothers (they think he is being too hard on them and thinks himself above them bc he bosses them around too much), but also their lives (he is a bit to silly and his recklessness ends up costing their lives or their objective). It can be an extremely difficult line to balance on, especially when you are close with the people you are supposed to be leading. Not only can there be major consequences if you mess up or over correct, but you worry constantly about if you are doing it right, and if you have the right balance.
Another key thing is Servant Leadership, which is the practice of leading by serving your team and leading by example. This practice includes putting your own team first and ensuring your safety and security before your own. However, you cannot be a good servant leader without first taking care of yourself. This may seem somewhat contradictory, but, of course, that is where the angst comes in, because our beloved stupid Leos will indubitably take this the wrong way, and completely ignore their own personal health and sanities for the sake of the team. By believing they have to be independent entirely, and having the belief that they can’t rely on their team lest they show weakness, they try to take care of matters by themselves so as to not burden others. This is of course not how servant leadership should be executed, but having minimal training in leadership and sort of being expected to figure it out on their own, that might simply be how they interpret it.
In Conclusion, these bad boys can fit so much angst in them.
I think about how Tsumugi tolerated Eichi's behavior towards him. And yeah, he's naive at times but I remember someone pointing it out that he's not just an airhead. He knew what he was doing to set up the oddballs. But I can't help but think of him being a yes man to Eichi in hopes of feeling accepted by him because it's all he's used to doing in his home (trying to be accepted by his mom by potentially helping her with her debt) and he'd think that maybe this time around, maybe just this once, Eichi would have actually shown appreciation to Tsumugi (and he did but not in a sense of comradery, just "according to plan"). Idk, Tsumugi is very much a people pleaser in my eyes and I think that being the right hand man to Eichi would be like the dude from the Sonic movie that loves eggman.
