At long last, The Chosen One has been discovered. Working as a cashier. With no interest in doing anything even slightly more difficult.
yeah because there is nothing more difficult than retail
tbh anyone who works/has worked retail would see the chance to go around saving the world in ways that could potentially kill them as a welcome vacation
“Does the position of Chosen One offer health benefits of any kind?”
“Well, our ragtag gang of world-saving underdogs has a doctor on-team.”
“Do I have to pay her out of pocket, is what I’m asking.”
“Gosh no! She’s an idealist, you don’t pay her at all!”
“Oh! That’s nice. But then I guess there’s no paycheck.”
“I mean, the secret cabal that dispenses our orders does make sure we have enough money to feed ourselves and keep a roof over our secret lair and such.”
“Hourly?”
“Hourly what?”
“Like have you guys ever had to punch a time clock?”
“We once had to dismantle a sinister time-freezing device in the shape of a clock….otherwise no.”
“Sold. Off we go.”
“do i have to be nice to people who are yelling at me?”
“we’re the good guys, you can’t kill random civilians just because they’re mean!”
“kill?? no, i mean, can i tell them off.”
“well, sure, of course.”
*rips name tag off shirt and tosses it over shoulder* “i’m your huckleberry.”
He was a theoretical physicist, so I suspected that he had had a knack for science from an early age.
“Not at all,” he said. “I was still undecided even in high school. Then, in the 11th grade, we had to choose a direction–humanities or STEM. I chose humanities. But then, in the summer, I did some preparatory school, and I went to the math teacher, who started teaching me about trigonometric equations.
He put the whole thing in such a context that it made a lot of sense to me. He would show me a card with an equation, and I would look at it and say, ‘Hmm, so the solution is this, right?’ And then he would show me another one, and another one, and I would solve each of them in my head and then give him the solution.
He called the other math teacher and said, ‘Hey, come here to see this phenomenon!’
And I felt so inspired, because someone made me feel like I wasn’t an idiot. It’s not that the equations were so difficult, or that I was really a phenomenon. It’s just that someone, for the first time, had behaved as if I wasn’t stupid. Until that point, everyone else had always acted as if I was stupid. And if all of the teachers treat you like you’re stupid, you’re going to end up thinking that you really are stupid.
I find that most people have been discouraged by bad experiences that they’ve had with bad teachers. They went to high school and perhaps found out that they were really stupid in the subjects of math or science. And when I ask them why, they say, ‘Well, because I couldn’t do
the exercises.’ But when I ask whether they could remember why they couldn’t do the exercises, most of the time it turns out that they either had no guidance, or that the way they were taught was so stifling, so boring.
The fact is, most people are not stupid, because they are creative and productive with their lives, and that’s all the intelligence you need even to do theoretical physics. There are, of course, the exceptional few who are geniuses, but there aren’t enough geniuses to populate the entire world of science. We need more than one in a million people in order to successfully do science. The rest of the scientists who aren’t geniuses are just like you and me. There’s nothing more to it.”
concept: an austen-inspired tabletop rpg where there are five classes
single man in possession of a large fortune who is in want of a wife
young woman with low connections who must marry so that she can secure her future
cad whose main goal is to convince someone to elope with him
wealthy, scheming woman whose goal is to ruin the happiness of the aforementioned young woman
tiresome & vulgar elderly busybody (can be either a man or a woman)
I’m gonna split this out a little farther, because I feel like we’re blurring the lines between classes and stats. First you should pick your Austen class:
Bachelor/Bachelorette
Cad / Floozy
Husband/Wife
Matriarch/Patriarch
Busybody
Then you roll for your stats across the 6 basic Abilities:
Money
Intelligence
Connections
Manners
Looks
Snark
10/10 would kickstart
I’ve written this up as a quick-play version! You need a d6, a d20 and 3+ friends who are as into Jane Austen as you are, or at least willing to have a go.
I’ll make it up into a proper printable with illustrations if I get a chance next week, but in the meantime if anyone wants to playtest it I’d love to know how it goes!
Someone play this with me omfg
I’d be up for running this in January if anyone wants in?
I love how baby boomers will talk about child-rearing like “I was beaten and repressed as a kid and turned out fine” and then like fifteen minutes later they’ll be like “A cashier at a clothing store wouldn’t take my expired coupon, this is a PERSONAL AFFRONT and you have to help me get them FIRED.”
Like. Are you sure you turned out fine, though? Cuz like. It seems like maybe you didn’t.
Internal Cassian:Oh no. A hot girl. It’s okay, Cassian. You just need to not come off grouchy and bitter. Turn up the charm. Ask her about something she likes… like her family.
External Cassian: When was the last time you were in contact with your father?
Jyn: 15 years ago.
Internal Cassian:Oh shit. They’re not close. This is awkward. Just be casual about it.
External Cassian: Any idea where he’s been all that time?
Jyn: I like to think he’s dead, makes things easier.
Internal Cassian:Okay. Maybe you should drop this subject. No. Then she’ll think you’re cold and uncaring. Maybe ask her about it? Let her get her feelings out?
External Cassian: Easier than what? That he’s been a tool of the Imperial war machine?
Jyn: *evidently pissed*
Internal Cassian:Okay. Maybe family isn’t a good subject. Try asking about her social life. Maybe she likes to talk about her friends?
External Cassian: When was your last contact with Saw Gerrera?
Jyn: *still evidently pissed* It’s been a long time.
Internal Cassian:I feel like this is not how flirting is supposed to work.
the thought of aziraphale being in Crowley’s flat and seeing that fucking statue every single time he’s there. like hi crowley, oh there’s the statue of us fucking that you thought was subtle enough to be an intimidation tactic but is clearly just a product of your sexual frustration and 6000 years spent pining. lovely. shall we eat at the Ritz today?
What if it was a mutual purchase that they bought while drunk one time at an auction because they both thought it would be hilarious, and now a few hundred years later it’s still in Crowley’s flat because they have an unspoken competition over which of them will mention how awkward it is first
For anyone else who was initially confused like I was lol
Maroon curtains dance lazily, their intermittent swaying allowing Jedha’s star to set the golden stitches of his mother’s kameez aflame. Her bangles catch the same sparkle as she pulls the tray from the oven.
These new fangled nanowave ovens are more finnicky than the stone ones we used when I was your age, she laments. His sister rolls her eyes; being the elder child she’s heard every complaint to cross their mother’s lips a thousand times at least, or so she claims.
Bodhi, however, ignores their troubles and is preoccupied with the aroma wafting from the tray. The sweet warmth fills the air, his nose, his every thought. Already he can taste the syrupy sunburst dates, the soft flavoured dough melting in his mouth.
So far ahead of yourself, beta, his mother chides, shooing him away from the piping hot tray and imminent burns. What did I tell you? Patience. All good things come to those who wait.
Bodhi nods, soundlessly stepping away. She prods the loaf with a fork. He doesn’t bother to catalogue every minute detail, as he will later in life; because now he thinks there will be many more loaves to slice and cashews to roast and cold almond milk to wash it all down with.
He’s forgotten the scent of the oils in his sister’s braids and the pattern of his mother’s dishcloth. He can’t remember what their kitchen even looked like; nor can he recall his mother’s voice. He only recalls her hacking coughs and delirious rambles; the hoot of watchful birds and the crackle of stormtroopers’ commands.
Bodhi does remember the recipe, and as he pulls the tray out of the oven he thanks the almighty for granting him that sole mercy. God-willing it will taste just right, or close enough.
Close enough is just as valuable as perfection, these days.
The scent wafts up to his nose, and the mere hint of cardamom manages to clear away years and years of stale cockpits and musty quarters.
“That smells fantastic,” Cassian says, leaning over Bodhi’s shoulder.
Bodhi sets the loaf down to cool and turns to regard his companion with a slight smirk. “You’ll have to wait for it to cool,” he says, brushing flour off the bridge of Cassian’s nose. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Cassian cracks a smile at that, one of his not-as-rare-anymore ones that reaches his eyes and makes them twinkle.
Then his expression shifts, the dark brown of his eyes growing mischevious, and Bodhi has half a second before Cassian’s arms are around his waist and face burrowed against his neck. He thinks about playfully swatting him away, but the loaf has to cool and they have time, so much time, so he sighs, shifting his weight to rest against Cassian.
Cassian’s stubble brushes against Bodhi’s pulse.
“I know a thing or two about waiting for good things.”
“Oh?”
Bodhi grins, the heat spreading to his face; and he’s soon reminded Cassian’s lips are capable of a sweetness outshining measly sunbursts.
Rebellions are built on hope 