#Photographic memory exercises

[doodlingwren]

It's 2024 can we please stop saying it's normal to trace or copying an entire drawing and pretending it's 100% your work? Just bc you changed the character or added clothes on a base you found on pinterest it doesn't mean you created original art

Edit: I need to specifying some things, or somebody might misinterpret this post in the future.

Tracing and copying are more than okay to use if you need to exercise or study stuff! Copying might be a bit better because you're actually training your eye and hand on how to make shapes and volumes. My best advice is, if you trace something, keep it for yourself and don't post it online (if you do, ask the original artist if they're okay with it)

Always use references, especially for anatomy stuff! It's not a cheat! Poses are complicated, and there are a lot of photographers posting pose packs FOR FREE TO USE! Or even artists drawing them :)

Remember to read the TERMS OF SERVICE when using a photo/ base you've found online: some people want credits, others are fine without them! But you have to check to know, and please be respectful

YCH (your character here) are NOT free to use bases; please know that. They are artwork from other artist showcasing a type of commission they are doing. And neither are WIPs

do NOT trust stuff you find on Pinterest. A great part of the artworks over there have been uploaded 1) without the artist consent and often 2) with a misleading use. Already happened to find other artist artworks or sketches being given out as "bases".

This post came from the fact some of the images used and traced were actually anatomy studies made by a very famous artist who requested for them not to be traced over (or if used like that, to give credits were it's due).

For the actual bases, they can be found on Twitter, and credits are required as well.

For that one traced artwork. It's actually a work in progress made by an artist, and I suppose it was uploaded on Pinterest, so some people might think of it as a base? Although it has on it "WIP" and the original artist name (if you've been drawing. You know exactly what those 2 things mean). The other things that bothered me it's while for the other there has been an attempt, this one it's traced 1 to 1. Didn't bother to change the character face at all. That's what makes me mad. Taking all the credits for something that you didn't do. That's just being lazy and not giving a fuck about art. Also they traced other artist's illustrations as well with their OCs so. I guess it's not just fandom art 😂

On a side note, this is something that I've seen happen quite a lot. And especially if you're doing commissions for a living, a trace accusation can destoy your carreer. Therefore, I won't tell this person a name or make a callout post. I did block them and moved on, and this was a vent post I had to do for myself.

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

[Sneak Peek]

Southern Hospitality

Summary: Sort of a synopsis. An introduction of Terry. This sneak peek will be two parts.

Warnings: Violence, Smut

Terry Richmond entered the basement of his townhome in Charlotte, North Carolina and opened his ruck. After a long, harsh winter, he decided to organize some things to prepare for Spring. Swiping dust off of totes with his calloused hands, he situated himself on his knees for a better look. There, folded neatly on top, were his old cammies. Desert cammies. Ratty and bleached by sand and sun and blemished with the petroleum rain that fell from the oil-well fires in Kuwait.

Terry rose to a standing position again, shaking out the camo pants. He slipped off his black ball shorts and stepped into them, memories suddenly returning. They still fit. He can’t shake the habit of staying in the best shape and active, especially with him being an MCMAP Instructor. During his earlier years as a Marine Raider, he exercised thirty hours a week. He buttoned the top and stroked the embroidery. Honorary pins still clung to the fabric.

Terry delve deeper and pulled out maps of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. Patrol books. Pictures. Letters. His journal with its sparse entries. Coalition propaganda pamphlets. Brass bore punch for the M40A2 sniper rifle. A handful of .50 caliber projectiles. Terry wondered what he must look like to the late night walker passing by his basement windows: the mad old warrior going through his memorabilia, triggering his unresolved PTSD and looking for trouble.

No, he isn’t mad. Some days are better than others, but he isn’t mad. He’s after something. Memory, yes. A reel. More than just time. It’s almost a year since. Just at the end of April he’d be turning thirty–three. And a year prior he spent it with his fellow soldiers over drinks that lead to him dropping nine inches of whopping girth in seasoned pussy. Flashes of her haunted his mind like the sound of grenades and cries of pain. Then his thoughts drifted to a vibrant thing that wanted to see the world. Using his pleasure stick for her own no good reasons.

And there, amongst many photos with comrades, is the man that saw something in him. His own version of a super soldier. Like a son he never had. Terry blinked slowly as his thick fingers smoothed over the edges of the photograph…

August, 2021:

Lieutenant General Swanwick’s authoritarian voice could be heard over the public address system within the base gym. Terry Richmond was currently lifting a few hundred pounds over his chest with another Marine named Rodney spotting him. Terry was just twenty–nine years old then. Sweat poured from his body and onto the gym floor and his dog tags clung to his chest as if his sweat were glue.

Terry blew air from his cheeks that sounded like the low whistle of an exhaust pipe, “Six…seven…eight—”

“All personnel from MARSOC are ordered to report immediately to battalion headquarters. Get some, Raiders!”

Terry felt his chest grow tighter with anticipation. Deployment was inevitable. Terry rushed to gather himself, throwing on his tank top and buttoning his camouflage jacket. All things in order, he and the remaining MARSOC stationed in Virginia mad their way to Headquarters. He could sense the anxious energy from everyone in that room. Terry’s turquoise eyes veiled with dark lashes never blinked as Lieutenant General Swanwick’s outline of their battle against Iraqi and Kuwait unfolded. Terry gritted his teeth and tightened his jaw.

It’s war time.

On August 8th, the MARSOC arrive in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Terry debarked the plane, the oven heat of the Arabian Desert gripping his throat. In the distance the wind blows sand from the tops of dunes, cresting beige waves that billow like silk through the mirage. The tarmac is filled with American civilian jumbo jets—American, Delta, United. They flew United. The scene at the airfield is how any busy international airport would be, only they were dressed in fatigues and carrying loaded rifles, their gas masks strapped to their hips.

Just beyond the tarmac, artillery batteries point their guns East and North. Fighter jets patrol the sky. During the dreaded twenty–hour flight, their mode of debarkation was debated—tactical or general—and Terry hoped for a tactical approach—live rounds and a defensive perimeter could be the only authentic introduction to a theater of war. They marched in a single–filed line towards a series of large, bright green Bedouin tents. They entered and immediately went to retrieve bottled water and attempt to stay cool by draping wet skivvy shirts over their heads.

“Ya’ll better drink up enough water. I don’t need my Raiders passing out from heat stroke when we gotta keep our eyes open and on our targets,” Swanwick drilled.

His hat remained low enough to cloak his eyes, giving him a no–nonsense look. He meant business. Terry caught his eye while gulping down cold water. Swanwick motioned for him to come over. Terry came face–to–face with the Lieutenant General.

“Aight there, son?” Swanwick quietly said.

“I’m chill, Lieutenant,” Terry replied with confidence.

“Good to hear. Don’t let these fools throw you off your game, Richmond. You’re one of the best. And I need you alive.”

“After a rigorous seven–months to transform into the elite, I don’t plan on it.”

“That’s right,” Swanwick gripped Terry’s shoulder firm, “now, let’s show ‘em who we are.”

Terry cracked a smile filled with hunger for what was to come. He knew just how much the others despised his presence. Some felt he wasn’t worthy or qualified to be among them.

After an hour in the tents, colonel calls a battalion formation and proudly announces that they are taking part in Operation Desert Shield. He explains that the Kuwaiti–Iraqi conflict in not yet their concern, but currently their mission is to protect, to shield, Saudi Arabia and her flowing oil–fields. Low grumbles could be heard throughout.

“HEY. Not every day blood is shed!”

Terry chuckled while kicking away at sand beneath his boots. He was surrounded by a bunch of antsy men. That energy alone could get them killed.

“One step at a time,” Swanwick motioned to his men, “Let’s get to it.”

They dispersed to get a sense of the area, laughing amongst themselves with jokes about going from the Marine Corps to Oil Corps. Beneath the loud sounds of chuckles and belly laughs, they knew that reality was near, and death could be knocking on their door. Terry’s laughter drifted away like the swirling sand that painted his golden skin an ashy color.

As days stretched out, it consisted of sand and water and piss. They walk and drive over the sand and drink gallons of water. Six times a day they gathered for formation and swallowed two canteens per man, and between formation they consumed more water.

Six weeks later and Terry found himself sitting in a chow hall and watching Lieutenant General Swanwick talk closely with other high ranking officers. Terry tucked into his beans and sausages with a steady gaze locked on their table. His skin had browned so deep it was akin to burnished bronze. It made his eyes pop vividly and the ink on his arms more bold and daring.

His eyes were dry and irritated from staring at maps all day, his muscles ached from the makeshift equipment they used to pump iron. He grew tired of sleeping amongst men that couldn’t go a night without jacking off to crumbled polaroids of their women back home. Terry wanted to get in the field. He’d already gotten into several fights and the skin beneath his left eye had just began to heal from a nasty bruise.

Swanwick’s shoulders tensed. What could that mean? Were they heading for battle? He watched the father figure walk away and out of the chow hall. Terry scarfed down the rest of his meal before cleansing his palate with water. He made his way towards the exit in search of Swanwick. He was standing a few feet away, staring up at the full moon. Terry glanced up himself, his eyes taking in the pale white moon. It was beauty surrounded by an impending chaos.

“Lieutenant General…”

Swanwick glanced over his shoulder.

“Richmond. Enjoy your meal?”

“You can only have but so much beans.” Terry complains.

“Good fiber fuels the body.” Swanwick replied.

A stillness surrounded them for a minute.

“What we lookin’ like, Sir?”

Swanwick dipped his head.

“Can’t tell you much…but it’s looking like rifles at the ready.”

Terry’s back stiffened.

“I know that’s music to your ears, soldier.”

“Music to all our ears.”

No showers, no rack, no wadi in sight, no oasis.

Terry needed to feel as if his skills were being used. Tested. He felt trapped. Isolated.

Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick gathered the platoon in a school circle under the plastic infrared cover. It’s before zero nine and already one hundred degrees.

Their platoon commands three Humvees, and the vehicles are under IR cover. Ideally, weapons, vehicles, and personnel shielded under the netting will avoid detection by enemy infrared devices. Terry wasn’t convinced. Why believe in the effectiveness of IR netting when the drink tube on your gas mask breaks every time you don–and–clear during a training nerve–gas raid? When the best maintenance for the PRC–76 radio, the Prick, is the Five–Foot Drop?

Apparently, press will visit for a few days, and Sergeant James and Lieutenant General Swanwick already recited a list of unacceptable topics. No divulging data concerning capabilities of their sniper rifles or optics and the length and intensity of their training. They’ve been ordered to act like top Marines, patriots, shit–hot hard dicks, the best of the battalion. As the scout/snipers, they’ve been handpicked by the executive officer and the s–2 officer to serve as the eyes and ears of the battalion commander.

“Listen up,” James says, “I’ve gone over this already, but the Lieutenant wants to go over it again. Basically, don’t get specific. Say you can shoot from far away. Say you are highly trained, that there are no better shooters in the world than Marine Snipers. Say you’re excited to be here and you believe in the mission and that we’ll annihilate the Iraqis. Take off your shirts and show your muscles. We’re gonna run through some calisthenics for them. Doc John, give us a RAIDERS workout. Keep it simple, snipers.”

Terry spoke, “it ain’t simple. This is censorship. You’re telling me what I can and can’t say to the press? Why are they even allowed in this space anyway?”

Kuehn, a fellow marine says, “Not our place to say what we can and can’t do—”

“Wasn’t addressing you, Kuehn.” Terry quipped.

“I speak for all of us when I say this. You got a mouth on you, Richmond.” Kuehn argued back.

“Aight now,” Swanwick warned.

The tension between the Marines grew to a fever pitch.

“Oh, so you the voice of war now, huh? You call the shots? How that happen?”

Soft chuckles coming from the other Marines seemed to embarrass Kuehn.

“Shut the fuck up, Richmond! You don’t even belong here!” Kuehn shouted ragefully.

“My reputation for accuracy says otherwise, Kuehn. But you wouldn’t know about that though. Too much piss on your boots.”

The chuckling intensified.

Kuehn approached Terry with his chest puffed out. Terry stood at 6 '3 with his arms folded, towering over a 5' 9 Kuehn. The tallest man there. Terry’s stony eyes never faltered. Beady glacial–blue eyes stared up at him filled with rage. Kuehn’s usual pasty, alabaster skin was sun–burned and red from the scorching Saudi heat.

“You think you’re better than me, Richmond?! Huh?!”

“I know I am, pissy boots—”

“RICHMOND!” Sergeant James shouted.

Kuehn wouldn’t get out of Terry’s personal space.

“Don’t get your ass beat again, Kuehn, get up out my face—”

Kuehn shoves Terry and immediately a fight breaks out. Fists flying with connecting punches and heavy grunts. The circle widened and cheers amongst fellow Raiders drowned out the high ranking officers trying to call it off. Terry forced Kuehn into a headlock and slammed him to the sand, his eyes suddenly burning from the minerals coating his lashes. He repeatedly punched Kuehn, causing him to shield his face with his forearms. It took three men to get Terry off of him.

Terry was ushered into one of the green tents by a frustrated Lieutenant.

“RICHMOND! STAND DOWN!”

Shirt bundled up revealing a taunt six–pack, bottom lip poked out and bleeding from a hairline slit, face dusty and jet black hair stained with sand, he kept his fists balled and his eyes locked on Kuehn as he was lifted from the ground.

“You lost your mind, Boy?!”

Sergeant James marched up to Terry and pressed his face so close to his Terry could smell the nicotine on his breath.

“Swanwick you better get your star pupil in line before I do. You put your hands on Kuehn again, I’ll send you back to Virginia, understand?”

Terry remained silent with fury. Only his heavy breathing could be heard.

“Terry?” Swanwick called out to him, “You hear that?”

“Yes, Sir Serg.” Terry said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t like my orders?”

Swanwick pressed a firm hand against James’ chest.

“I got it, James. We’ll be out.”

James’ lethal gaze never left Terry as he backed away. Terry didn’t falter.

“What was that, Richmond?” Swanwick whispered.

“Self–defense. Kuehn put his hands on me first, Lieutenant. You don’t see Serg talking to him do you? I know what it is…”

Swanwick shut his eyes.

“Which means that you gotta be on your best behavior. I want you to succeed, Richmond. I already know you're the best of the Veteran Raiders. Stop letting them get to your head.”

Terry was released. He fixed his army green T-shirt that clung to his body like a second skin from the sweat. He rearranged the dog tags hanging from his neck. Swanwick grasped his shoulder.

“Terry…”

“I got it.”

Swanwick hesitated before stepping aside while Terry walked out of the tent with his usual gait. Just as he was attempting to simmer his anger, Sergeant James was giving another speech.

“…You do as you're told. You signed the contract. You have no rights, you can’t speak out against your country. We call that treason. You can be shot for it. Goddamnit, we’re not playing around. Training is over. Tell your complaints to Abdul Latif Rashid. See if he cares.”

He bit his tongue. Terry wanted to come to the defense of free speech, but he knew it would be useless. The language they own is not theirs, it is not a private language, but deprived from Marine Corps history and lore and tactics.

The Marine Corps birthday? 10 November 1775, The Marine Corps is older than the United States of America. Birthplace? Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, a gang of drunks and big balls. Tarawa? Bloodiest battle of WWII. Dan Daly? He killed thirty–seven Chinese by hand during the Boxer Rebellion. Deadliest weapon on earth? The marine and his rifle. Terry had to conform to those standards, speak like it.

Reporters are arriving to ask what they thought about the desert, waiting for war. He’ll answer that he likes it; he’s prepared for anything that might come his way. They’re due at their position by 0900. Terry leaves the free speech argument and walked to their straddle trench. He needed to empty his bowels. There’s no seat in a straddle trench, but he’s been punished many times, for hours on end, in the squat position. It reminded him of Korea, where he spent a month of his last deployment. Most public restrooms in Korea had straddle holes, he’d spent many times there emptying the contents of his stomach after walking away from a bar booth.

Terry looked at the sky, blue like no blue he’d known before, and at the desert that would not stop. This is the pain of the landscape, worse than the heat, worse than the flies—there is no getting out of the land. No stopping. After six weeks of deployment, the desert is in him, one particle at a time—his boots and belt and pants and gas mask and weapons are covered and filled with sand. Sand invaded his body: ears and eyes and nose and mouth and piss hole. The desert is everywhere. The mirage is everywhere. Awake, asleep, high heat of the afternoon or the few soft, sunless hours of early morning.

The destination to free Kuwait.

The following day, the press–pool colonel and his driver wait in the Land Rover, the air–conditioning blowing the colonel’s hair into fine white wisps of artillery smoke. Terry nibbled on his full bottom lip, gnawing at the tender spot where he’d been clipped while fighting Kuehn. He wore his blacked–out shades, a white tank, and his camouflage pants with sand–covered boots. They gathered under the IR netting and the reporters introduced themselves. There’s a man from the Boston Globe and the woman from the New York Times.

Terry recognized the woman

Toccara Chester. Broadcast and Political Reporter and Journalist. She’s committed to factual reporting, but known for being competitive and headstrong, which tended to rub people the wrong way.

Terry aligned himself next to Rodney, a friend and fellow Marine. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked around him before focusing his gaze on Toccara. They took turns going down the line, shaking hands and urging them to speak freely, but they know about the scripted preparation. The answers to their questions have already been written on the Raiders faces, though maybe not in their hearts. Toccara Chester looked bored, or at least not very interested in what they might tell her.

She stood before Terry, reaching out a hand to shake his. He glanced down at her almond–shaped nails painted red. She wore a white tank as well, her layered blunt cut hair swept away from her face. Fitted, khaki cargo pants hugged her hour–glass shape and hiking boots in various earth–toned colors were on her feet. The beauty mark on her right cheek made her look glamorous like those old Hollywood actress’. A small smile teased her sultry lips.

“What’s your name, Marine?”

“Richmond.” Terry responded with an unreadable expression.

“I’m Toccara. Happy to be here. Looking forward to seeing how things go in your camp.”

Terry dipped his head slightly, his eyes trailing behind her as she moved on.

Rodney leans into Terry to whisper, “You see that ass on her? Fatter than I expected.”

Terry chuckled softly with a shake of his head. He never took his eyes off of Toccara as he tilted his head to whisper a reply.

“Calm down, Rod. She ain’t fuckin’ you.”

Rodney nudged Terry in his ribs.

“I ain’t have pussy in months! She just might work.”

“Chill, man,” Terry said with a laugh.

After the introductions, the MARSOC dispersed to train and perform for the reporters. Much to Terry’s displeasure. Toccara sashayed up and down that camp, recorder in hand and a camera hanging from her neck. She had a little spiral notepad in her back pocket. Beyond her aviators, Terry had a feeling she was watching him. She was positioned within his proximity too often. Like there weren’t many other Marines on duty. Swanwick and the other officers stood by with a hawk–eyed look.

Terry finished his workout and now he was busy cleaning his sniper rifle. The dainty sound of a throat clearing to gain his attention made him pause. Terry peered down over his shoulder at Toccara with her recorder at the ready, pointed at his face.

“Tryna keep from being interviewed, Terry?”

So, she got his first name, huh?

“Tryna stay on track, Toccara. If you didn’t notice by now, we’re pretty busy.”

“Mind giving me a few minutes of your time, Marine?”

Terry exhaled. Rather loud. She overlooked everything he said. Busy. As in leave him alone.

He turns, craning his neck so she could reach his mouth better.

“Go on.” Terry said.

Toccara tilted her head with a grin.

“Do you believe that your Special Ops will defeat the Iraqi?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe in our mission. I believe we will quickly win this war and send the enemy crawling home.”

Toccara nodded her head, “Sounds like you’re proud to be here.”

“Ye, ma’am, I’m proud to be here serving my country. Standing up to evil. Take ‘em all down.”

Toccara cracked a smile, “Well rehearsed, Marine.”

Terry clenched his jaw. He glanced to the left before fixing his eyes on her again.

“Where are you from, Richmond?”

“Born in Louisiana, raised in North Carolina, ma’am.”

“Uh-huh, what made you enlist?”

“I joined when I was eighteen rather than go to jail for a few years. Petty stuff. My grandfather was a Marine. And his father. And so on. It was this or a life of wrong choices.”

“What was the petty stuff?”

Terry quirked a brow at her. Toccara stood her ground, seemingly waiting for him to speak.

“Possession. Running behind my cousin.”

“Hm…over a little weed?”

Terry couldn’t help but laugh. Toccara’s high cheekbones shown.

“How ‘bout that shit? But I’m proud of what the Corps has made me.”

“What is it about being a Marine Raider? What struck you?”

“Uh,” Terry stroked his stubble, “This is about freedom, not about oil. It’s about–it’s about standing up to aggression…”

Sergeant James took his time walking around, drawing closer to Terry. Terry caught his eye. Toccara took notice at Terry’s body language. She felt Sergeant James’ presence on her back.

“…Like the president says. Nobody wants to go to war. We just got to be ready. I can shoot out someone’s eye ball from a klick away. Ain’t no better shot in the world.”

Toccara’s expression hardened.

“Are you proud to serve this country, Terry?”

Terry huffed, “Didn’t I answer this question?”

“Not really.”

Her response was met with dry laughter, “Ha…Okay,” Terry shifted his weight, “I’m proud to serve. This is what I signed for. I’m gonna make my pop and mom proud. I’m from Lincoln Heights. My mom talkin’ bout making a parade for me like they do back in NOLA. My mama say the whole neighborhood is behind me.”

“That must make you feel good.”

“Does.”

“Is your mother scared about you being here?”

“She don’t necessarily feel good about me being here. She writes me letters about watching my ass and don’t try being a hero and watch out for my buddies.”

Terry smoothed sand beneath his feet.

“And your dad?”

Terry’s eyes met hers. There was a momentary silence, one that created tension.

“I think our interview is over, Miss Chester. I gotta head back…”

Terry turned to leave. Toccara caught up with him and grabbed his arm to pull him back. Terry exhaled a frustrated sigh. Her beautiful face with wind–swept hair pleased his blue–green eyes despite his annoyance.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

Terry licked his lips, “aight. One more question.”

“Are you afraid?”

Terry blinked slowly at her.

“…I’m well trained and prepared to fight any menace in the world.”

“…so that’s a no?” Toccara sought clarification.

“RICHMOND!”

Swanwick ushered for him to come over.

“Looks like our times up. Hope you got what you needed.”

Terry jogged away.

“I STILL HAVE TWO MORE DAYS HERE!”

Terry rolled his eyes.

The taste of pecans lingered on his tongue. The Times reporter brought a football. Rodney and a few others tossed the ball back and forth, putting on a performance for Toccara. When eye candy is hard to come by so willingly, the men tend to act a fool, so foolish it turns corny. All day while she sauntered about with her recorder held high and hips swaying, none of the Raiders could focus. Terry couldn’t deny her sexy himself. They’re shirtless and revved up with flirtatious energy. The Boston Globe reporter, a frail, young caucasian man with bifocals and a man bun, stood next to Toccara. He’s soft–spoken, eager to hear from them.

Terry sat on the hood of a war machine with his foot hiked up. Toccara’s skin the color of maple syrup didn’t take much time to deepen beneath the blazing sun. She snapped photos from her digital camera. The sun was setting and it was almost time to eat. Terry planned to have a dinner and then use the portable shower. He hated the water pressure, but it’ll do for now.

Toccara tried her hardest to get detailed answers from them, and Terry could sense the irritation in her face as the first day came to an end. Looks like she wouldn’t be getting that juicy story she was expecting. Terry hopped down from his place on the war machine and tossed his empty packet into a nearby bin. He swiped his tongue over his teeth as he strolled with his usual gait towards the chow hall. Rodney had caught up with him, sweaty and shirtless, rocking into him before tossing an arm over his shoulder. His armpit reeked of sweat and musk. Terry pushed him away, swiping the air.

Inside, they accepted their meals and took their seats. Toccara and the Boston Globe Reporter took a seat at a nearly empty table. While the Boston Globe Reporter talked, Toccara stared off into space, water canteen hovering over her lips. Terry continued to eat, drowning out the conversations surrounding him. Swanwick and the other officers laughed amongst themselves, the most relaxed they’d ever been those six weeks.

Terry peered over his cup of water and noticed Toccara was gone, leaving the Boston Reporter to his notes. Terry checked his digital watch.

“Aight, I’m heading for the showers.”

Terry hopped up before getting rid of his empty tray of food. He wiped his hands and made his way out of the chow hall and toward the tent he slept in. He entered, retrieved his towel and wash cloth with the soap he used, and made his way towards the portable showers. It wasn’t a long walk. He made sure it was clear to undress. He quickly pulled his tank up and over his head, biceps bulging and torso flexing. Terry worked on his belt buckle and pants hastily lowering them with his briefs. His soft dick with coiled pubic hair surrounding it met the warmth of the night air.

He kicked off his boots haphazardly and began his shower. The soft droplets of water covered his body from head to toe. Terry scrubbed profusely, ridding his body of the sand and grime of the day. The scent of eucalyptus rose from his soap sponge. It reminded him of his shower times back at home. Just for a second. Terry cleaned every crevice before rinsing thoroughly. He opened his mouth, allowing the water to flood through before releasing it. He knew he was damn near over his limit, but the water felt too good.

Terry turned off the water and grabbed his towel. He dabbed away the water but not completely. It kept him cool at night. Terry wrapped the towel around his waist and slipped his feet into his boots, forgetting to bring his sleep bottoms with him. He took long strides back to his tent, happy to find it empty still.

He slipped on some grey joggers, a fresh pair of socks, and dropped on his makeshift bed. There was a hole above the tent that gave him the faintest view of the moon and stars. As he star–gazed, enjoying the peace and quiet before some of his bunk mates returned, he could hear noise on the outside of his tent. Terry cut his eyes towards the opening of the tent, and noticed the silhouette of a woman.

Toccara.

Terry sat up and slipped on his boots. He had a feeling she was up to something. He gently opened the tent and looked from left to right. Everyone was still inside of the chow hall. Terry walked out and searched around the camp. As he made his way towards the weapons section of the camp, he spotted Toccara with her camera like a typical reporter doing whatever it takes to get the latest scoop.

The low flicker from her trusty camera teased his ears. Terry wasted no time charging up to her. Toccara heard his footsteps and dropped her camera in the sand. She whirled around, eyes wide with shock. Terry furrowed his brows disapprovingly. Toccara’s brown eyes did a quick sweep over his naked upper half. When she met his eyes again, she looked guilty.

“What are you doing, Toccara?” Terry asked with a tone of anger.

“Just having a look. I can do that, can’t I?” She replied sassily.

“Not when it involves taking pictures. Pictures that can compromise our mission.”

Toccara crouched down to pick up her camera but Terry was quicker. He snatched the camera out of the sand and took it upon himself to see what she’d been photographing.

“Terry! Wait!”

“You crazy?” Terry flicked his eyes towards her, “Taking pics of our shit like it’s cool?”

“It’s just guns and grenades—”

“And we’re on enemy ground. They can see this shit if it gets out, you know that, right?”

Toccara remained silent and looked everywhere but at Terry. His eyes were too intense.

“Look at me. HEY.”

Toccara snapped her attention to his.

“I’m deleting every single one.”

“That’s my property,” Toccara said with a grimace.

“And this is my shit, right here,” Terry picked up his rifle, “my rifle, my pistol. My assigned weapons. All of this shit is assigned.”

“Whatever, just hurry up asshole!”

Terry glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was nearby. He walked up to Toccara, his chest almost touching hers.

“Oh, look, he wants to scar me.” Toccara replied with sarcasm.

“You’re dead wrong. Didn’t you sign a consent agreement? I bet you didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

Toccara glared at Terry with her arms folded.

“A fine up to a couple hundred thousand. Sound like something you wanna do?”

Terry cocked his head down at her. Toccara tapped her foot. She was pissed. Visibly seething.

“Sorry, Miss New York Times, but that shit don’t fly over here.”

Terry made sure to delete them all. When he finished, Toccara reached for her camera. Terry didn’t make any moves to give it back.

“You take any more pictures, I’m breaking this shit, aight?”

Toccara’s left eyelid twitched. She flipped her hair from her face with one hand before rolling her eyes.

“I get it, okay? Now give me my fucking camera back.”

Terry hesitated. Toccara pursed her glossy lips. Finally, he held it out for her. Toccara snatched it from his grasp, eliciting a deep chuckle from his lips.

“Little dick, motherfucker.” She fired at him with a vengeful whisper.

Terry cracked a smile, amused by her. He dragged his eyes over her frame before backing away, one hand over his supposed ‘little dick’.

“Have a good rest of your evening, Miss Chester.”

Toccara turned on her heels, marching away. She was mumbling something else that Terry couldn’t make out, and it made him laugh harder. She’s used to getting her way.

Little dick.

Pssst.

@theereinawrites @bombshellbre95 @planetblaque @trippyscotch @megamindsecretlair @thesweetestdrug @theblulife @blackerthings @deja-r @kanafunee @kaylabuggggg06 @skyesthebomb @blyffe @gwenda-fav @beenathembo @dremmmm @novaniskye @melaninhawtie @urfavblackbimbo @avoidthings @rose-bliss @xo-goldengirl @kinginwithbreezy-blog @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @sirenmouths @kokokonako @creartivefairy @soulfulbeauty19 @therealmrsrhodes @hrlzy @nayaesworld @playgurlxoxo @gg-trini @brattyfics @flydotty @writingsbytee @shiania @browngirldominion @notapradagurl7 @kismet83 @aristasworld @sl33p-deprived-princess @erynnnn @itssbrie @melaninangel @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @sweettea-and-honeybutter

[sightseertrespasser]

Too Deep, Too Shallow Part 4

Happy Mer May folks! Enjoy!

Once more into the deep with @keferon’s apocalyptic Ponyo au.

Drift isn’t projecting at aaaall.

———————————————————————

The distant roar of the ocean was punctuated by plip-pats of random flecks of raindrops. Turning pale concrete dark glossy grey like dying pixels on a tv screen.

Earlier, when the tropical Sun had been out, the apocalypse had almost been pleasant. In between all the emotionally scaring traumatic experiences anyways.

Mainly, it had been wet but warm.

Now, Swerve was shivering. Wind and wet clothes wicking away whatever body heat he could still produce, leaving his skin as clammy as a dead fish. He couldn’t stop moving. Not now, when exercise was the only thing keeping his temperature up.

A raindrop hit him directly in the eye.

Swerve cursed and paused to rub a fist into his eye, regretting the decision as his legs petitioned to go on strike.

Sorry body, but this temple has declared a state of emergency and won’t be acknowledging any union demands until further notice.

Grimacing, Swerve leaned forward until the threat of falling compelled his legs to start cooperating again.

He wasn’t the only one who was getting tired, Blue was still chittering away, but it was notably less animated. It probably didn’t help that Swerve wasn’t responding as consistently as before. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, he just.

Kept getting lost in his head.

It was so quiet.

It was so so quiet.

Yesterday-

This morning? The first apartment building. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to look and put together pieces of peoples lives.

He got the hiking bag from an apartment where the fridge was covered in Polaroid photographs. The same couple over and over, sometimes with friends. Fishing, canoeing, and hiking of course. A wedding photo dated just two months ago.

He got the spam and most of the other food from an apartment filled with craft projects and sudoku puzzles. A half finished knit hat stuck to the ground in a wet lump. He picked up a walker that had fallen over and stared at the gaping hole in the wall for too long.

He got the case of water bottles from an apartment with baby gates..

“Click-Whistle-Click?”

Swerve sucked in a breath, feeling Blue reaching back to tap his forearm.

“Yeah, yep. Sorry. I’m listening.” He said. Shoving those memories right back where they belonged at the bottom of the mental filing cabinet. Riiight next to the demon orcas.

Hesitantly, Blue chittered some more and Swerve had learned his mannerisms well enough to feel the undercurrent of anxiety there.

Swerve eyed the overextended beach that stretched towards the ocean. It wouldn’t be long before low tide ended.

All things considered, he could probably just leave Blue somewhere on the mud caked street and the tide will take care of the rest. They’d pretty much made it. This was the edge of the city and not much was still standing this close to the shore.

But there was a bridge still in place. The concrete foundations cracked but holding strong, seemingly reinforced by a shocking amount of plant growth tangled in the structure. That’ll be a good spot, Swerve thought. By the time the water rose to the bridges height, Blue would have more than enough room to swim back out to sea.

“This’ll be over soon.” Swerve sighed. “I’ll try to be quick.”

Scaling the slope up to the bridge, Swerve felt the need to say something poignant. Some final goodbye to probably his closest friend. The scene was all wrong though. Rumbling thunder and hushing wind played the backtracking for a completely grey set piece.

Still tense, Blue made some sort of quiet siren sound, long, thin and reedy.

Maybe I just, shouldn’t say anything.

Swerve felt his throat start to close as he crested the ��onto the flat of the bridge, eyes down cast as he watched blotches of rain paint everything dark.

Blue’s fins flared, dragging up the back of Swerves neck and setting his own hairs to stand on end.

Stuttering to a stop, Swerve finally looked up to the other end of the bridge.

A lithe frame wrapped in dappled grey pelts, the smooth silhouette broken up by black guns and crisscrossed strappings.

Their face was completely concealed by a shadow colored mask and a blood bright visor, the only tell it was human were the long thin pale locks of hair that drifted in the storm urged breeze.

“Um.” Swerve curled his numb fingers around his backpack straps.

“Hi there!”

The figure did not respond. A cloud in the distance lit up white and went dark again.

Swerve wavered in place, swallowed and put on his best customer service smile.

“Hey! So uh, this whole. . .everything.” He gestured to the Everything.

“This looks like some serious third act climax stuff, you know?” Shouting over the silence. “Like, this is where the protagonist would have the final showdown with the big bad evil guy, or face off against some deeply personal antagonist from their past..”

Swerve started to shuffle backwards.

“And uh, I am not that guy.”

The figure stalked forward slowly and without a sound.

Blood growing colder, Swerve tried to stay calm as Blue began making low distressed noises he’d never heard from him before. The mer was twisted around in the backpack, staring at the stranger with massive shaky eyes.

In a voice like greased gravel, the drifter finally spoke.

“Put the mer down.”

Swerve mouth gapped without a sound, shaking his head even before the words came out, “I- I can’t do that.”

The drifter was not close enough to touch, but well within sprinting distance. Without breaking their slow prowl, they began to walk around the two at a precisely set radius. Swerve subconsciously turning in place to stay facing them.

The shorter man became very suddenly aware of his surroundings. Below was a two story drop onto bone breaking asphalt coated in a thin mat of mud. The ramp he’d walked up was now cut off by the drifter and slick with rain. In his minds eye, Swerve could perfectly picture what would happen if he tried running the other way. Like a nightmare where all your limbs weigh a thousand pounds and the monster always wins.

In too deep, breath too shallow.

Swerve shook, and held fast.

“Please don’t do this. I c-can’t. I can’t give him up.”

They drifted closer, fingers brushing triggers as they moved.

“You’re sick.” They hissed.

Swerve flinched, hyper aware of the clamor of his skin and the faint rattle of his lungs.

“You’re weak.” They spoke down to him.

Defensively, Swerve curled further into himself, already a small man made smaller still.

“You aren’t gonna win.” The drifter came close enough he could feel a couple white strands tickle along his cheek as they leaned in close.

“You aren’t that guy.”

Fear. His mind wanted to freeze but Swerve couldn’t stop shaking. He took another wobbly step back and pain shot through his ankle as it rolled. A simple broken ledge just a couple inches high was no issue for an able bodied man. But a sick one carrying two thirds his own weight?

Swerve crumpled and the drifter lunged.

A flash of blue came quicker.

Screaming whistling and a stifled curse, Swerve landed hard on his side. Just before his face, a red visor clattered to the ground.

“YOU- WHAT?!” The drifter reeled back, weapon automatically drawn but with their finger off the trigger. In the distance, sea lions barked like the distant thunder.

Which is what Swerve would have noticed if he was paying attention to anything other than Blue.

Whipping out of the backpack, Blue peeled back his lips in rage. Fins and flukes at full mast, the mer arched himself over Swerve, screeching at the threatening human in an ear splitting tirade.

Blue only paused when a red furry head popped up on the other end bridge, scrambling onto the topside and frantically barking.

Locking onto the mammalian mer, Swerve saw one of Blues eyes twitch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“IS THIS YOUR FUCKING HUMAN?!”

Furiously, Blurr resumed screeching and jabbed a claw towards the seal pelted human without breaking eye contact with the other mer.

The stranger galloped in their direction.

“SORT OF?! HE’S REALLY MORE RATCHETS!” The Not-Ratchet mer barked across the space.

The human was fully backing away now, his now exposed eyes darting between Blurr and the other mer in abject confusion. Curled beneath him, Orange was likewise wide eyed and panicked.

“DON’T CARE! GET HIM UNDER CONTROL OR I’M FINDING THOSE FUCKING COPS.”

The sea Lion panted as they reached the white furred human. Half grabbing, half leaning on them, “I swear he’s never done anything like this before. He’s actually really friendly!”

“NO THE FUCK HE’S NOT.” Blurr gestured to Orange. “Look at him! He’s terrified!”

“What the hell is going on up here?”

The voice did not yell, so much as it was simply just silencingly loud. A second, much larger sea lion crested the ramp, nose wrinkled and bright eyed with displeasure as he scanned over the scene. Most notably, the mer sported not just one, but four prosthetic flippers.

The other human visibly shrank. And if humans had tails it’d surely be between his legs right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shhhhit.” The drifter spoke, significantly less gravelly than before. They glanced down to Swerve before pulling back their hood and mask.

“You uh, you weren’t trying to sell that mer for parts were you?” The drifters eyes tightened as Swerve frantically shook his head no.

“I- .” He coughed. “I might’a misread the situation.”

Now that the hood was removed, Swerve could clearly see an extremely apologetic looking young guy. He didn’t even seem to be threatened by Blue still hissing at him, just ashamed.

Swerve however, boggled.

“Holy shit I thought you were an old lady.”

“You - Fuckin’ what? Why?!” Wide eyed, the drifter startled out of what ever depressed place his mind had been wandering towards.

Swerve held up his hands placatingly, “Sorry! Sorry! It’s the whispy white hair! I thought you were like, some kind of post apocalyptic Lethal Grandma.”

Dumbfounded, the drifter looked over himself and then back to Swerve.

“But, you could hear my voice?!”

Swerve shrugged defensively, “Terrifying old women smoke like a pack a day dude!” He tried changing tactics, waving frantically from beneath his mer, “So w-what dye did you use! You know, because completely white hair is super tricky to pull off, b-but you got it done so cleanly?”

The drifter threw his hands in the air, “It’s not dye? I’m fuckin’ fifty?!”

“I AM SO SORRY.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Staring down the humongous sea Lion above him, some smarter piece of Blurr recognized he maybe shouldn’t antagonize a bunch of strangers while his only mode of transportation was curled up beneath him in the fetal position.

An even smarter piece of him noted that his chest was really starting to hurt.

However, the sea Lion mers both had the looks of people who were in the midst of damage control, and Blurr was gonna ride that wave for all it was worth.

“What the fuck is wrong with your human?! Mine wasn’t even doing anything!”

The sea Lion raised an eyebrow at Blurr, patting his hands in a Settle Down gesture, “Look, the kit isn’t mine he’s just-“ He shooed away the thought. “It’s complicated right now. I’m Doctor Ratchet and this is my assistant Roddy.”

Ratchet gently put his hands on his humans shoulders, who immediately quieted down and allowed the mer to move him away. “I’ll keep him in check, but you need to calm down and stop with the screeching! You’re freaking them both out and if you really want to help “your” human you’ll stop agitating them. Are we clear?”

Suspiciously, Blurr watched the other human demure in a way that was uncannily like a mer. He watched them go fairly docile, the shit-yourself terrifying aura quickly dissipating.

Temporarily satisfied, Blurr glanced down at Orange who’d gone from staring bug eyed at Grey (who Blurr had just mentally named) to Ratchet, murmuring quietly.

“Hey. Hey, Orange. It’s okay now, you’re okay.” Blurr spoke softy and patted his humans shoulder. The mer finally moving over from where he’d been holding an adrenaline filled arch above the fallen human.

Orange had stopped yelling, but didn’t turn to face Blurr. But instead turned back to Grey while pointing at the doctors prosthetic fins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You have a cyborg walrus?!” Swerve yell-whispered.

“Stellar Sea Lion.” The drifter quietly hissed, some anger filtering back in before they visibly clamped down on it again, aggressively running his fingers through his hair.

“And I didn’t make him a cyborg neither! I mean, I’m sorta responsible but not like that.” He crossed his arms and locked eyes with Swerve again. “We got a complicated relationship.”

As if summoned, the stellar mer approached the prone human, leaning down to take a good look at him.

Whether it was the weather or the drop off in adrenaline, Swerve found himself unable to stop shivering. Blue had calmed down significantly and was chittering softly next to him, seemingly unbothered by the fucking wall of muscle, fat and fur coming right into their space.

After a moment, the mer held out a mitt to Swerve, barking in a low rumbly sort of way.

“W-what’s going on?” Swerve chanced a glance at the drifter, who’d sat down next to the other sea Lion.

“He’s checking your vitals. Give him your hand.”

Swerves head spun and he did as he was told.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hmm.” The doctor glanced back at Grey after they’d exchanged some barks with his patient, and Blurr blinked in surprise when Orange did as he was supposed to without any direction from him.

“The fuck? What, did you train your human to like, find other humans and then get them to follow medical procedures?” Blurr himself couldn’t tell if his own question was serious or not.

While the humans continued to bark at each other in the background, Blurr saw Ratchet cringe.

Roddy, who’d decided to drape himself over Grey’s lap to stop them from wandering off again piped up, “Soooo you want to tell him or should I?”

Inhaling like he was gathering strength, Ratchet didn’t stop his check up on Orange. Briefly, Blurr watched the doctor pull out a thermometer from his pack, and before the mers could work out how the hell they were going to get Orange to hold it in his mouth, Grey piped up again and Orange just. Did it.

On his own. With little more than a nervous flick of his eyes around the members of their group.

Ratchet used his now empty hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. Hard.

“You convinced yours to carry you around right? I can see you even got a makeshift harness and supplies tied on. How’d you do it?”

“What? No he did the bag thing on his own.” The racer waved them off.

Blurr puffed a little with pride, “He happens to be an especially clever human. The most convincing I’ve had to do was getting Orange to let me carry him the first time, and all I had to do then was be gentle with him.”

The doctor wiped his hand down his face, “You named him Orange?”

“What like “kit” is less generic?”

“Nevermind that.” Ratchet scolded. “Look, I don’t care how much arguing this is gonna take, but there’s something you need to understand.”

“What?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“They’re sentient.” The drifter spoke with the gravity of a murderer in a confessional.

He got a far away look in his eyes, seemingly only grounded by the weight of “Red” in his lap. His voice sounded choked. “Fully intelligent. Fully people.”

The paradigm shift was spectacular to observe, a change washed over him instantaneously as the stranger imparted what he’d come to learn.

All the air went out of Swerve in a single breath.

“Oh thank GOD it’s not weird.” He fell back in relief, nearly loosing the thermometer as Blue immediately clicked over him.

“What?” Drift snapped. “What the fuck do you mean “It’s not weird?” And why the fuck do you sound happy about that?!”

Swerve sat up defensively, “Well it’s j-just. You know!”

“I know?”

“You know! Look, Blue’s s-saved my life like three times, he’s a ton of fun to h-hang out with when we aren’t dying, and some mer are kind of..” he circled his hands around each other, vaguely gesturing to appearances of Blue and the stellar mer. “You know!”

Drift clenched his teeth, a faint pink wash raising up from beneath his poncho and up his throat.

“We. Are not close enough to have that conversation.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sweet mother of pearl I’ve been petting a grown man.” Blurr put his head in his hands, staring off into the distance.

Grinning broadly, Roddy chuckled through his words, “You what? Ratchet you said we couldn’t pet them!”

Ratchet harrumphed, “I said we shouldn’t. Sentient or not, Humans are still highly social creatures who tend to get very attached to things they consider troop members.”

Taking back the thermometer, Ratchet wrinkled his nose at the reading. “So no petting, no cuddling, no chitchatting and definitely no sharing food. Got it?”

“Um.” Blurr chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Would that be bad? If, hypothetically someone did do all of those things?”

Roddy chortled maniacally as Ratchet just sighed. “It’ll be harder to get them to leave. I actually had some hope for sec that the kit had decided he was okay enough to be on his own again.”

Glancing back, the “kit” who was a good head taller than Orange, had miraculously turned pink in the time they’d been speaking. Grey had his hands buried in Roddy’s fur and had a look in his eyes directed at Orange that came off as a little too intense to be friendly.

Contrastingly, Roddy radiated smugness.

Ratchet responded to the unspoken jeering from his assistant. “We are going to have to leave him at some point Roddy, and I want to minimize the distress from the separation as much as possible.”

“For you or for him?” Blurr muttered, evidently not quietly enough as Ratchet shot him a sharp look.

Far closer than any before, thunder pealed once more, causing both humans and all three mers to jump. The rain intensified from occasional plops to a steady shower.

“Right.” Ratchet efficiently packed away his supplies and turned back to Blurr. “We’ve got a small field hospital set up to treat survivors. I’ll carry you there and hopefully get your human there too. He’s not doing well.”

“He’s not?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swerve felt something in his chest twinge and just about managed to cough ferociously into his elbow. The rain was coming down hard enough to no longer be ignored.

Next to him, Blue dragged himself closer to the stellar mer, who worked to pull him up onto his back. A little lost, Swerve looked beseechingly to the other human again.

The pelt wearer pushed Red off his lap and stood. “Looks like we’re heading back to base. You good to walk?”

“Yeah I think I-“ Swerve sucked in a hiss when he tried to put weight on his rolled ankle. Both Blue and Doc zeroed in on the sound, but neither really seemed to understand what was wrong.

Biting his lip, Swerve was shaking too bad to effectively stabilize his ankle. The pouring rain making everything that much more miserable.

He opened his eyes when he heard Blue click lowly and saw the other human approaching him, hands kept back and eyes cast away from the mers. He squatted in front of Swerve, “You need help? Think I heard your ankle pop earlier.”

Squinting through the rain, the injured human took the offered hand up, “Thanks. I’m S-swerve by the way.”

“Drift. Sorry ‘bout almost guttin’ you earlier.”

“Heh.” Swerve laughed as accepted his help, considering their names. “Drift and S-swerve! Guess you could say we’re both p-pretty bad at going straight?”

Drift blinked his eyes closed in a way that looked painful.

“Swerve?” He looked down at him without opening his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“The guttin’ you thing wasn’t a joke.”

“Shutting up n-now.”

The rest of the journey to base was committed in silence, save for a small break early on where Drift switched to carrying Swerve piggyback style after he’d almost fallen several times in succession.

Blue and Swerve kept their eyes on each other the whole way there.

——————

It was a slow trek through the rain to a building situated on a nearby hill. A large boat had washed up onto its side and was firmly lodged against the structure, creating a sort of ramp to the roof.

Broken railings surrounded a tiled pool still filled with water and Drift bee-lined for the shelter of what appeared to be a roof top bar.

Finally out of the rain, Swerve slid off Drifts back with a muted thanks. He wasn’t shivering anymore. Numbly, Swerve registered being sat on a couch and then Drift materializing with several stiff towels.

They had the look and feel of cloth that had been hung out after falling into the ocean, a little crunchy to the touch but blissfully dry.

“Try to dry your outer clothes separate, they’re not gonna help you warm up right now. The powers shot but the gas stove round back still works if I light it by hand. Sit tight a’minute.”

Nodding, Swerve set about draping everything short of his undershirt and boxers over the backs of a few chairs and immediately cocooned himself in towels on the couch.

The bar was open on the side facing the patio and the ocean. It was a pretty spectacular view to watch the tide come rushing back in like a rivers delta, weaving between the ruins of the city. Periodically, lightning would flicker and highlight the contours of the world. Swerve didn’t miss the black under blue shadows of some truly massive creatures slithering back into the ruins.

Instead of thinking about monsters, or the unnaturally fast spreading overgrowth, Swerve turned towards Blue.

The mers didn’t seem remotely bothered by the heavy rainfall as Blue and Doc sat on the shallow steps into the pool. The much smaller mer was frowning at the doctor as he ran through a litany of tests with him.

It was more than a little surreal watching the stellar mer pull out a massive stethoscope to listen to Blues chest. Swerve heard Doc grumble something and honestly thought he saw Blue roll his eyes.

As the doctor placed a blood pressure cuff around Blues upper arm, the mer glanced his way. Swerve slipped an hand from his towel nest and waved hello. Blue cracked a hint of a smile and waved back.

About then, Drift returned with two steaming mugs. “Mostly liquor back there but they had some black tea and a couple gallon jugs of water.”

Thanking him, Swerve just held the ceramic mug for a while, letting the heat bring some feeling back into his hands. He’d started shivering again, which was as good a sign as it was annoying.

“If t-there’s any whiskey and honey back there, we could actually make a Hot Toddy.”

Drift furrowed his brow “You gotta stop doing that man.”

“Doing what?” Swerve shrugged defensively as Drift started rooting through the bar’s cabinets.

“Saying shit that makes me say “What.” No honey but we’ve got a couple simple syrups. This whiskey good?” Drift held up two different brands by the necks in one hand and the syrup in the other.

Swerve pointed at the smaller of the two whiskeys, “That one’s the better one, and I didn’t name the thing man. I just know it’s a warm drink and a good night cap.”

Pulling up a table, Drift handed over the new ingredients and the still hot pot with the rest of the tea. With a gleam in his eye, Swerve did a little alchemy and re-poured the steaming drinks.

Drift blew on his drink and tried a sip with an impressed hum. “You a bartender or something?”

“Ah no.” Swerve rubbed the back of his neck with a warmed hand. “I’d love to! But life didn’t really work out that way. Turns out a degree in metallurgy isn’t actually that useful, so now I just do random small repair jobs.”

Swerve took a drink himself and reflected the question back to Drift. “So what do you do?”

He didn’t miss the way Drift stiffened and glance at the weapons still tied to his sides. “Civil Rights Activist.”

“Cool.”

And Swerve quickly chugged his tea. Nearly coughing it back up when a leviathans angry shriek broke through the air. Instantly, Drift was back on his feet, hands resting on his guns and silently stalking towards the edge of the roof.

No one moved in the pouring rain. With bated breath, Swerve realized even the mers looked scared, and that all of them were watching Drift in tense anticipation.

After what felt like ages, the hunter relaxed, letting his shoulders visibly drop and taking his hands off his weapons. Exhaling, Doc rumbled something that settled down the two smaller mers.

“So we’re safe? T-the monster can’t reach us here right?”

Taking his place back on the couch, Drift stared into the depths of his mug, swirling it lightly. “We’re as safe as we can get and no, the Umi Inu can’t reach us because something just killed it.”

“Oh!” Swerve whispered. “What is an Umi Inu and what do you mean something just killed one?”

“Creatures of the depths. They’re…sick with something. Makes them voracious. Aggressive beyond all reason. Animals can be full. But those things? They’ll eat until their stomach lining gives out and then keep on going.” The way Drift spoke, there was an intimacy in his words and a distance in his eyes.

He downed his drink in one go without fear of being burnt. “As for what killed the one we heard? Probably Orca mers. Or something bigger.”

The longer they spoke, the further Swerve sunk into the couch. “So, just to recap: The tides are just straight up broken. There’s mutant sea monsters and worse out there. And the only reason we’re still alive is because some mers, which have actually been people all along, took pity on our sorry asses?”

Pouring himself another cup, Drift just shrugged. “Pretty much. But just from the size of the numbers involved, there absolutely should be more survivors than us.”

That, was not comforting.

Drift stared out into the rising sea. “I don’t know where the living have gone, but I definitely know what’s happened to the dead.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you really haven’t seen any other humans?” Even though he was preoccupied setting up a medical pool, Ratchet still managed to watch Blurr like a shark. He hadn’t liked what he found when doing his medical examination and it showed.

Bored out of his mind, Blurr swam small laps around the featureless pool. He kept coming up to breath the air instead of the water as it had a bizarre chemical aftertaste he couldn’t get used to.

“I saw plenty when I first got into the city. Mostly dead ones, but there were a bunch on those “boats” going around and picking up other humans.” Blurr hadn’t paid much attention to them at the time, none of the humans looked like Orange so he didn’t linger.

“The boats looked different from the ones I usually saw near the rec center so I have no idea where they went. I found Orange stuck clinging to a pillar down some really narrow channels. Guess they just missed him.”

“Sounds like you got there pretty quick. We found ours trapped under some rubble but not until it was already daylight. He probably got missed too.” Roddy added while he helped finish the assembly of the portable medical pool, snapping on a tarp over the frame.

“Oh!” Blurr splashed onto the edge of the pool. “Okay this is gonna sound slightly insane but right before your human jumped us-“

“He did not jump you-“

“My turn to talk.” Blurr cut the doctor off. “We ran into this pack of like, baby humans? And get this: they were speaking mer.”

“Woah freaky. Didn’t know they could do that. Also, you literally had a bunch of humans talk to you and you still thought they were animals?” The smaller sea Lion snorted, pushing the tub under the downspout of a gutter.

Before Blurr could defend himself with such compelling arguments as “Hey, all my blood was rushing to my head, I was upside down!” And “Don’t ask why I was upside down.” Ratchet interrupted, voice heavy with concern.

“They were kits? All alone with no adults?”

“Eeeeeeh not exactly.” Blurr whistled in a dropping tone. “First off, they all talked like a bunch of fancy little aristocrats, and second, they all got called away by a Parents Recall song. Soooo some mer out there has definitely done some Surprise-Baby-Acquisition I think.”

Ratchet stared out over the storm struck city, no doubt thinking about the kits that must still be out there. “You human must have been awfully worried for them.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Creepiest thing I’ve even seen in my life. They all just fled in perfect unison like some Children of the Corn type shit.” As more of the tea and whiskey warmed their chests, Swerve gained more and more confidence to vent about mutant leviathans, demon orcas and possessed fish-children among other grievances.

Drift was decidedly not paying attention, laser focused on Doc who was in the process of picking up Blue a placing him into some kind of portable pool. His leg bounced rapidly up and down.

“You doing okay?”

Some unseen damn must have snapped because Drift broke into a nearly manic rant once Swerve had given the opening. “I’m in love with the fuckin’ mer! Okay?! And I feel so fuckin’ weird about it!”

“Well, hey you know I can’t judge.”

Drift flopped back on the couch, face covered with his hands and letting out a restrained scream. “That’s not it dude! It’s not weird cause of him it’s cause of me. I-I used to be a poacher and I- I was there when it happened. I was there when they just fuckin’ carved him up and I barely did shit to help.”

“I didn’t even know he survived! And now he’s just so fuckin’ kind and gentle with me like I wasn’t one of them. Like I’d never helped carve up every poor fucker we caught before him. I-“ Drift stopped abruptly, palms pressed hard against his eyes as he visibly inhaled, held, then released his breath in a practiced cycle.

“Oooo” Swerve poured them both another drink, then patted Drift on the leg. “Yeah you suck pretty bad.”

“What?” Drift peeked at him between his fingers.

“What? You suck. That’s evil. You did an evil thing and I’m not gonna go all “oh it’s totally okay you did terrible things to innocent people! You only meant to torture stupid animals instead!” And I don’t think you want anyone to tell you it was okay either.” He capped it off by handing Drift another drink which was accepted with befuddlement.

“I- thanks.”

About then, Red ambled over to investigate what the humans were up to. The mer zeroed in on the pot, lifting and sniffing the concoction with clear interest.

“Quick segue: can mers have whiskey?”

Drift kicked up off the couch. “You gonna stop him?”

“Nope.” And Swerve watched as Drift went back in the direction of the kitchen to make another batch of tea and collect more mugs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Should he be drinking that? And more importantly can I have some too?” Blurr craned his neck around the stellar mer as Ratchet tore open a couple packets of hospital grade sea salt, stirring it into the now filled tub.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ratchet eyed the steaming concoction. “Speaking as a medical professional, you should never eat or drink something you don’t know the origins of.

He sniffed, “Speaking as someone who recognizes some of those bottles from his younger years, it’s just human made alcohol. Roddy’ll be fine.”

“Buuuut I can have some?”

“Nope. You’ve been over taxing your heart, your gills are in danger of desiccation and you are goddamn lucky none of those cuts are showing signs of infection.” He chided as he lifted Blurr from the pool to the tub.

“I’m still not hearing anything to do with my liver. Besides, I’m supposed to be relaxing right? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a Hot Dotty?” Blurr flapped his hands flippantly.

“What in the depths is a Hot Dotty?”

“I didn’t name it.” Blurr interrupted. “C’mon doc, it’s a nightcap. One drink, I’ll conk out and you won’t have to deal with me going stir crazy all night in here.” To punctuate his point, Blurr attempted to twist around in the portable tub like a toddler forced to attend a wedding ceremony.

The stellar mer wiped a hand down his face, “One drink.”

Blurr grinned like a mako and made grabby hands in the direction of the others. “Great! Now push me closer.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The thunder rumbled like a big man’s laughter, the sort of sound that reverberated in your belly until you couldn’t help but shake with it.

“What wOulD you Do if I SAng OuT of TuNE?”

They were gathered around a full couch and empty glasses, the humans carrying on a song almost as poorly as Roddy barking along.

“WoULd YUo STanD up aN’ wAlK ouT ON mE?”

Blurr was surprisingly following along the best, sprawled halfway out of the tub and whistling a soprano accompaniment to the discordant melody.

“OOOOHH I geT byyy WIth a LITTLE helP frOm my FrIEnds!”

Ratchet rode a heavy buzz, humming with enough bass to subtly rattle the lighter cups still on the table.

“OHHH I get- I GEt DRY withalil’helpfromourfriendds!”

The two humans dissolved into incoherent laughter, falling over one another. Face down, Drift pounded his fist against the couch to get his breathing back under control.

Swerve retied his towel cape and looked over to the former poacher with a shit eating grin. “Hey. Hey Driff. Did’u see the Matrix when’it came ouw?”

The poacher took a couple deep breaths, coughing lightly from exertion before responding. “Yea? Saw it in therter- theatres an’ shit.”

All smiles, Swerve dropped the punchline, “I wasn’t born yet.”

“Oh FUCK you!”

Throwing a balled up towel at Swerves face did nothing to stem his hysterical laughter. Despite his pride, Drift was loosing it just as much. He had to squeeze his ribs to get his wheezing back under control again.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Swerve managed to sit upright. “You-ha ha! Could’u pour me ‘nother cup?”

Tucking Roddy under his arm to avoid dropping the sniggering mer onto the floor, Drift squinted at the table like an old lady who’d lost her Glock.

“Uhhh, looks like we’re finally out. Want t’read the leaves?” Most of the cups were on the floor by then, but Drift grabbed a couple within reach.

“Ooo you’re uh, you’re a what’cha’ma’call’it.” Swerve snapped his fingers. “A medium!”

“Oracle. And naw, I’m not profeshin- profeshen-whatever.” Drift handed over a mug. “Take your cup an’ focus on what shapes the leaves make.”

By then, Ratchet had must have decided it was time to turn in for the night. The mostly sober mer went about tucking Blurr back into his tub and then dimming a few of the lanterns around the bar.

Quiet and droopy, the humans stared into their empty cups trying to make some sense of their futures.

“Whad’did you see?” Swerve broke the reverie first.

“I see two harpoons, crossed over an unmarked grave. The earth looks freshly turned, like something has crawled to the surface.” His voice had gone husky again, eyes boring through the bottom of his cup and deep into where the midnight water churned beneath. “The ground is still wet.”

“Oh.” Swerve held out his cup. “Mine looks like it spells ABBA.”

Drift leaned over to look. “Nice.”

The couch wasn’t huge, but it was long enough to sleep on as long as no one started kicking. Rearranging their blanket nest, Swerve laid facing his mer.

He tapped the edge of the tub, rousing the mer who blinked one eye at him. “Hi.” He whispered.

Eye lids unable to fight gravity, Blue clicked twice and sunk back under. One hand snaked out of the water and lightly grasped Swerves wrist, just holding on.

The human felt warm and floaty in a way he hoped lasted forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mer felt like shit and the concept of Crust.

It was barely light out, but morning was already burning an angry red across the sky. Blurr stretched, joints popping from sleeping in such cramped quarters for the night.

“Mornin’.” Ratchet was already up, packing up his supplies and securing the straps holding it all in place.

Blurr felt he spoke for them all when he said, “Eeeuuughhhh.”

Orange and Roddy were both still out cold piled onto the couch, but Grey jolted awake. Extricating himself from the couch pile, Grey fumbled to attention at the sight of Ratchet packing up.

“Eugh boy. No, you stay here. Where’s it’s safe.” Emphatically pointing at Grey and then the couch with Roddy and Orange.

“I’m sorry, are you leaving?” Waking up a bit quicker now, Blurr could see it was nearly low tide down there.

The elder mer finished securing his supplies, “This’ll be the best time to search for any other human survivors. I’m especially concerned about those kits you mentioned and whoever they might of bonded with. Roddy will stay with you and the humans while I’ll search alone.”

He directed that last word at Grey, who showed no signs of following it even if he could understand.

Blurr side eyed the severely hungover and still unconscious mer that supposedly would be keeping Grey from freaking out on them again.

Even now, they still weren’t sure what made Grey flip like that, but Blurr had a theory he only acted sweet for Ratchet in particular.

His tail flicked the way it did when Blurr didn’t get what he wanted. Then he smiled the way he did when he’d figured out how to get it anyways.

“You know, I’ve seen some of those monsters crawl before. For sure quicker than what you can do over flat land. Doesn’t it make more sense for you to take Grey along since we’re all perfectly safe and all?” The mer tried to look casual, folding his arms under his chin.

Ratchet grunted, not yet convinced.

Okay, new angle.

He pretended he didn’t have a grudge for a minute, “Grey also did a really good job getting Orange to go along with the check up! Wouldn’t it be super helpful to bring along someone who can actually talk to any humans you find? Stress can be bad for the heart you know.”

Glancing back at Blurr who simply smiled and blinked with saccharine innocence, Ratchet gave him an utterly flat look. What did break the doc however, was when he looked at Grey, so full of hope and hurt that turning him away would’ve been downright cruel.

“Okay fine.” No sooner did Ratchet wave for the human to join him than did Grey practically leap to his side.

“RODDY.”

The sea Lion woke with a heart attack, blearily looking around. “Whaddieu?”

“I’m going to look for more survivors with the Kit, hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

“Hemngg..yessir.” Roddy saluted and then immediately passed out again. Remarkably, Orange continued to sleep through the whole thing.

The duo slid down the ship turned ramp and disappeared into the ruins below.

————

Several hours later, Blurr was swimming circles again in the larger pool, once more bored out of his skull. By the time the tide had started filling out the water again, Roddy had decided to see if he could catch them some late breakfast.

Orange still wasn’t awake. Blurr had asked the mer to check on him, make sure he hadn’t choked to death in his sleep or anything, and Roddy confirmed he was still breathing.

“He’s like, kinda damp all over? And his breathing sounds a little wheezy but there’s not really anything I can do about that.” Roddy slipped a hand under Oranges hair and against his neck. “Pulse feels fine, I think he’s just exhausted from carrying your ass across the the tri state area.”

Excuse you, it was a mutual carrying of asses.

He rested his arms on the edge of the pool, staring out over the flooding city. Humans were people. The scale of the destruction held a new weight that made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

There was a sound then. Distant enough that Blurr thought he’d imagined it at first, then it sounded again. Something like a whale groaning in a long low wail that echoed off into nothing.

In the far distance, a large shape drifted out from behind a skyscraper. A steel wedge of dark rusted metal, it wore a garland of chains and nets. It lacked the white billowing cloths on top Blurr was used to seeing, but even ugly as hell, the mer still recognized what it was.

A boat? A boat! Humans! People! Help!

Neither sea Lion had returned yet, so it was up to him. Blurr dragged himself back to the temp pool next to Orange. He shook their shoulder hard, “Orange, Orange!”

The human furrowed his brow, glassy eyes slowly wavering open. “Bloo?”

“Hiya sweetheart.” Blurr greeted him softly and pointed out towards the boat. “Look! There’s other humans, there’s help. You’re gonna be okay! We made it!”

The human looked deeply confused, squinting in the vague direction of the still distant shape. The horn sounded again and Orange suddenly righted. The human pointed at the ship and blubbered something excitedly.

“Yes yes! Come on! We need to get their attention!” Blurr dragged their human off the couch and scrambled back to the pool. Darting across and nearly throwing himself onto to railing, Blurr let out an almighty whistle that sent a flock of seagulls into flight.

Stumbling, Orange tumbled into the railing next to him. Shouting and waving a towel above his head in hopes of getting their attention.

The ship blared its horn twice and began to turn in the direction of their base, belching black smoke from a rattling chimney. Nearly a dozen humans were gathered on the deck of the ship.

He’d done it. He’s saved Orange. He’d never saved anyone before. It was fucking traumatizing on multiple occasions, but fuck it, they won!

Blurr whooped, pushing off the railing and splashing back into the pool. He laughed lighter and more freely than he had in months. He swam back to his humans side, and then paused.

The boat was close enough to dock.

And Orange had gone very, very quiet.

———————————————————————

Hooray! They’re saved! The story is over!

What’s that?

Nooo that boat wasn’t described with excessive menace at all, you must be imagining things.

My chapter estimates don’t have the best track record but currently we’re a couple chapters from the end. I have a plan.

Bonus: Drift was and is still extremely hungover, but that’s not going to stop him from following Ratchet to the ends of the earth.

- SSTP

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik flies. Ghost pines. Price... considers.

cw: hints of a future polyamorous relationship.

“Whit's he daein'?” Soap asked, folding his arms and legs as he watched Nik in the near distance.

Price looked up from the report in his lap, roll up twitching between his lips. Nik was pacing back and forth, fists, hands and arms moving in rhythmic, practised motions in front of his chest, by his hips, occasionally twisting behind him. But there was no opponent, only the imaginary one in Nik's head in the shape of the jet he was about to fly. “Shadowboxin.”

“Aye, ah c’n see tha’, sir. How come?”

Simon shifted on Price's right. He had been watching Nik with a palpable hunger. Even with his mask, the intensity of his gaze was hard to miss. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost husky. Like he was wading out of deeper, warmer thoughts. “Trainin’ exercise to practice his spatial awareness, coordination, and muscle memory before gettin’ in the cockpit. That thing ain’t his Black Hawk. Whole different animal. Second fastest jet in service.”

“That thing? S’massive. Na wey it kin shift. He'd ‘ave more fun in an F-15.”

The Foxbat was the size of a World War II heavy bomber — nine feet longer than an Avro Lancaster, two and a half feet taller than a B-24 and with a gross weight almost twenty-seven thousand pounds heavier than a Boeing B-17. Price had seen old black and white photographs on Nik's phone of Soviet technicians servicing the damn thing; they’d looked like toy soldiers scurrying around in its shadow.

The ride in the MiG-25 was a gift from Laswell as a thank you for Nik's help on a black op. Not even Price knew much about it, but it had to have been gnarly for her to pull this many strings. The Foxbat was fully fuelled and Nik's flight plan had been filed. Nik was going to throw that tank of an aircraft around the skies like he was twenty-two again, and he'd been vibrating with excitement during the walk out.

“Big man, big plane,” Simon murmured, “and he's got’a special attachment to it, even though it's a bit shite.”

Price plucked his cigarette from his mouth and tapped the ash onto the concrete by his thigh, considering Simon closely. There had been a change in him recently, especially around Nik. He spent a lot of time watching Nik - all out staring, as Simon was prone to do - standing close to him during briefings, finding reasons to talk to him in down time. He was flirting without realising it. Price knew why. Nik had told him about the hair incident, and asked whether there was any possibility of enticing Simon into a little more.

Honestly? Price had laughed at the time. ‘Better chance of gettin’ a gobby off of Makarov’ had been his exact words. But now that he had watched Simon around Nik for a month, he wasn't so sure his initial assessment was accurate. Even now, his body was enticed towards Nik. His arms were folded but his posture was open, upper back against the wall but hips in Nik's direction, his feet spread, shifting and twitching like there was something bubbling beneath his skin.

“Oh aye? Why's he so keen on it then?” Soap asked, giving Simon the side eye. The sergeant wasn't thick; he'd seen it too.

“Foxbat scared the Americans shitless during the Cold War. They got these spy satellite photos showin’ that beast, engine intakes the size of small cars. Big wings, potential for more maneuverability ‘an the F-4 Phantom II. But a pilot called Viktor Belenko defected and showed her to be a dud. Wife divorcin’ him, disaffected with communist society. In 1976, he left his sortie and went to Japan. Landed at Hakodate, overran the runway, shut down with only thirty seconds of fuel remainin’. Handed ‘em a brand new Foxbat and a fockin’ trainin’ manual to dissect.”

Simon rattled it all off without pause, and Price had to fight his grin to keep his expression passive. Well, that bloody well confirmed it. Simon had hyperfixated on the plane that Nik treasured. There were probably several more encyclopedias worth of knowledge on the damn thing in his head, ready to use with Nik later. That was how Simon tried to connect with people; shitty jokes and learning about them through what they loved.

“‘Ow the fuck d’ye know all that?” Soap asked, smirking. He'd sussed it too.

“I read,” Simon said dryly. “Try it some time.”

“Och, baltic, sir.” Soap sniffed, head tilting the other way. “So, he feels some kinda kindred spirit with Belenko.”

Simon shrugged. “Maybe. Or he's a fockin’ plane nerd and flyin’ that thing would be like the old man wankin’ over those Nortons at Bletchley Park.”

“Yeah, wondered when it'd be my turn,” Price growled, rolling his eyes.

“At least it dunnae need a drip tray and a prayer to stay together, eh?”

“Ya tolkin’ about Price or the bikes?” Simon's head lolled to the side as he spoke, tone rife with wry amusement.

Soap cackled, and Price slapped the folder closed in his lap. “Olrigh’, can it, ya muppets.”

“Aye, sir. Ah, look, mus’ be his slot.”

They watched the Foxbat taxi down the runway under the direction of the flight crew, their exaggerated hand gestures and bouncing completely alien to the three soldiers sitting by the hanger but clearly recognisable to Nik, who made a hand gesture in return before he looked forward.

Price returned his cigarette to his mouth, leaning back to watch Nik climb the jet as the flight crew assembled. Time to take off. Nik bounced a little on his toes before he hauled himself up to the cockpit, shoving the headset and helmet on, aviators still in place because Nik was absolutely permitted his cornier foibles. This was a dream come true for him. Laswell had outdone herself.

Price grabbed the ear defenders nearby and chucked another set across to Soap; Simon was already prepared. The engines roared into life, making the air shimmer with heat and power, and the big jet accelerated down the runway, leaving the tarmac in one of the smoothest take offs Price had ever seen. Well, of course it was; it was Nik after all.

The Foxbat disappeared above the clouds quickly and Price glanced over at Simon. He didn't move until the grey smudge reappeared against the open skies further to the east. The jet rolled and banked, ascending almost vertical for a stall turn that made even Price's belly do a little flip. It shot back past the hanger, the sound of its engines lagging behind its visible position as Nik pushed it hard. Price wished he could hear Nik whooping and rambling in Russian; air traffic control were probably feeling a little uneasy.

Simon never dropped his chin. He remained stoic, his arms folded, but his mind was up in the clouds with Nik. They both were. The difference was that Price knew he would be unzipping that flight suit later and enjoying everything underneath, whereas Simon would deprive himself for fear of being hurt, no matter how much he wanted it. Price hummed, stubbing out his cigarette. Perhaps it was time to indulge Nik’s curiosity, and his own carefully managed and suppressed feelings. Simon wasn't the only one who had denied the obvious for self preservation.

Eventually, the flight had to come to an end. Nik brought the Foxbat down gently, the landing gear screeching against the tarmac briefly as Nik negotiated the short runway. He taxied back round to park her almost exactly where he had pulled away from, and Price smirked as the cockpit popped open and a jubilant Russian bounced up with a roar of triumph, big arms in the air.

Ghost stooped down to his bag and Price heard the tinkle of glass as he removed his ear defenders. Simon clutched four empty glasses in his big hands and jutted his chin at the Foxbat as he glanced down at Price. “Comin’?”

“Lead the way,” Price said, grunting as he rolled to his feet.

“Ey, where's the liquor?” Soap asked as he followed.

“Mechanics used t’ call this thing the Flyin’ Restaurant,” Price said. “The air-conditioning relies on evaporation of distilled water an’ about two hundred and forty litres of pure grain alcohol. She's still got some’uv the brew in her tank."

Soap’s nose wrinkled. “Ye hae tae be jokin’. Yer gonnae drink outta the feckin’ jet?”

“Abso-fockin’-lutely,” Simon said.

Nik greeted them with all the energy of an excited puppy, gesturing at the jet and spilling in and out of Russian and English like his brain was struggling to come down from the sky. His face lit up further when he spotted the glasses in Simon's hands, slapping the lieutenant on the shoulder with a surprised, booming laugh.

The air crew left them to it and Nik did the honours. It helped that the small bowsers used to refill the air-conditioning system had conveniently placed spigots to tap the Foxbat-shaped keg.

“Poyekhali!” Nik said before he knocked back his mouthful of Foxbat bloody moonshine. Soap choked and coughed on his, and Simon grunted in discomfort.

Price grinned, toasting his own. “Za zdorovye, comrade.” He took a deep breath before downing the lot. Oh it bloody burned.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Oh imagine Iron Fan meeting the triplets-

She didn't really believe her husband or her son when they told her that Wukong had three babies because she really can't believe Wukong wouldn't figure out that donating dao= actual babies.

Then the family is released from the scroll of memory by a very concerned Xiaotian and Xiaojiao, Wukong, and three small babies. Thunder, the shyest one, reaches out first to meet his aunt.

Iron Fan hadn't been around during New Years to meet the triplets like her boys had. When her husband rushed home (son in tow) and told her that Sun Wukong had three very young cubs, PIF was intrigued.

Her first question was obvious: Whom was responsible?

DBK, trying not to laugh: "You would not believe me if I told you." PIF, smirking as she sips tea: "I am rarely surprised." DBK: "The Macaque." PIF, teacup rattles slightly: "...I will admit, that is surprising. But I thought Macaque had long since past?" DBK: "It appears that our late brother left behind three pieces of his soul on Flower Fruit Mountain to guard his effects. After his passing, Brother Wukong could not bear parting with the shadows of his mate - and began pouring his own life energy into them." PIF, understanding: "Ah. Supplying the Yang to the Yin. No wonder. I would have done the same if you had left shadows of your own." DBK, chuckling: "He certainly hadn't known that when they formed!" PIF, suppressing a laugh: "Pardon?!"

Red Son supplies photographic proof (shared by Mei) of the shadowy monkey cubs playing with Noodle Boy on the airship, and reuniting with their "Mother" Sun Wukong once freed. Little dark fluffy things with red markings on their faces, and gleaming red-orange eyes.

PIF: "That one in his arms... they are smaller than their siblings." DBK: "Wukong explained that he had not known of the third shadow until the elder two had fully formed. It was still too underdeveloped to separate from him when he had been captured." PIF, sympathetic: "Oh, poor dear... I hope you scolded him for putting himself and his baby in danger!" DBK: "You know I did. Although I had been distracted at the time - the littlest one had chosen that moment to finally break away from his parent and exist in this plane!" PIF, adoring: "Aww."

Having birthed a child with special needs herself, Iron Fan feels a kinship with the smallest of Wukong' children.

She doesn't manage to meet them until her release from the Scroll in S4. The Macaque had apparently been revived, and even under threat of his new master, had ensured his cubs and mate were kept safely together.

(*the Demon Bull Family are released from their Scrolls*) DBK, shuddering: "I did not care for those 500 years under that mountain. But at least I relived falling in love with you all over again." PIF, light blush: "My hopeless romantic." MK, sighs with relief: "Whew! Glad we didn't have to drag you guys out of a memory or anything." Mei, hugging Red Son: "Well except for ol' Red Boy here. He was so cute as a baby!" Red Son, embarrassed: "I was running around naked, setting the countryside ablaze!" DBK & PIF: (*"Aww" as they remember*) Mei: "Case in point; totes adorbs." Red Son: (*grumbling*) Wukong, holding a cub: "I'm just glad all of you are okay. Azure did not make it easy for us." Macaque, carrying the other two cubs: "Especially since the cubs tried to join in the fight." (*baby-talking to the cubs*) "Yes you did! You tried biting Peng's tail feathers off. Yes you did! You wanted to be like your Baba and fight the mean birdie!" Rumble & Savage: (*happily babbling chirps!*) PIF & DBK: (*looks at the scene with a mixture of adoring and sadness*) Thunder: (*silently hops out of Wukong's arms and toddles towards the Princess*) Thunder, holding up arms: "AH!" PIF, stunned: "...pardon?" Wukong, knowing smile: "He means Up. Thunder has been exercising getting farther away from me. He wants you to pick him up so he can properly say Hi." PIF: (*looking down at the cub, she silently lifts him into her arms. The tiny hands reaching up to inspect her horned hairstyle ala Maleficent 2014*) Thunder, amazed: "Ah!" PIF, smile slowly forming: "Hello little one. I've heard much about you." Thunder: (*sniffing her face and nuzzling against her cheek, making happy chirping sounds*) PIF: (*silent tears forming. She would fight Heaven for this baby*)

She about to ask Bull to try for another baby, cus gotdamn Wukong and Macaque's brood make her want at least three more.

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

(UN)FINISHED CHEMISTRY

a/n: This second part was requested. Enjoy!

PART 1: (UN)FINISHED BUSINESS

jude bellingham x exgf!reader

warnings: a bit suggestive... Also, someone teach me how to come up with titles.

summary: Not enough time has passed for them to see each other again, yet Jude and she are forced to interact once more in another of Adidas’ “wonderful” campaigns. This time, though, they’re a bit closer...

The second photoshoot wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. In fact, they had both hoped to avoid each other for as long as possible, but fate—or rather, Adidas—had other plans. Just two weeks after their last encounter, they found themselves in another sterile, brightly lit studio. This time, the set was more intimate. Dimmed lights, softer tones, and a background that screamed "romance." It was all part of Adidas’ latest campaign for their new sportswear line: “Body connection.”

Right. Body connection.

Jude arrived first, dressed in a fitted black T-shirt and grey sweat pants, his athletic physique on full display. He scanned the room, taking in the atmosphere. The set was designed to look like a private gym, sleek and modern, with cushioned mats, low lights, and a few props—an exercise bench, a yoga mat, and a punching bag. It all screamed tension and sweat.

It would’ve been the perfect setting for anyone else. But when she walked in, the air shifted.

She appeared, effortlessly stunning in a sports bra and high-waisted leggings, both in deep navy that contrasted beautifully with her skin. Her hair was tied up this time, giving her a fierce, no-nonsense look. But Jude saw the way her eyes flickered when they landed on him. She was nervous, just like last time.

But it was different today. The tension wasn’t just from unfinished business or bitter memories—it was from the photoshoot brief itself.

The photographer clapped his hands as soon as she stepped onto the set. “Alright, everyone! Let’s pick up where we left off. This time, we’re focusing on physicality. I want to see raw energy, that connection. Jude, you’re going to be guiding her through some workout moves. Maybe a bit of flexibility. Close contact. Real, physical chemistry.”

Physical chemistry.

Jude swallowed hard.

Her breath hitched.

As she stepped closer, her face unreadable, they stood barely a foot apart. The energy between them crackled, and neither could deny it this time.

“Alright, let’s start with something simple. Jude, stand behind her and guide her through some stretching. Show her how to do it right,” the photographer directed, oblivious to the wildfire about to ignite between them.

Jude moved behind her as instructed, his body looming over hers as she bent forward, preparing for the stretch. His hands hovered just above her hips hesitant before they made contact, his touch firm but gentle as he guided her posture. His fingers splayed over her waist, his thumbs grazing the skin just above her waistband. She stiffened for a moment, the contact electrifying, but forced herself to stay composed.

"You’re tense," he whispered against the back of her neck, so low only she could hear. "You need to loosen up."

She wanted to snap back at him, to tell him to keep his hands to himself, but his touch—it was familiar. Too familiar. Her skin tingled where his fingers rested, her pulse quickening in a way that both thrilled and terrified her.

Jude’s voice was controlled, low and steady, but there was a heat behind it that wasn’t just for the camera. “Lean into me.”

She hesitated, her body betraying her as she shifted her weight slightly back. She could feel the hardness of his chest pressing into her back, his breath grazing her ear. He leaned in closer, their proximity leaving nothing to the imagination.

She bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile as his breath ghosted across her neck. “This is supposed to be professional.”

“Right,” he said, his voice teasing. “Because nothing says professional like having your ex feel you up.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the flutter of excitement his words ignited within her. The pull between them was undeniable, and Jude could sense it.

The photographer was completely oblivious to the tension building between them. “Perfect, perfect! Now, Jude, step in front of her. I want you two to do some light sparring, playful but intense.”

They broke apart, and for a second, she felt a strange emptiness where his body had been. Shaking it off, she took her stance, fists up, eyes locked on his. This time, she was ready to match him, toe to toe. Jude grinned, that infuriatingly confident smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, raising his fists. “I know you want to punch me.”

The playful challenge in his voice lit a fire in her, and she threw a light punch at his chest. He caught her wrist with ease, spinning her around so her back was against him once more, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. The motion was swift, almost too quick for her to react, and suddenly she found herself pinned against his body, her breath hitching as his grip tightened.

Of course, the photographer was delighted.

For a split second, the world fell away. It was just the two of them. His hand on her stomach, his breath at her neck, his body flush against hers.

“Easy,” he whispered, his lips dangerously close to her ear. His fingers slid along her skin, resting just under her ribs as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. The heat between them was almost unbearable now.

She felt the muscle in her jaw tighten, trying to keep herself from melting into him. “Let go of me.”

Jude’s smirk deepened, but he released her slowly, savoring the feel of her slipping from his grasp. As she turned to face him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with a mixture of anger and something else, she realized they were far beyond the point of pretending.

"Alright, alright, let’s move on," the photographer called, completely unaware of the silent storm brewing between them. "Jude, lift her like you’re helping her with a pull-up. Close contact, show that strength. We want it to look intense.”

Jude raised a brow, and she shot him a warning glance. “Careful Bellingham…”

He chuckled shortly and stepped forward, slipping his hands around her waist again, this time lifting her effortlessly off the ground as she gripped a pull-up bar above her. As her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist for balance, she felt the undeniable semi-hard length of him pressing against her.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered, half to herself, half to him.

She could feel his breath on her lips, his heartbeat against her own. Her body was practically molded to his, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded into oblivion.

Jude held her there, his hands pressing into her lower back, fingers digging in just slightly. “As if this were easy for me,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips grazing her ear as he lowered her back down slowly.

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Did he miss her or did he just hate her? He was playing with fire, and they both knew it. Her breath came faster, her pulse racing as his grip tightened just slightly, their bodies still pressed together.

“You’re tickling me,” she muttered, her voice breathless, but even as she said it, her hands slid down to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

For a second, she thought he might kiss her. His eyes darkened, flicking to her lips, and she could see the struggle within him—the same one she was battling. But instead, he pulled back just enough to let her go, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m not falling Y/N,” he whispered again, that same taunting edge in his voice.

She half-pouted, but before she could respond, the photographer chimed in with one final instruction, completely oblivious to the electric storm between them. "That’s a wrap! Great work, guys! The chemistry is unreal."

Jude gave her one last lingering look, his eyes burning with unspoken words, and then he stepped away, leaving her standing there, her body still buzzing from the contact.

As he walked off set, she let out a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. She hated him. But God, she wanted him too.

As the crew began packing up, Y/N stayed rooted to the spot, still feeling the echo of Jude’s touch on her skin. The room had returned to its normal buzz of activity, but her mind was somewhere else, replaying the weight of his hands on her waist, the heat of his breath on her neck, the pressure against her bum...

She reached for her phone, half-expecting to find some mundane message from her manager or a notification of an app. Instead, her heart skipped a beat when Jude’s or rater, the contact named: that arrogant jerk, flashed across the screen.

Body conection? Nailed.

Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at the message for a long moment, the flickering studio lights casting a dim glow across the phone’s screen. She didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything at all. It had been months since she had entered his chat.

A second text buzzed in before she had time to think.

Any idea when round three is?

Her pulse raced, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She bit her lip, the mix of amusement and desire swirling inside her like a storm. Every nerve in her body screamed for her to resist—to keep up the wall she’d built between them and left him on read—but a small part of her, the part that still remembered how things used to be, was tempted to tear it down.

She started typing, paused, then erased the words before starting again. Finally, she sent a single, teasing reply.

Don’t get too comfortable, Bellingham. Next time, I’m throwing the punch.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed again.

His response came almost immediately.

Can’t wait.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It was far from over.

[defmaybe]

I Love You, I’m Sorry

Purple Kiss’ Jang Eunseong/Dosie x Male Reader

1.3k words

Song: Gracie Abrams - I Love You, I’m Sorry

See also: Rockland

Some warning on a discussion of depression

A/N: Part of @mintwithchoco’s prompt exercise!!! It’s very exposition dump-y so apologies for that. Thanks for reading!

–

You were the best but you were the worst

As sick as it sounds, I loved you first

I was a dick, it is what it is

A habit to kick, the age-old curse

–

The sun glares down onto the street you’re walking on. The buildings don’t help in shielding it in the afternoon. To add, they even reflect the light onto you even more. You want a place to cool down; you need a place to cool down.

You pace yourself through the bustling heart of the city, looking for just a cold whisper, but everywhere just seems to be so eager to burn you down to shreds. The gray skyscrapers stare down at you, adding melancholy to the street even more.

You stride and stride in the hellish heat, until…

It’s predictable: the modern interior, white and brown furniture, just so ready to be snapped and posted on Instagram. You hurry into the cafe, trying to catch the breeze of the hard-working air conditioner as much as possible. In the meantime, you look around for a seat for your iced tea, until you meet an eye in the patrons.

Maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s a coincidence, but you just can’t walk away now.

She’s in a light blue blouse and her ripped jeans, hands holding her iced latte. She seems to be working on something on her computer.

Back in college, you failed and failed to find that precious rhythm in engineering. You were far from being a failure, to say, but your social life was dry enough to have her, a medical student who lived miles away, as your closest friend after high school ended. And one day, it fell down. Your closeness induced the dormant codependency within, and she left. It’s the memory you’ve been striving to erase and the mistake you’ve been trying to correct ever since.

It would’ve been easy if you just gave her silence, but there has to be a few dramatic scenes, which include ‘I fucking hate you’ or ‘I can’t say that I love you’. This doesn’t even cover the flurries and flurries of messages yet, up until where she blocked you, and you blocked her.

It’s Jang Eunseong–or sometimes Dosie, the name that has been aching inside you ever since.

Slowly, she reaches forward to get her purse on the opposite chair. She nods while giving you a faint smile.

“Iced Latte, please,” you tell the barista.

Slowly, you walk towards her table, still trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Sweetness?” They respond.

Slowly, you sit down in the chair. Its legs creak as you drag it across the floor.

“Low, thanks.”

Slowly, Dosie starts the proper conversation as you sit down, face-to-face with her for the first time in almost a decade.

“So, how are you?”

A forced smile exudes. You think of an answer that’s enough to garner her attention, but not too desperate. “I’m fine.”

Her sudden departure left you so bereft to where medication is involved. Valdoxan, Lorazepam, Rivotril, Fluoxetine, Trazodone, you name it. You were lucky that you have lived to this exact day even.

Darkness loomed over you, thoughts looped, words lamented with trembles. And to say, it was all your fault for making such a promising relationship to the ugly crash by yourself. You inflicted yourself with this pain.

The waiter brings your coffee to you, the same as hers.

“Doing anything?” She wants more than a ‘fine’.

You give in. “I’m a photographer now, modelling stuff, you know.”

“You’ve always wanted to be one, aren’t you?”

“It’s more fun than being a programmer, definitely.”

A small chuckle escapes Dosie.

“How are you, though? No one told me about you all these years,” you brush your rinsing tears away with a question mark.

“I’m-” She pauses and nods, lips curling inward, eyes pointing away for a second. “Fine, really. I just got promoted at my hospital.”

It’s either a doctor or an engineer here—the path to stability. And if the contrast between the path isn’t stark enough. There’s a hatred between you two to separate them even further.

“So you’re becoming the hospital manager, aren’t you?” chuckling, you say.

Dosie laughs, hands failing to cover her mouth. “Not really, haha, still a department’s second-in-command.” The air seems to lighten up, not suppressing your smile anymore.

“Well, good for you.”

“Anyone yet?” She inquires again, eyes focused on you.

“Friend of a friend.” Another fake, faint smile with a truth. “You?”

“Same shift, on and off, really.”

It’s swift, the way it just landed and took off, robbing you of any sentiment you may deserve. You’ve played this moment back and forth for too many times during the years apart. But when it just comes and goes like this, you just wish she’d ask for more.

You continue, “Do you remember–,” you halt.

She forces out a smile, matching your eyes for a split second.

“I mean–no, I shouldn’t do this, I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“Hey.” Dosie reaches out to you. “It’s fine. I’m your fri–” 

Dosie stops in her tracks; resolve falters, causing you to look back up at her. Her eyes are searching for the right excuse in the crowd outside.

“I’m sorry.”—you struggle to hold back the tears welling in your eyes—“I don’t think I should do this.”

Your voice is quivering.

Dosie opens her mouth without a sound, an unknown word stuck in her throat, whatever it might be. Maybe it’s lost in the chatter of the patrons; maybe it’s lost in the piano from the speakers; maybe it’s lost in the huffing sounds of the coffee machine.

Maybe it’s lost in herself.

“So,” Dosie finally breaks another chain of tranquil, and herself, unsure, yet they bind themselves back as fast as they were ripped apart. You two fell into another gap.

Maybe it’s best that you just stop here.

“I guess I should go,” you say, without any destination in your mind. You adjust yourself to slide the chair out.

“Wait.” As you step, Dosie stops you with her shaky voice. Your feet are still, one leading the other. You can’t quite make out what she's going to say next: an insult, a question, an apology? They teeter inside your head to decide what you can’t choose.

You turn back to meet her anxious look—lips quiver, latte in the mug she’s holding up to her chin vibrating as she puts it down. 

Thump.

“I’m–,” Dosie turns the gears in her head, seeking the right word in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you’re the one who says it. It can’t be the end here, it can’t be, but at least it might be better than those damned years. You turn back away. “I’m sorry that I didn’t fix myself for you.”

“No, no, no, no,” she climbs the scale with each syllable, hands waving off your guilt. She bends forward, is it to see you closer? “I should’ve been there for you, but I was just-”

You look back, seeing that the composure she has tried to keep during the minutes is crumbling.

“I was selfish,” she says, husk lingering in the statement.

“No, Dosie, it was me,” you respond. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess.”

“I–,” Dosie stops before another apology comes out, careful on her next words.

“Will I- Will I see you again?” She breaks the train into another question, head tilting, brows furrowing. Her now-hoarse voice is blended with the piano.

“Maybe.”

–

I tend to laugh whenever I’m sad

I stare at the crash, it actually works

Making amends, this shit never ends

I’m wrong again, wrong again

[yingdu-lover]

Cause I got nothing to lose : Xia Fei, my new hero in Link Click

before any serious shit wrecks havoc I want to ramble a bit

oh my god, I love xia fei. I mean I knew I would love him but that was for a different reason. He is probably gonna die in the near future, probably lu guang's action triggering his death (or he may not die at all! maybe he survives in this timeline, changing a major node! I hope, I hope), he is already a struggling student economically helpless abroad, his 'Emma' vibes are strong, he assures his worrying mother even though he goes through financial hardships. He is smart enough to know he is being exploited (and tbh the theme of surveillance and making him the 'morbid' object of gaze, I say morbid because in the last scene of his pv, it's a dead shot, his eyes look so dead, the camera's battery is dead. But yk what remains? his face card. The like button continually popping with likes made me very uncomfortable. The cinematography, symbolism and metaphor- link click's visual storytelling just never ceases to amaze.) Also how him being a model is not due to his passion, he desperately needs this money to survive (sounds familiar?)

But really...link click was really link clicking when we got xia fei's first appearance. Subtle social commentary at its finest. Not a woman, but a man is being made fun of for his astronomical career growth in exchange for supposed 'sexual favours'. Those ladies were not, in fact, subtle about it. I'll dive deeper into Xia Fei's psychology later but this encounter shows the harsh reality of the entertainment industries, mostly for those who did not join for passion but rather who had no choice.

Also the scene where his roommate. Man. It's important to address how 'casually' harassment can happen and an AMAB person can be a victim too. Anyway when the roommate tells him about ' the gig that pays quick money and they would like a hottie like you!' I couldn't help but flinch, I understand his rage. Of course, it's again insinuated to be something sexual. That's the first impression Xia Fei also has.

His pv is translated as 'lending body' or 'lending skin', ik it may have multiple meanings but one of them is very prominent.

Selling your face. Or maybe selling your body.

The way the camera fixes its gaze on Xia Fei continually, it's not really for fanservice merely. He is this object people ogle at. (and the way liu xiao and vein ogle at him in his pv makes me sick nvm). Even though it's his own body and beauty that makes him famous, he has no autonomy whatsoever. He realises it. That's why he says

Cause I have got nothing to loose

I don't really think link click is about time traveling. It's that archtexual exercise that constantly subverts genres at its level best. You know what, defamiliarise, many people do not like uncool stuff, for example : issues struggling young people actually face in real life, in this late stage capitalism. That's why link click should not reach that demographic of people. I hope it never does. I hope it gets famous within a community who actually understand and resonate with this show.

Also Xia Fei's story talks about another important theme of the donghua; photo! How photos taken in private spheres are meant to preserve memories of the loved ones, loved encounters. How you capture someone you love in that still image, alive with the emotion you associate with them, giving it an afterlife. The photo becomes the literal and metaphorical medium through which Lu Guang can rewrite history. Forget-me-not, remembrance. It empowers him.

On the contrary, for Xia Fei, it is the panopticon seizing his life and rendering it absurd. The emotive power and affect for lu guang changes into viscous institutionalised power politics for Xia Fei. Brilliant! 😭

I can't help but quote a few lines from a poem by Ama Codjoe

On Seeing and Being Seen

I am touching the photograph of my last seduction. It is as slick as a magazine page, as dark as a street darkened by rain.

When I want to remember something beautiful, instead of taking a photograph, I close my eyes. Desire made you beautiful. I closed my eyes.

.... Tonight, I am alone in my tenderness. There is nothing in my hand except a certain grasping. In my mind’s eye, I am stroking your hair with damp fingertips. This is exactly how it happened. On the lit-up hotel bed, I remember thinking, My body is a lens I can look through with my mind.

Lmao I didn't want to write all of this I'm so sorry 😭

So yeah, that was all the impressions hmph before yingdu ep 3. Now.

I want Xia Fei to be my bestie and go with me on friendship dates. Don't get me wrong, I love Cheng Xiaoshi, but he personally feels to be more like a brother to me, who is infuriating at times and that dumb bitch I'll protect at all costs. I want to befriend Xia Fei and it's serious 😭.

Also I would want, in another timeline, Cheng Xiaoshi and him being complete besties, two dumb twinks twinking with each other. Dumb gays basically. We have got INTJ nerd in Lu Guang, it's refreshing to see ENFP nerd in Xia Fei. Xia Fei could effortlessly be the best regular visitor of the time photo studio. I do not want to tear up thinking about him right now but I really want him to be happy...in another timeline. Blooming with happiness, close to his friends and loved ones, content and safe...

talking about loved ones...

I want an AU where he

fixes this mf

I want Vein to experience at least 1/5th of Lu Guang's anguish and melancholy for Xia Fei. I know, I know maybe Vein will kill Xia Fei when he defects, he is just using him from the very beginning but my love, that's what I am saying! In that AU, they will start off all toxic yaoi shit but at the end it will be...he was a cannibal and he was just a guy, their inter-timeline love will change your perception of love!

I mean no sorry, Xia Fei deserves to be loved and why Vein? because that's his punishment. Melancholic love can be the greatest punishment for someone who goes like a vendor and asks random people " would you like some punishment?" no, sir, thank you sir, would YOU like some sincere human emotions that chomp on your conscience? It's called love, it's limited edition but I'll arrange some for you!

Ok, I have got another fic to write 😭

returning to this post because @whispersoflullaby and I were discussing Xia Fei's body dysmorphia which seems specific to AFAB people and queer people. He isn't someone who is proud of his 'beauty', welp, that's odd for a typical handsome cishet person? His 'beauty' is turned against him. Ngl he reminds me of Ash Lynx a bit. You might say that he had a history of abuse and that's why he assumed the 'gig' his roommate mentioned as sex work. But there is more to it. He is definitely not a typical cishet boy, he is not projected to be one either. Even in the short span of ep 3, it's established that Xia Fei has some intimate connections to Vein, irrespective of whether Vein is using him or not. His anger at his roommate's remark feels very close to violating his identity as a queer person. The assumption that queer people are naturally 'lecherous', and they have no morality or anything whatsoever. But when Xia Fei is well established in the industry, this body politics is slightly changed. Money talks in the entertainment industry and money is the power in capitalist business. So those girls gossiping about the rumour that Xia Fei sleeps with the director for his career growth doesn't bother him like before. The most important thing is, he doesn't deny any rumours. He straight up says "Unlike some people, I always go for the best, whether it's a project or connection, isn't it right, boss?" His reply actually reinforces those speculations...it's giving " Yes I am a sugar baby, but ykw I can cry in my Tesla when you can't afford therapy". It's funny how at the end he says, "Right, boss?" to Vein! Link click...when I get you Link Click... *kowtows*

Also, I really wanna know what exactly did Vein say through the phone to get this reaction out of Xia Fei and cancel his plans to return home.

he is pleasantly shocked! You can see his eyes...that's some sincere emotions and then after the shock subsides, a soft look overcomes his expression. He softy sighs.

And also, idk if I am hallucinating but there is a little blush visible near his eyes (it's no longer there when he sighs)...I want to know what Vein said to him 😭 that interaction is shot in a very *jabsjksksdjnd* way, you can't deny it's intimate.

[1800titz]

TDIAG extra | ice skating

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ : 6.6ᴋ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴛᴅɪᴀɢ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

This is genuinely sickening. And the thing is, she looks so smug with herself that he could kiss her and not have a care for the inevitable way he’ll topple over. Probably onto her, if he’s being honest with himself. Really, he only restrains himself for the sake of her wellbeing. He watches her as she slows her pace, lets herself coast the last few feet, and comes to a completely controlled, entirely self-satisfied stop only a foot or so ahead of him. “When?” Stretching her arms up behind her back (and managing to coast an inch forward as she does it, all facile, and simple, and positively too close to basically enraging), the young woman tucks her chin. Her eyebrows climb up her forehead, and her fingertips fork the hair from her updo into two bundles. She tightens the elastic in her mussed hair as she responds, entirely nonchalantly, “When, what?” Harry purses his mouth, chaining back a tide of incredulous, wry amusement, narrowing his eyes at her, “When were you going to tell me you’re a closeted Olympian?”

preview > 1.5K

The next five minutes are spent as follows: Isla glides beside him, hardly moving her limbs, and Harry trails along— albeit, much stiffer— with a deathgrip on the lip of the wall. He wasn’t built for this, he decides. His ancestors did not fight in wars and survive plagues for him to be publicly humiliated by a frozen puddle. 

He looks over, just for a moment, gnawing into his cheek. He’s spent the last twenty minutes hobbling up against the wall like he’s learning to use his own feet for the first time, and his girlfriend is skating beside him, backwards, like some kind of brash ice demon. 

“This is a betrayal,” he comments pointedly, gaze shifting precariously from his own footing to his bemused, usually-clumsier-than-him girlfriend, “this is worse than when I found out you blocked me on instagram.”

Beside him, Isla tuts. Her voice is slick with half-hearted indignation, “I told you— I was stalking you, I accidentally like a picture from your glorious Tarzan Do era—“

Tarzan Do era. Honestly. He rolls his eyes. 

“Which, by the way—“ her fingertips brush over the tufting curls that encircle the shell of his ear. She likes it this way— when it’s grown out a little, when he skips a haircut or two. Enough to curl out in little tendrils over his ear. At the same time, she can’t help but stare longingly at old photographs memorialized on social media— the ones where his hair is long, dangling out over his shoulders majestically— and wonder just how fulfilling it would be to card her fingers through it. Honestly, it’s kind of a blessing he hasn’t caught her red handed, wistful gaze cast to the LED. 

Oh, what could've been. 

“Why haven’t we brought that back? And, anyways, I didn’t want you to think I was a stalker—“

“Which you were and are—“ 

Isla purses her lips, blinking innocently, “And so… I blocked you. Perfectly adequate, reasonable explanation.”

Harry snorts. He stops, then turns his chin to look at his endearing— creepy— little girlfriend. “You are a stalker. You’re my own, little stalker. Accept it, own it. But—“ his brows crinkle and his jade sticks to her stationary feet as the true fact of the matter buoys to the forefront of his mind, “you’re distracting me from the real issue at hand. Treason. This is treason. We are supposed to be in this together. Have you never seen High School Musical?” 

At the childish— admittedly, semi-applicable reference— Isla makes an amused sound. Instead of tackling the actual point he hones on, she digs in on the instagram situation they’ve been unpacking, “You’re telling me you’ve never insta-stalked someone before? Ever?” 

“No. Because someone insta-blocked me before I could exercise the opportunity—“ momentarily, the man glances at her skates, only to discover that she’s doing a cross-over motion as she glides backwards beside him. He frowns. “…How are you doing that with your feet?”

Then he says, “I think my shoes are broken.” 

“They’re skates,” Isla deadpans, hardly managing to curb the amalgamous layers of emotion that threaten to ripple along her features (horror, worry, shit-eating mirth)— as with very, very little warning, her boyfriend skids on the heel-most edge of said skates, ice crackling shallowly under his broken shoes. He only manages to catch himself with a graceless one-two hop and the very fortunate proximity of a wall. 

This is all done by the grace of God, and God only, by the way. Somewhere, an angel has its glowing, porcelain fingers tucked up into the back of the man’s hoodie, dangling him up like a string puppet— and somewhere, a different angel is channeling Isla the strength to not shepherd this man into further humiliation. 

“Right,” the brunette scowls, lifting his chin up slightly from his hunched posture. Blatantly still gathering his bearings. 

One soft, stray curl has sloppily flopped over his forehead in the process, and his chest swells and falls dramatically at the narrowly evaded, near-death experience. Like this, with a ruckle between his pleated eyebrows, the stubborn, pillowy pout his teeth-bared grimace thaws into, and rubescence smearing along the crests of his cheekbones uncharacteristically, he may just look the cutest Isla’s ever seen him. 

Harry motions out with the hand not chalk white-knuckling at the ledge for emphasis, “They’re broken.” 

She can’t choke back her giggle at his words and the unyielding declaration glazing them. Helping him straighten out with her arm stretched out to share balance— rolling her lips into her mouth when Harry wobbles, centering himself— Isla’s shoulders rise up nonchalantly, “Maybe it’s user error.”

Harry groans. Annoyance laces the words as he parrots them, hardly over what can only be described as a mutter under his breath, “User error.”

It's definitely user error. 

Isla sticks to his side, just slowly circling the rink. She’s not going to ask him to hold her hand— not when he looks like he’s negotiating a safe exit method with God himself, entirely still too focused on the wall and the pattern his footsteps have melted into. And she doesn’t mind— not really. But the slow nature of their pace does catch up with her— and the whole thing starts to feel a little frigid. Fast. 

Despite the whole concept behind ice skating, moving fast is actually an excellent deterrent for the imminent chill that goes hand in hand with spinning circles on a frozen puddle. The AC unit ice rinks always operate under— a standard of a perpetual ice box, not unlike a commercial grade freezer— are no help. The young woman doesn’t mind slowing down for her boyfriend— not inherently. But—

A devious thought sparks up behind her skull when she chances a glance at him from the corner of her eye. 

As soon as her fingers wriggle in under the neckline of his hoodie, pressing up to the soft, furnace-like skin of his throat, he wrenches his head back like a cat that’s gotten its face shoved through a slice of sourdough. The consequent hiss from between his teeth is only in accordance. Her mouth twitches as she bites back a bout of giggles and retracts her hands. The scowl he wears is borderline menacing, brows pinched with the zapping maelstrom stirred by the unfavorable motion, strawberry mouth twisted into a frown. 

“Christ. You— fucking— What’s the matter with you?” he bites, eyes narrowed to slits. Honestly, it’s comical. She can only bat her lashes innocuously as his inkpools flash from her face, to her fingers, and back, tone agitated and borderline hysterical, “Are you trying to kill me? I could’ve died. I could’ve just lost my balance and died right there. Cracked my head open and everything.”

“I’m seeking warmth,” she tells him flatly, “Like a Victorian street urchin.”

“Victorian street— Seeking warmth?” Harry spits, “You’re seeking warmth?“

“It’s a survival mechanism.”

“Sticking your icicles onto my neck with no warning is not a survival mechanism, you little heathen,” he argues, warding off the burble of amusement in order to appear more stern, “It’s attempted murder.”

Rifting the gap a little wider, still turned to face him as she skates backwards, Isla raises her hand to press her fingers to her thumb— a universal, mocking symbol intended to imply that he’s just talking to talk. “Yap, yap, yap, Drama, drama— honestly,” she plants her hands onto her hips, raising one shoulder cattily, “this isn’t a very convincing performance of your usual theatrics, Mr. Styles. Do better.”

Harry squares his features. Despite the risk, his arm stretches out, intent on hooking her by the forearm and barreling her back against the breadth of his chest, “I’ll show you a convincing performance—“

Only, he doesn’t anticipate the wide expanse of space between them as, with little effort, Isla arcs her blades in a swizzle, widening the gap. He can only claw out at her, knees bent, like a deranged, helpless madman. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she wags her finger playful, corners of her lips upturned just slightly. When she goads him, a note of unbridled, almost breathlessly giddy mirth tails the words, “Better catch me, first.” 

Harry blinks. His hand is still stretched out to her. She is so, so far away. A grimace forms over his mouth when it registers that, in these circumstances, he is unfortunately, uncharacteristically, stranded without the upper hand. Indefinitely. “You’re kidding. This isn’t fair.”

“This isn’t fair,” she chimes mockingly. By her sides, her hands form into fists, and she stomps her foot against the ice with a blunt clack. The motion only serves to take her further back. Harry glares. Isla taps the pad of her index to her bottom lip in faux-thought as she continues, “Mm, maybe not. Better start using that handy kick-off method. I bet you wish you had that walker now, don’t you?”

“You vile, cheeky, little brat,” Harry starts, voice dangerously low and even, “When I get my hands on you—“

“Oh-ho-ho,” she volleys— a clear ridicule as she juts her chin and puffs her chest— “You’ll what? You’ll do what? I’d like to see you catch me first.”

[brittanyearnestauthor]

Writing Exercises

In today's post, I want to share some writing prompts and exercises to help you practice your craft. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced writer, these ideas will keep your skills sharp and your creativity flowing. I hope the information I've shared has been helpful in some way! If you'd like, feel free to share your work in the comments—let's celebrate those writing skills and watch them grow!

Writing Prompts

1. What if...

- What if one day, the sun didn’t rise, and the world was plunged into a perpetual twilight?

- What if your main character finds an old photograph that changes everything they believed about their family?

- What if a clock in your character's town starts counting backward, and no one knows why?

2. Character Exploration

- Write about a character who always wears gloves—what are they hiding?

- Imagine a shy librarian who secretly moonlights as a fearless vigilante.

- Write a dialogue between an inventor and a critic who doubts their latest creation.

3. Conflict and Plot Ideas

- A scientist discovers a way to erase memories but accidentally erases their own.

- Your protagonist receives a cryptic message in a bottle—what does it say, and who sent it?

- A town is haunted by a melody only a few residents can hear—what's its source, and why are they connected?

Writing Exercises

1. Sensory Writing

- Describe your favorite place using all five senses: What does it smell like? How does it sound? What textures can you feel? Focus on creating an atmosphere.

2. Dialogue Challenge

- Write a scene using only dialogue. No descriptions, no tags—just the characters’ words. Can their voices alone convey the story?

3. Point of View Switch

- Take a short story or scene you love and rewrite it from a completely different character’s perspective. How does it change the narrative?

4. Six-Word Story

- Challenge yourself to write a story in just six words. For example: “Lost keys. Locked doors. Lonely night.”

5. Random Object Inspiration

- Pick a random object near you (like a book, a cup, or a plant) and write a scene where it plays a pivotal role in the story.

Conclusion

I hope you’ve found these prompts and exercises useful. My goal is to help as many writers succeed as possible through my posts. Keep practicing, exploring your creativity, and crafting incredible stories. Happy writing!

[cinamun]

^____^ you know how much i love youuu girl. tell us some fun interesting facts about everyone ( main characters only -- darren jr looks lushhh ;) )

Hey friennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd!

Hmmm lemme see

Indya - Is probably exercising her pelvic floor during any random conversation.

Darren Sr. - Works out very early in the morning but doesn't dunk his face in iced sparkling water or rub banana peels on his face

Hope - Can twerk upside down

Indira - Has a photographic memory

DJ - only grew out his beard because that one chick stole his clippers

[atiny-for-life]

Ateez's Full Storyline Explained - Part 26

Masterlist

Golden Hour: Part 1 - Diary Entries:

Z disappeared, leaving the Z World in the hands of the Black Pirates and Thunder who established a new system in which people can choose to free themselves from the emotional control

Some choose freedom, some choose to remain under the chips' control, creating a two faction system - coexistence is possible and rather peaceful

Everyone now knows of Ateez but, instead of getting to stay and letting themselves be celebrated, Ateez are now back in their world, leaving the Z World in the hands of those who love and care for it, the ones who fought for it

With all the positive feelings of victory still lingering in them, they dream together once again

Hongjoong

Three years pass, they gather their savings, rent an affordable practice room for dancing and singing and accept this world (the A World) in which no one knows them while remembering the world in which they were heroes

However, reality is a bitch and quickly catches up to them

In a capitalistic world, it takes money to make your dreams come true and, quite quickly, that becomes apparent

They barely meet anymore, maybe once or twice a year, and even then only some of them show up (being an adult sucks)

Hongjoong misses them, wants to just spend time with them, but tries to be understanding when they turn him down or fail to come to planned hangouts

While working part time, Hongjoong continues writing in his diary which is how he eventually realizes his memories of the Z-World are fading

To ensure nothing would be lost to time, he creates a blog, documenting their journey and readers begin to pile in, asking for updates and, eventually, a publisher approaches him, offering him a book deal

With a bestseller on the market, Hongjoong gets to hold meet and greets, give lectures, appear on TV, which is how his parents find him and reconnect with him

Ultimately, he now has everything he's been craving and asking for: a family, a career, fame - he should be happy, he has it all

But alone in his room at night, he wonders:

'What is this? This emptiness...' [...] 'Is this what I truly wanted?'

Seonghwa

Hongjoong's book is on Seonghwa's desk, looking at him

A coworker talks about how much his daughter loves it while also insulting it by essentially calling it absurd

Seonghwa can't think of a way to defend it without sounding crazy by revealing his past

Within him, there's still trauma, a world of memories burned into his retina of those poor dead brothers, the Sense Offenders' corpses hung up in the square, all the people who died at the hands of the Android Guardians - he can't forget

He sees them in the streets sometimes, familiar faces, this worlds' versions of the people who died in the Z-World

He still remembers the girl with the 'Be Free' bracelet, the girl who leads Thunder in the Z-World and wonders where she was now in his world and what she would be doing if she were in his position

Figuring she'd tell him to save himself so he could save others, he began focusing on studying, learning about ways to help which helped calm his anxiety, which is how he stumbles upon material regarding an upcoming Candidate Physical Ability Test for the firefighters

He passes, thanks to his regular exercise and dance regiment, knowing it wasn't what he'd dreamed of doing with his life but being able to see and feel he was doing good in the world - the results are tangible

How can he justify giving this up for the vague shared dream of being an idol?

He doesn't receive applause and cheers but he gets the heartfelt gratitude of all the ones he rescues and their families and, thanks to his appearance, he gets selected as the Fire and Disaster Headquarters' yearly calendar model - the photoshoot is nothing but a reminder of the dream he once held onto so tightly

For so long, he had wanted nothing more than to be photographed and seen, but could never make that dream come true... How ironic that he could do so now, but only as a firefighter.

After leaving the set, he returns to his office and picks up Hongjoong's book - it was finally time to read it

Yunho

In Egypt, people gather around a campfire to listen to Yunho's voice and guitar, a song which reminds one of the listeners of a novel they've recently read

While they talk, Yunho wallows in his past

Back in the Z-World, they had a clear enemy, they were united in their goal to defeat him and bring peace, but in A-World, there is no unified villain to strike down

No matter how hard they practiced and busked, he quickly realized regular meetings with all the members wouldn't be achievable for long

This world is colder than Strictland

People want fast intense stimuli, trapped in their short form content feed, no time to watch a full street performance, filming a quick clip they could post to their socials was enough before they moved on

People are apathetic - the laughter and crying comes from their phones but not themselves

Working so hard to put together a song, a choreo, a performance, and never getting spared more than a few seconds of people's time in return was painful, worse than the emotionless faces back in Z-World

Singing and dancing with the members became less and less enjoyable but, whether the others felt the same or not, he doesn't know - they never talked about it

Over time, their meetings become less frequent and his interests change - archaeology is now his prime focus

As Yunho stepped into the ancient pyramid, his thoughts ran wild. Maybe, just maybe, if he could find more otherworldly artifacts, he would be able to travel to another world and go on an adventure with the members once again.

Yeosang

Yeosang built a fortune investing in stock, allowing him to start his own business without being forced to depend on his father

After leaving the Z-World, they all changed, from boys to adults, they had to face a new reality - art, emotions, and dreams are precious but blind belief is dangerous

In this world, art and money go hand-in-hand - while originally created for the rich and noble, new forms of art have also been used by the poor to express emotions, to rebel and protest - the art reflects the power struggle

Right now, money is the biggest obstacle between their group and achieving their dream so Yeosang decided to tackle the problem head on: he reinvented himself, becoming a leader of the investment world - profit in mind but also investing in the arts on the side, even if that meant losing money

One of those investments was Hongjoong's novel.

San

Watching the members go their separate ways one by one was tough - San couldn't stop them but he also couldn't storm out and leave

After a lifetime of constantly moving around, he comes to think drifting may just be written in his life fortune from the start - there was no avoiding it

After another failed practice session, one where half the members hadn't even shown up, he heads out to mope and strikes up a brief conversation with an old man running a snack shop across the street

They talk about dreams, and the old man insists they're less important than sharing love, eating together, and cleaning up their own mess

The words get San thinking

He starts his own food truck and ends up in Jeju where he watches people share food with their loved ones, and gets to sometimes chat with his customers

Through meeting countless people, he quickly learns that most never got to realize their dreams

'So why didn't anyone ever teach us how to live outside of our dreams?' San thought. And he came to an answer of his own. Maybe I need to learn to welcome the reality I've been given, even if it's not the reality I wanted.

Mingi

Despite coming from a broken home, Mingi makes it big, becoming a professional model for a fashion magazine working with high-end designers

When he first started, it was supposed to be a part-time thing, a few bucks on the side, but the magazine blew up and turned him into a high demand model by association

The runway became his stage, his face now plasters street ads and a world famous brand made him their ambassador and calls him their muse

He makes a lot of money, his memories of a childhood in poverty fading, his worries about his grandmother's medical bills a thing of the past

His social media was flooded with adoring comments, his influence far reaching, but when he sees a group of boys busk at the side of the road, he still finds himself hypnotized

At that time, Mingi was overcome with the sense that he had crossed a river he could never cross again. [...] Where Mingi stood now was a place where results and achievements trumped passion and spirit, a place where value could be bought and sold. [...] He couldn't erase that vague feeling of longing.

Opening social media to distract himself, he sees a video of Hongjoong's reunion with his family

Wooyoung

Wooyoung is now a flight attendant (inspired by a drunk hometown friend who told him being on stage wasn't that special - people announcing sales and flight attendants were also giving performances at their jobs)

Looking back, he realizes he wasn't in his right mind when he signed up for flight attendant training, he was just desperate to be on stage somewhere, no matter where and the plane would have to do

After a long time of adrenaline fueled performances in the Z-World amidst that revolution, he now struggles to adjust to being back in the A-World - all the dopamine and adrenaline, the post performance excitement replaced with nothing but dread and anxiety

They couldn't just get back on stage and put on the kind of performances they could in the Z-World - there was no way to build a stage for yourself around here

So yes, deep in his despair, his friend's words offered him an alternative and being a flight attendant sounded like comfort to his growing fear of never being on stage again

While people normally didn't pay attention to the announcement at the start of a flight, Wooyoung's airline was looking to change things by delivering the safety warnings, destination, and flight time as a performance, a song with an accompanying dance number

Eager to volunteer and popular among customers and peers, Wooyoung turned his announcement into a show, grabbing people's attention, earning cheers from everyone

Wooyoung's eyes were drawn to a few people in the crowd who cheered and clapped louder than the rest. It just so happened that Yunho and Mingi were on the exact same plane.

Jongho

Still enraptured by music, Jongho earns his money by recording vocal guides part-time while studying songwriting and musical composition and creating original songs by himself

In the beginning, those songs were meant for his members, giving them something to practice and record together as a group, but being an idol group eventually stopped being feasible so his songs became solos and his career singer-songwriter

He’d already been forced to sacrifice his dream of being a basketball player

He refused to give up on music too

After uploading his songs to MusicCloud for a while, a label approached him, quick to swat his dream of being an idol by asking him to write a song for their upcoming idol group since one of his older songs where he'd sung with his members had grabbed their attention

It was bittersweet but he accepted and, soon, he wasn't just a songwriter but also a vocal coach, a producer - he was okay with staying in the darkness so others could shine on stage

One day, a second year idol group he was working with got into a fight - two members yelling at each other, one wanting to quit and the other shouting about not giving up on your dreams

After several attempts, Jongho finally manages to break up the fight and one of the boys confesses to him he wants to spend more time with his family because they're going through a tough time and being away so much was painful

The conversation reminds Jongho of his fight with Mingi so long ago...

Sitting in the empty recording studio, he played that old group song and raised the volume. The sound of the members' voices pierced through his heart.

[drdemonprince]

I sat on the floor surrounded by all these written words that evoked nothing but painful memories and past failures. I had always been so precious about anything written down, even holding onto papers I wrote in college and every letter anyone ever sent me. In the past it had pained me deeply when I would hear about a writer burning their drafts or a family member throwing away their letters and journals after they died—to me, it seemed that words were the mark of a life, the storehouse of memory, the only real memorial that mattered. It wasn’t that I felt I would someday be famous and researchers would want to cull through the written archive of my life; half a century in, I had no such grand illusions. Nor did I remotely imagine that my children would want someday to read through all these words. I didn’t even like reading them myself. Like photographs, written scraps of the past spark in me a painful sort of nostalgia, full of an anxious feeling of loss. Even the most pleasant memories captured in a snapshot or a postcard become a reminder of everything I don’t remember, a taunt of every moment not held and lived fully, now gone forever. I have photo albums full of pictures of my children’s early years that I never look at, not because they aren’t precious to me, but because they are so very precious to me. Casting an eye back only drives home how ephemeral it all was. And is. And yet, I had collected all these words—words I was sure no one would ever read, words filling notebooks and boxes and accordian files—like a cold-case storage locker full of the evidence of a life still waiting to be solved.

Here in black and white was a grotesque horror-show version of “this is your life.” I had convinced myself that my late-blooming creative life was new, that I had only discovered myself as a writer in my 40’s once my children were both in school. I had told myself that the growing despair in my marriage was a function of the startling discovery that I might be more than pure intellect, that I might in fact have a deep, visceral, erotic well of creativity yearning to bubble out of me. That I might—dare I claim it?—be a writer. I had convinced myself that was all new, like a mystical vision first revealed to me in my 40’s, a calling that I had to leave my marriage in order to pursue. But the words I now read in these journals and letters were from a much earlier time.  They were from the very beginning. A journal entry on the first anniversary of my relationship: “Why can’t I inspire any passion in [my ex-wife]?” It was 1988 and I was 22. 

Plaintive scribbles scrawled across notebook pages: “WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why can’t I be normal?”  Words cascading down and across the page with no regard for the college rule of the notebook, a mind-map exercise I might have taught to my high school English students in my early 20’s: worthless, unlovable, UNDESIRABLE, FREAK.

And worse: pages spilling over with my dreams of being a writer—pages dated from my 20’s, not my 40’s—full of all the ideas and the passion I had inside of me that I yearned to put into words and send into the world.  I had been yearning for and failing at writing for decades. For my entire adult life.  And now that I had finally gotten myself free, it seemed the trauma of leaving had crushed me. Stolen my words. Maybe it was too late, I would never get my shit together. 

My friend M. Rose is such a wonderful writer, and I love this piece a lot!!

[widefuturesss]

Trans woman, Area Mama of Abuja, was murdered last night in Abuja. And of course, like most news of violence in Nigeria, the evidence of such a horror comes in the form of a photograph - a blurry photograph of a corpse captured on a phone, usually taken by a passerby at the site of the brutalisation. Black death spectacle. Evidence of corpses are littered all over this cyberspace I That is because they are also littered around the earth in broad daylight.

We have to apply more agency to this space of visual reconstruction.

My afropessimism with our current archives lies especially with the spectation of Black death. We engage a lot in visual consumption of evidence and re-production of violent memory. Rememory to me is a space through which we can tend to the missing. I can be intentional with how and why I choose to remember the image and what it speaks/sings.

I can exercise an aesthetic of hope towards bigger imaginations and realities. I once took screenshots of Area mama with her back to the camera, It was a video or live she had shared on tiktok, an essence of the scene called to my spirit and today I find a comfort in what it remembers against. What is held in a photograph is not exclusive to the photograph, but this photograph moves and works, is shown, was seen, shone, says, is animated, resounds, broken, breaking song of, song for, something before, like the Music, which is, as Mingus says, not just beautiful, but terribly beautiful.

Rest up my sister, we will honor your wayward on/in our own way forward - beautyful woman

[phoenix-downer]

FFVII Rebirth Demo Impressions

I played the demo several nights ago and loved it! This post is about my thoughts/impressions as I was playing.

(Quick note: My shipping preferences are Cloud/Tifa and Zack/Aerith, so that is going to influence my perspective and what I write about. There will also be spoilers for the OG game and Crisis Core throughout).

One of the first things I noticed as I was playing through was the graphics. The graphics look fantastic. I can tell the game being on the PS5 is making a big difference. The jump in quality from Remake to Rebirth is really noticeable.

It's so weird seeing Cloud act like Zack. Like I KNOW it's Zack and it's creeping me out a;lksdjfdfj because it's just...so not Cloud. They knocked the "this is wrong" vibes out of the park by using Zack's mannerisms and gestures with Cloud's model slapped on top, and it's giving this uncanny valley feeling to everything "Cloud" does. Cody Christian even sounds more like Zack's VA (Caleb Pierce). The attention to detail with all that is excellent. The updated graphics give them a lot to work with in terms of showing the wonkiness with Cloud's memories.

There was also a clever shot in the truck of "Cloud" asking the real Cloud if he's okay, and you see a hint of Cloud's blond hair peeking through the helmet.

I liked the dramatic/heroic version of Sephiroth's theme that played. And when Zack gets hurt by one of the monsters, I think it was Cloud who made sure he's okay, which was a sweet touch. Also, the screen is tinted with green, which is a cool way to show the effects of the Mako poisoning on Cloud.

Another thing I noticed: Cloud's eyes look SUPER green, more so than in Remake. Don't know if it's the upgrade to the PS5 or if they wanted to show the Mako poisoning progressing, but I thought it was a cool detail.

Okay it's like Cloud swapped he and Zack in his memories directly at one point soon after they arrive in Nibelheim. I swear this is 100% what Zack would've said to Cloud about Aerith, but instead it's one of the "security officers" saying it to "Cloud": "So, any friends here you wanna see? Maybe a girlfriend? Speaking of which, I bet you're dying to hear about mine. Am I right?"

Lmao Sephiroth still has groupies, this is giving Crisis Core fanclub vibes and I'm all here for it. I'm glad the game still has those silly moments and that continuity with past games. It makes the tragedy I know will unfold later on that much more poignant.

Speaking of which, it's depressing seeing all the townspeople in Nibelheim knowing they're going to die. Just walking around talking to them, Nibelheim really feels like a lived-in place that Cloud has so many personal connections to.

An NPC asked Cloud if he's seen his mother yet, another one recognized me, and another couple of people noticed me and asked if I'm looking for Tifa. They Know™️

Also, it's really interesting seeing Cloud craft the welcome home he WISHES he had gotten. He wanted to come back to Nibelheim as a hero everyone praised, but the reality was much different. So seeing that contrast is a really good insight into Cloud's psyche and what he wants (praise, recognition, approval, etc.)

Oh found some cats, I'm glad there's another area dedicated to just cats ;aldjf; (complete with photographic evidence):

Awwwwww there was a sweet reference to Tifa leading the exercise classes for Nibelheim from Traces of Two Pasts, and she asks Cloud in the modern day if he was able to keep up with the class (she wasn't teaching this particular one, but I love that bit of continuity).

Tifa you can tell is nostalgic for Nibelheim hearing Cloud's recounting of what happened too, the voice acting and dialogue for this part is all really well-done.

The option to see Cloud's mom was really well-done. Cloud never went back to see her in reality, of course, which means his memory glitches out like crazy during this part: he "hears" his mother talking to him about a conversation that happened at an earlier time, like his brain is desperately trying to create something that never happened and is latching onto the nearest fragments it can find. I like how they translated this scene from the OG game, it gave off eerie vibes.

HE DID THE LIL SHRUG AND NOD LIKE HE DOES IN THE OG GAME if you try to enter his mom's house again after the "memory" is over. Also, it's like his mind is trying to protect itself from delving too deeply into a false memory so glitchy (and maybe he feels a deep level of guilt at not actually going to see her as well), and so you can't go back into his house, just like in the OG game.

You can have Cloud go up the water tower too, and he looks towards Tifa's window THE ANGST OF IT ALL a;lskdfj. I love those little moments of Pining™️

Tifa's like wait you went to my place?? Oh Cloud...you were such an awkward weirdo...

"Our reasons, huh? I bet most of them had to do with you." Barret shading Cloud for why he and Tifa didn't hang out more ;alkdjf again I love the humor in these moments.

Awwww Fluffy got mentioned! Nice to hear her brought up again.

"You went into my room?" I'm dead. Tifa sounds so indignant and rightfully so. It's weirdo behavior Cloud ;laskdfj

"You went through my stuff?!" Not off to a great start buddy, but I had him pick that option because I figured he ought to be honest. Tifa and Aerith both call him an asshole if you admit to doing it too, which made me laugh. And naturally my mind is wondering how this will impact the iconic date later on. Did I just piss both Aerith and Tifa off and lose affection points with both girls? Probably lol (and honestly, Cloud deserved it for that stunt).

Tifa's lil moogle plushie on her bed is adorable. I love the touches like that that make the environment feel more lived in.

Awwww I found Tifa's theme to play on the piano hehe. I love that that's the first piano piece you can find in the game. Just one of my favorite FFVII songs because it fits Tifa so perfectly and has this bittersweet sense of longing as well as this beautiful tenderness to it.

Also, I got a kick out of the piano minigame. The first time I wasn't great at it and got a C. I struggled to do both "hands" at the same time. I did it two more times after that, and it starts to sound really nice when you have a streak of a bunch of correct notes in a row. Like Cloud's going to town on the piano with extra flourishes. If you miss notes again though the metronome comes back on lol like "you still need to practice and get the rhythm down."

The second two times I got an A (I'll have to keep practicing to get a star and see what happens), and the gang praised Cloud, which I thought was cool.

Found more Sephiroth groupies and ran into Zangan in the inn. It was really sweet hearing Zangan praise Tifa so highly. Also, "Cloud" saying, "yeah right" when Zangan says "Tifa will go far" is another good clue Cloud isn't himself. Tifa was offended and Aerith was offended on her behalf. I love how Aerith keeps backing Tifa up on stuff, it's really nice to see more of their friendship.

The photographer dude is back and I love him. And he even says the same thing he said to Zack in Crisis Core about how he can't waste his film on Zack because he doesn't know who he is ;alskdfj. What's a guy got to do to get a little respect?

"You look so different" lol yes I do random villager because I'm not me, and then there are some nice creepy foreshadowing moments from her kids. The girl says, "Gonna beat those monsters?" and the boy says, "Gonna be 'em?"

The irony of the mayor saying he'd brag about Sephiroth visiting Nibelheim till the day he dies:

I still really love Brian Lockhart's design. He's like if the 70s met cowboy fashion, and it just works somehow. And this carries over from the OG game, but his concerns about Tifa's safety are well-founded given what happened when she and Cloud were kids and sets up future reveals in the remake trilogy nicely.

Also, Tifa is so small next to Sephiroth. I love her sass in this part of the story, and this time around there's some country twang banjo version of her theme and I love it. Also Sephiroth shaded the camera guy al;sdkfj;dskf but "Cloud" talked him into it and thus the iconic photo came into being. Again those moments of humor will never not be funny. And I loved how Tifa was being such a good guide and giving info about the area as they started to ascend the mountain.

Also, when you finally get to the title screen, it cracked me up how Nomura is listed first, before Hamaguchi. Probably a seniority/respect thing, but Nomura is the creative director and Hamaguchi is the director.

Also, the version of the main theme that plays as you go up Mt. Nibel is awesome, and once again I had to get a screenshot because this area is just so beautiful:

Tifa wanting to travel is a sweet touch, though Sephiroth is practical and points out that he travels on business trips and not for fun. Of course "Cloud" points out that you do learn stuff on these trips. It's a nice contrast between Tifa's naive optimism, Sephiroth's jaded world-weary outlook, and Zack's positivity tempered by experience.

Also, Sephiroth's hair is very swishy. I thought that needed a note as I was playing this. Props to the artists, animators, etc. who rendered it.

I chuckled at Tifa racing up the mountain and teasing "Cloud" and Sephiroth about whether or not they can keep up. Just shows a fun, playful side to her personality and also shows how eager she is to prove herself. And then she dropkicked a monster to protect "Cloud" and then teased him about it alks;jfdsf. She's so much snarkier with Zack than she is with Cloud, and it's an interesting contrast.

The real Cloud of course is in the background, protecting Tifa from danger. Even in his rewritten version of history, the real him is lurking in his subconscious protecting her because she's that important to him. She thanked him so sweetly when he did too.

I made a note about seeing the bridge that collapsed with Cloud and Tifa on it when they were kids, man all the little details like this and the foreshadowing is just A+.

Tifa has Trauma™️ from falling off a bridge before, hmmm, wonder what that's from, and she's still like hey I'm the guide I'll lead us a;ldkfj when "Cloud" offers to go first lol.

Still holds true years later but wooooow Nibelheim sucks at constructing good bridges lol. It was a wholesome moment where "Cloud"/Zack grabbed Cloud and kept him from drowning though, and Sephiroth was able to grab Tifa (which is ironic considering how he tries to kill her not much later, and it's sad because it really shows he was a good guy). Of course the other security officer probably drowned rip, poor guy.

YAY SEPHIROTH'S IN MY PARTY FINALLY

"For your performance review" lol I like Sephiroth's sass and how he teases "Cloud" like this.

I just obliterate everything playing as Sephiroth ;alsdkfj and truly love playing as him. And him slamming his own dad will never not be funny, I mean Hojo just really sucks.

At this point I started focusing more on playing the game since there were more monsters to fight etc., but I still got some nice screenshots and had a few more thoughts.

The Mako spring just looks incredible, so I had to include a photo:

The scenery by the ocean was gorgeous too, I can't wait to go to Costa del Sol:

The real Cloud helping Tifa get to safety from the monster and "Cloud"/Zack and Sephiroth being bros is top-tier content. Also Sephiroth looks like a model in pretty much every shot he's in:

Oh the dramatic irony of Tifa not knowing it's Cloud and him refusing to talk and her being sassy and telling him, "You better keep me safe" and then of course he does. The music is creepy now that we're about to enter the reactor lol, of course it is.

"Would it kill this guy to say something" he would die from embarrassment and shame, yes:

"The company really needs to be more transparent" that's the understatement of the year "Cloud" ;lakfj;asdf

Cool use of JENOVA'S theme. I always enjoy hearing that theme and how otherworldy but also very 90s it sounds.

Zangan's comment here is gold, I love the bee in his bonnet bit:

The Shinra basement stuff was genuinely creepy l;kasjdf like I know what happens and I was still freaked out! The atmosphere was just really well done.

"I should go. Mother is waiting." There it is, the iconic meme line a;ldal;skdjf;lsdjf it just kills me, Sephiroth is such a psycho.

Loved seeing Zangan helping people get out of the town and telling "Cloud" to get in there and help, but of course the situation is still incredibly dire by the time "Cloud" gets there.

This shot in front of the water tower was gorgeous and really haunting, especially when the water tower collapsed. Just the symbolism with that, the loss of Cloud and Tifa's special place and how not long after this, he feels like he failed her and failed to keep his promise:

Main Scenario: Check on Mom. Oh Cloud...

And then you see the real Cloud collapsed in front of his house and calling for his mom, this is so depressing:

This is where the more realistic graphics really serve the story well, because it makes this moment that much more of a gut punch, especially when he hears his mother begging him to live. The last few moments before her soul returns to the planet perhaps, trying to save her son from danger one last time.

And now that "Cloud" is hurt, he looks busted up even in the menu. I thought that was a cool detail to include.

It's like Cloud's memories are trying to right themselves because he winds up on the ground like where he was supposed to be. When Sephiroth murdered the man who tried to help him and then went on his creepy murder spree of several other villagers culminating with the mayor, that was all really well done too. Horrifying because there's nothing Cloud can do to stop the senseless murder of people he's known all his life, and it really shows how cold and ruthless Sephiroth has become.

This moment was good too with the memories seeming glitchy again:

And then of course I must end this on The Iconic Scene™️ a;lsdkfja;kdslf complete with psycho smirk:

Needless to say, I very much enjoyed this demo and am looking forward to the Juno one! And the full game, February 29 can't come fast enough.