sharksfrommars

[sharksfrommars]

literally fuck it here we areeeee. um the gravity falls hunger games au belongs to @aroace-get-out-of-my-face , i originally dmed this to her and she said i should post them so heeeeere we are. sorry thats its long i didnt want to post on ao3. licherally cannot stop thinking about this, its the only hunger games au that hasnt made me think suzanne collins was right to make sunrise on the reaping. if you want background, i highly suggest going to her blog and scrolling through the 'hunger games au' tag, its a fun read!!! okey dokey anywho:

“Be smart,” their mentor, a man who had insisted on being called ‘Nep’ had told Stan and Darlene. “Do what I told you to do, and don’t fuck this up.”

Darlene had frowned, because the strategy that Nep had insisted on for her interview had been to play up her youth and innocence, to really tug at the audience’s heartstrings and play the scared little girl who missed her family, but had a well of inner strength that she was going to draw from. Darlene had protested, wanting to paint herself as a fierce warrior, and could not be persuaded that she was going to be laughed off stage. She was fierce, sure, but she was also twelve years old. It was darkly comical, and had Stan been home with Ford, safe in their house, they would have looked sadly at each other during her desperate attempts to seem like a worthy opponent, instead of easy pickings.

“And you?” Nep glanced at Stan, and gave a sort of crooked half-smile. “You keep doing what you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing?” Stan repeated, surprised. “What…what’s that?”

“The cocky, ne’er-do-well persona you’ve been playing up since you walked on that stage,” Nep said. “I saw the Reaping. Volunteering for your brother gets you a lot of points from the Capitol right off the bat. And you’ve not shown any fear, at least on camera. You’ve spent most of it being insufferable to everyone but the Capitol. Frankly, you don’t need me for camera points.”

“Aw,” Stan had grinned. “You think I’m insufferable?”

Nep grinned, and Stan decided, not for the first time, that he liked Nep well enough. He had been the winner when Stan was just a kid, maybe six or seven years old. Nep had been fourteen at the time, a younger winner, and a lucky one. The games that year had been in a coastal arena, similar to home, and when a tsunami came and washed most of the tributes away, Nep had managed to tough it out, and then waited for most of the other tributes to kill each other before proving his skills with a knife, gutting a girl from District 7 with efficiency unlike anything Stan had ever seen before. 

Nep was a mentor now, and both he and Daphne were a bit surprised by his quiet nature. Nep was shyer than the cameras had implied. He tended to back away from any more interviews that focused on himself, and when asked about himself, his victories, or most strangely, ‘We haven’t seen your mother in a while, how is she?’ Nep would smile in a tense way, and say “We’re here to talk about my tributes, did you know Stanley is a talented boxer? And oh my, I’ve never seen anyone move quicker than Daphne.”

“This is the worst part,” Nep assured them, adjusting a heavy necklace around Daphne’s neck. “You get through this, it’s smooth sailing from here on out.”

“This dress itches,” Daphne whined, wriggling in a shimmering turquoise gown that reminded Stan of the tiny fish that danced in the tidepools back home. “I don’t wanna wear it.”

“I know, I know,” Nep said. “It’s not for long. Now listen close, the both of you. Stan, quit making eyes at Carla.”

Stan’s attention snapped to Nep. “‘I’m not doing anything.” 

Carla, halfway through brushing over Stan’s eyelid with some kind of shimmering powder, scoffed. 

“This is the Capitol,” Nep said. “These people have been following your journeys since you got up on that stage. Some of them are invested in you already. Your triumphs, defeats, the rest of it. This is the first and only time you’ll be able to speak to them directly like this. This is your chance to endear them. Follow my instructions, and you’ll only improve your chances.”

“I don’t wanna act like a scared little girl,” Darlene said. “I’m not scared.”

Nep’s face snapped to her, and for the first time, he looked well and truly frustrated. “Yes, you are,” he said tersely. “And if you’re not, you’re stupid. This is a game, Darlene, and you’re treating it like one. But it’s not a game for you. It’s a game for them. I’m in the business of keeping you two alive for as long as I can, but I can’t do that if you insist on sabotaging yourself! Play the damn game!” 

Darlene looked surprised, but went quiet. For the first time, Stan thought he saw nerves behind her eyes. Maybe they had always been there, hidden beneath the exterior of a little girl who had been spoiled rotten. He wondered if her family was crying for her back home, already preparing for her funeral, or if they were delusionally holding onto the same dream as she was–that she would be the youngest victor ever. 

“Stan,” Nep said, and Stan almost jumped. “Remember what we talked about?”

“My ne’er-do-well self?” Stan asked, and Nep nodded. “Right, got it. Um. Cool.”

Nep frowned, maybe hearing something in Stan’s voice that he himself had yet to identify. He nodded something at Darlene’s stylist, and the stylist pulled her off to the side, fussing with her hair. “You alright?” Nep asked Stan, lowering his voice.

“Yeah,” Stan said, and his voice sounded high-pitched. “Peachy.”

“Stan,” Nep said. “I’m on your side. I’m one of the only people in this godforsaken place that’s truly on your side. What’s wrong?”

Stan swallowed, suddenly feeling dangerously close to breaking. “I-I dunno if I can do this,” he whispered, wobbly. “It’s…it’s easy when no one’s directly looking at me, but I’ve seen the interviews, I know what it’s like. I don’t want to talk about Ford, I don’t want to talk about home, I don’t want-”

“Okay, okay,” Nep said, putting his hand on Stan’s shoulder. He was missing his pinky, which was strange, because he hadn’t lost it in the games. “Okay, deep breath. I know. Like I said, this is the worst part.”

“Second worst part,” Stan said. “You know, the games.”

Nep smiled thinly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Shandra Jimenez is…she’s an interviewer. She’s going to ask those questions. The ones you don't want her too. That’s her job. And it’s a shitty one.”

Stan looked at Carla, suddenly nervous that Nep might have said something dangerous. But she smiled in agreement.

“She enjoys this, breaking down the weaker tributes,” Carla said. “But she doesn’t think you’re weak. She’s going to let you do this over the top persona you’ve been crafting because she likes it as much as everyone else.”

“Exactly,” Nep nodded. “Go with that. Just pretend it’s me or Carla you’re talking to. Not the whole Capitol. Play a role. That’s all this is, after all. A role. And that role might keep you alive.”

Please, Stan thought, almost amused. This idiot doesn’t even know he’s talking to a dead man.

But Nep had been kind. He had held Darlene’s hand when she stepped off the Capitol train and was failing in her attempts to not be scared. He had promised Stan that the first chance he got, he was going to find Ford and do everything he could to keep him out of trouble. He had been nice to the other mentors, who each had an exhausted look in their eyes as they marched their pigs to the slaughterhouse, even as other Career tributes sneered at him. He didn’t deserve to be stuck with a doomed and hopeless tribute. 

Stan nodded. “...okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Nep nodded once, tense, and Stan realized abruptly that there had been no winners from District 4 since Nep. They had all gotten pretty far, but were the first to go when the Careers inevitably turned on each other. Maybe he was imagining Stan’s grisly death now. The life of a victor suddenly seemed a lot less glamorous. 

“You’re going to do great,” Nep said. “Everybody already loves you.”

That seemed a bit silly and untrue, and Stan was already turning that final encouragement over and over in his head as he waited next to Darlene for the interview. Most of the tributes were silent and pale, staring at the ground or whispering to their district mates. Darlene was trying to make nice with the other Careers, far older than her and looking at her like she was a particularly feisty kitten. 

“Quit it,” Stan whispered to her, unable to watch the boy from District 1 barely conceal a laugh as Darlene bragged about her spear skills. “You’re making yourself a target.”

She glared at him, hostile and looking exactly like her brother. “At least I’m trying!” She hissed. “What are you doing? Moping?”

“I’m strategizing,” Stan said, and Darlene rolled her eyes. 

“My brother says you’re an idiot who doesn’t know a net from a knife,” she said, folding her arms.

“Yeah well, your brother still does the ‘L’ trick to figure out his right from his left,” Stan snapped, exhausted. “So there.”

Darlene opened her mouth, probably to argue more, but then paused, noticing something behind Stan. “Uh oh. Got a crier.”

Stan heard soft sniffling, and looked back to see a little boy, about Darlene’s age but no doubt half her physical strength, crying desperately, apparently unable to take the stress anymore. By Stan’s count, he looked to be in District 10. He was in a bright red suit, tears dripping from his ears, desperately trying to reign them in.

His district mate, an older girl with wild dark hair mostly concealed by a red silk scarf, was kneeling next to him, looking nervous. “Stop crying,” he heard her say, in a fervent and distinctly uncomforting sort of way, but he couldn’t really blame her. “Stop crying, they’ll see.”

“I’m trying,” the little boy said, hiccuping and only working himself up more. “I’m trying, I’m trying, Emma May, I wanna go home–”

Emma May’s ears were inflamed around her drop earrings, and Stan wondered if she had been forced to pierce her ears right before the interview. Her dress was bright red, flowing around her like a slit throat.

Stan saw a few Capitol camera people perk up at the sound of muffled sobs, and whisper to each other. Stan’s heart dropped. Crying was bad enough when you were reaped. But crying now, so close to the interview? Someone would whisper it in that witch’s ear onstage, and she would bring it up, goading the tribute to see if they would have another meltdown.

Darlene tutted something disapproving, and Emma May looked panicked, trying to shield the little boy with her body. The tributes from the lower districts looked sympathetic, but no one made a move to help. Stan could hardly blame them. 

The Careers looked back, starting to get curious, and Stan could bear it no longer.

“Gotta piss!” He said loudly, stepping out of line. “I’ll be right back, just give me a second-”

“Get back in line,” a Peacekeeper growled, and all eyes were on Stan. All cameras too. 

“What, a man can’t piss?” Stan asked. “Thirty seconds in the bathroom, that’s all I ask. I won’t even wash my hands.”

Stan heard a few younger tributes giggle, and he grinned, playing it up. Nep wanted a show? He’d get a pre-show too. 

“Line,” the Peacekeeper growled, unamused. 

“I can even go in a corner real quick,” Stan said. “I mean, I’ve seen your buddies doing the same thing–”

The Peacekeeper drew a baton, and Stan backed away, hands up in surrender. He certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those again. “Okay, okay! If I piss my pants onstage, it’s on you.”

He stepped back in line next to Darlene with an easy smile. She looked at him like he was crazy. “What was that?!” 

“Nothing,” Stan said, glancing back in line. The extra time had given the boy a chance to get a hold of himself, and while his face was ruddy, it should clear up by the time it was his turn onstage. Stan locked eyes with Emma May, and gave her a thumbs up with a smile. She looked perplexed, and glared back at him, suspicious.

“What was that?!” Darlene demanded again.

Stan shrugged, and she scowled. “You idiot. You can’t be making nice with lower districts, they’re always the first to go! You couldn’t do much worse than 10 either, even the 12s look stocky this year at least. If you don’t start making allies, you’ll be out faster than you can blink–”

“I’m not here to win,” Stan said, and then blinked. That was the first time he had said it out loud.

Darlene blinked, looking shocked. “What? But–”

“I’m here to play,” Stan said, falling back onto an easy smile, even if it felt plastic now. “That’s all a game is, right? Let’s try to have some fun with it.”

Darlene stared at him like he was insane. Maybe he was. He felt like it. “...whatever,” she decided. “Just…just don’t get in my way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stan muttered, and then the crowd outside, awaiting their final words, erupted in applause as Shandra Jimenez walked out onstage, grinning and waving at the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she crowed. “Happy Hunger Games!”

“Showtime,” Darlene said quietly, and for once, Stan agreed.

All in all, District 4 was probably one of the best places to be when it came to the interviews. 

Stan was far enough back in line where he didn’t have to shoulder the monumental task of being one of the first tributes to face Jimenez and the entirety of Panem, but he was close enough to the front where the moneymakers wouldn’t become bored, and they would remember him if he made a big enough splash. Enough time to learn from the mistakes of his fellow tributes without stewing in nerves.

Not that there were many mistakes. The Careers from 1 and 2 had apparently been given media training, because they smiled and laughed with Jimenez without ever allowing the joke to be on them. They chatted without coming off as unserious, made threats to their fellow tributes that they could back up, and seemed almost good enough to be Capitol. Almost. Stan could see the edge on Jimenez, the tightening of her smile when the tributes tried to get too cozy. No matter what, they were still district trash. Distract trash that had been gussied up, but a polish turd was still a turd.

The District 1 boy in particular–Preston, Stan though his name was–was especially annoying. He had been the one laughing at Darlene. Stan already found him extremely grating.

By the time they dropped to 3, the difference between the Careers and the rest of the districts made itself apparent. For kids from 3, a notoriously weedy bunch due to a lifetime of bending over microchips in dusty sweatshops, they weren’t too bad looking. Maybe they hauled cargo, Stan didn’t know, but they were older and looked like they might get a few good hits in before they were taken down. Ada and Coil, Stan was pretty sure their names were.

But they were scared, even though they tried to hide it. Stan could see it in their eyes. They knew what awaited them in the games, and it struck them nearly insane with fear. But they answered their questions meekly, even as Ada picked at her painted nails and Coil kept looking around like a trapped bird.

It was funny, really, how Ford had complained that he should have been born in District 3. Stan, for his part, couldn’t imagine anything other than the coast. Life in 4 could be miserable, but a lifetime of painstakingly putting computers and heat-seeking missiles together as you breathed in silica seemed even more miserable. Coil was already clearly trying to hide a cough. 

“Let’s give him a hand, folks!” Jimenez said, and Coil walked offstage, clearly motioned over by his mentor. “And now, let’s get back to our final set of Careers. Everyone give a warm welcome to Darlene Crampelter of District 4!”

Darlene flashed Stan a winning smile, unafraid, and bounced up to the stage, her curls practically floating, gleeful and chomping at the bit to spill blood. The crowd roared, and Darlene waved to them, perfectly lady-like. To her credit, Stan couldn’t tell if she was truly that unafraid or just hiding her nerves extremely well. It could be either. He hoped it was the second, surely she wasn’t that stupid.

“Well, my dear,” Jimenez said as Darlene sat down. “You’ve had quite the journey. Your district has been struggling to pull in volunteers for the past few years, but now we have two! And you volunteered before the name was even finished being called! And not to mention, you are the youngest tribute in this year’s games!”

Darlene smiled. “I just couldn’t wait, I suppose. Can you blame me?”

“How do you like the Capitol, sweetie?” Jimenez cooed, and Darlene’s smile tightened slightly at being treated like a child.

“Oh, it’s dazzling,” she said. “You know, my grandfather visited the Capitol on business when he wasn’t much older than me. He used to tell me and my brother stories. He said that one day, we’d see it, and one day we might even live there.”

The crowd murmured in surprise, and though Stan didn’t doubt her story, he instantly winced. Darlene smiled, unaware of her faux pas, perhaps thinking everyone was quite impressed with her. But there was no admiration, only disgust. District trash, getting too big for her britches, thinks she’s one of us instead of an animal that we caged and then released to watch it die.

Jimenez stiffened, and leaned forward. She looked like a smiling shark. Stan had seen a few in his time. “And you’re not frightened to be the youngest tribute?” Jimenez asked. “Historically, anyone younger than fifteen doesn’t last long.”

Darlene scowled, straightening up. “I’m not afraid of anything, I–”

“RAH!” Jimenez said, jerking forward like she was about to lunge. Darlene flinched back on instinct, her eyes wide and confused at the sudden false attack. The audience roared with laughter, and Jimenez joined them. “Maybe you’re a little bit frightened, sweetie!”

Darlene blinked once, twice, and then realized the joke was on her. Her face flushed bright red, which only made the audience laugh harder. “That’s not fair, you don’t–”

“Oh, this is the games!” Jimenez cackled. “Fair doesn’t have much to do with it, seems like the odds might not be in this particular Career’s favor this year! Maybe you should have waited to see who was going to volunteer before you did it, right?”

Darlene tried to argue, but her words were lost among the shrieking hordes, jeering and finding her impending death absolutely hilarious. Something changed on Darlene’s face, a crack in her facade unlike anything Stan had seen before. She had been overwhelmed and frightened before, but that had been because she had stage fright, or was nervous about the Capitol’s over-the-top presence. Now, though, the crack was something deeper. A crack that made her realize that she was far deeper than she thought, and these people were not her friends. They weren’t even her enemies, not really. They didn’t give a shit about her. Stan didn’t think she had ever been faced with such indifference before.

Jimenez, maybe sensing that Darlene wasn’t going to give any more good content, spent the rest of the interview poking fun at her, asking her if she still smelled like fish, wondering aloud if District 4 was really Career material if this was the best they could offer. Finally, the bell chimed, and Jimenez smiled like they were great friends, shooing Darlene away. “That’s all the time we have for today, sweetie, good luck! Everyone clap for our youngest and, ah, bravest tribute!”

The audience erupted into raucous laughter, and Darlene flinched again. Stan saw Nep standing in the wings of the stage, frantically motioning for her to come offstage to him. After a long moment, she stood, head hung low, practically sprinting offstage to get to Nep. He tried to hug her, and she pushed him off.

“And next up, our second volunteer from 4,” Jimenez said. “Everyone please give it up for Stanley Pines!”

The crowd began to cheer, and Stan’s legs began to move on their own accord, carrying him up to the stage. He saw Carla in the front row, and she gave him a thumbs up, motioning for him to smile.

Something about seeing her there snapped Stan into performance mode. Nep said they needed a show. Fine. They were going to get a show. 

He grinned, cocky and relaxed, throwing out a far more exaggerated wave than Darlene had, unrestrained. The crowd went wild. Stan sat down in the chair, winking at Jimenez. She looked surprised, but didn’t comment on it. 

“So, our second volunteer,” she said. “And for your twin brother no less! Tell me, what was that like?”

Oh no. Knowing they were going to ask about that didn’t make hearing it any easier. “Well,” Stan said, with a shrug and a smile, hoping it still looked real. “When you’re a twin, you gotta share everything, you know? Birthdays, toys, achievements. Sometimes you want to strike out, be your own man, you know? Couldn’t let my nerd brother have all the glory.”

He found a camera and winked at it. “Hey, Ford, how’s it feel to be doing my chores? I’m living it up at the Capitol!”

The crowd cheered, and Jimenez laughed. “So how do you like the Capitol, then?”

She was trying to trip him up, get him to make the same mistakes that Darlene had. “Oh, man,” Stan said. “Incredible, it’s just incredible. You know I’ve never had turkey before? And on the train up here, the first thing I get is a turkey sandwich. You people have everything! Incredible!”

“You eat a lot of fish then?” Jimenez asked.

“Eat so much I’m probably half fish,” Stan said, and leaned forward. “How’s my breath?”

The crowd cackled, and Jimenez joined them. “Oh, just fine, Stanley, I promise.”

“Stan’s fine,” Stan said, and threw an easy grin at the audience. They whooped. “Horses too, never seen a horse before, and now I got to go right up to one and pet it.”

“They don’t have horses in 4?” Jimenez asked.

“What’s a horse gonna do, Shandra?” Stan asked, taking a risk with a first name. “Pull a cart through the ocean?”

The audience laughed, their biggest reaction yet. Jimenez looked slightly annoyed, but didn’t try to trap him or humiliate him. “So, how’d you like the horses?” 

“Oh, loved them,” Stan said, and tried to imagine he was talking to Ford. He would have loved the horses. He would have loved most of the Capitol if not for them wanting him dead. “It’s…their noses are like petting velvet, but their whiskers kinda feel like cat whiskers, you know? When I win, I want one of them in Victor’s Village. In my house. It can just walk around.”

“When you win?” Jimenez asked. “Awfully confident. What’s your strategy? Sources tell me that you may be from 4, but you’re not strictly Career trained, are you?”

There it was. She was trying to psych him out. Stan smiled back, unafraid. It wasn't like he meant any of it anyway. “I wouldn’t count anyone out of this game, Shandra. There’s a good crop this year, tell you that, and I gotta say I respect the competition. But I’m strong. I’m a heavy hitter. I’m not afraid to take a few blows. I’m a boxer, boxers gotta learn how to get hit and get back up. That’s me. I get back up. You don’t have any idea how valuable that skill is. Our strongest traits might not be the ones you see immediately. You know that, right? You’ve been doing this for, oh, a hundred years?”

The crowd howled, and Jimenez’s smile twitched. “Well, Stan–”

“And by the way,” Stan said, on a roll now. “By the way, you can’t count Darlene out either. What’d you expect, someone’s not gonna jump if you come at them? You’re lucky she didn’t punch you in the throat, that girl scares me. She's my biggest competition by far, I’m real lucky we’re district mates and she probably won’t go for me immediately.”

Jimenez’s face looked tight. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

“Maybe if you did your job right I wouldn’t have to,” Stan said, and then instantly regretted saying it.

The crowd ‘ooh-ed’ appreciatively, and the bell sounded. Jimenez smiled, the shark look back. “Well, I suppose that’s all the time we have for today. I’d wish you luck, Stan, but it doesn’t seem like you need it.”

She didn’t implore the audience to cheer for Stan, but they did it anyway, whooping and hollering like he was the cure to all their ills. He winked again, and heard some more cheers and shrieks. It made him a little sick, but it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like he would ever see these people again. He was a dead man already.

Nep was still dealing with Darlene when he stepped offstage, and she was speaking quickly, almost nonsensically, and Nep was struggling to hide her from the camera. 

“My cat,” Darlene said, almost feverish. She was shaking, and Nep was desperately trying to calm her down. The cameras were sweeping the area like buzzards, looking for reactions. “My cat, h-he’s at home, I need to go home, no one will take care of him–”

“You think your dumb brother’s not gonna watch him?” Stan asked, and Darlene focused on him. He couldn't get her home, but he might be able to keep her from panicking too badly. It was oddly scary to see her so openly frightened. “Please, I bet that mangy thing is sleeping on his bed right now. You need to worry that he's gonna eat the cat food and not leave any for the damn cat.”

Darlene blinked, snapped out of her spiral, and glared at Stan. “I bet you already know what cat food tastes like,” she sneered, and Nep sent Stan a grateful look.

“You,” Nep said to him. “Just love to toe the line.”

The weight of what he had been saying, in front of all of Panem, crashed down on Stan. “Is…” he swallowed. “Am I going to get in trouble? Did I put Ford in danger?!”

Nep shook his head. “I don’t think so. It was a risk, but it paid off. It’s too much trouble to replace you now, and they would punish you for that kind of trangression. Not your family.”

“Okay,” Stan nodded, uneasy. “O-okay.”

Nep smiled at him, reaching forward to pat Stan on the shoulder. “You did good,” he said. “I’m proud of you. It’s not easy, but you were a pro up there.”

In spite of everything, Stan’s heart swelled at the praise. “...thanks,” he said. “Can we, um. Get out of these costumes?”

“It itches,” Darlene agreed, still looking shaken. Nep subtly drew her close, arm around her shoulder, and she didn’t pull away this time. 

“Alright,” Nep said, looking relieved to get out of there. “Let’s see what we can do about a change and a snack.”

By the time Stan was in more comfortable clothes, all of Carla’s hard work scrubbed off his face, the girl from 10 was on stage, looking bored with Jimenez’s antics.

“Any family watching back home?” Jimenez asked, prodding at her.

The girl, Emma May, shook her head stiffly. “My mama and daddy died some time ago. It’s been just me for a while. Don’t got no one waiting on me at home.”

“No one?” Jimenez asked, leaning forward, searching for a crack to spring upon. “There’s rumors that–”

“Just rumors, nothing more,” Emma May said placidly. “You oughta know about rumors, Miss Jimenez. Why, if I believed every rumor I ever heard about you, I bet it would paint quite the unflattering portrait.”

The audience tittered, slightly less entertained when District 10 trash was poking at their beloved host, but amused all the same. Jimenez almost looked exhausted by this routine. Stan wondered if other tributes had had the courage to bite back at her. He hoped so.

“What makes you think you can win?” Jimenez asked. “Especially with no one back home rooting for you.”

Emma May’s face pinched, and for a second Stan thought she was done for, but she smoothed her skirt out. “I’m fighting for myself, and that’s enough. And I’m from 10. That ain’t a weakness, it’s a strength. We grow up ‘round life and death. I seen death a million times over before I was able to speak. We kill, not ‘cause we wanna, but ‘cause it’s our job. I seen blood, I seen guts, I seen bone marrow cracked open and spilled out for the cattle dogs to lick up. I've killed animals, for mercy, food, or ‘cause they was coming at me. And people are just a different type of animal. I ain’t scared to kill. I’m only scared to die. And a cornered, scared animal is the most dangerous type.”

Jimenez blinked, maybe not expecting that answer. Stan certainly didn’t, and the crowd whispered nervously. 

Emma May looked sharply at the camera, sensing that she had the floor completely. “And if you wanna talk about rumors,” she said. “Why don’t you show the unedited footage of my reaping–”

The bell sounded abruptly, though Stan was pretty sure she had about thirty seconds left on the interview. “That’s all our time!” Jimenez said quickly. “Thank you for joining us, Emma May Dixon!”

Emma May frowned, but did not argue. Almost serene, she stood up and walked off the stage. They clapped, but no one cheered. 

Stan got the sense they were afraid.

*** *** ***

Nep was about to leave Stan and Darlene’s cozy prison cell disguised as an apartment for the day when Stan stopped him, clutching six envelopes. 

“Stan?” Nep asked, looking perplexed. “You’ll want to at least try to get some sleep, the games are tomorrow–”

“Can you get to District 4 if you took a train right now?” Stan asked.

Nep blinked. “I…probably? It’d be an all-night train, for sure, I’d get there real early. I don’t think I’m technically supposed to leave though.”

“Will you get in trouble for it?” Stan asked. 

Nep paused, considering it. “...no, I don’t think so. Why–”

Stan shoved the envelopes into Nep’s hand. “I need you to take these to my family.”

Nep blinked. “What? But-”

“There’s one for everyone,” Stan said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Ma and Pa, Shermie and his wife and kid, Ford of course–”

“Stan,” Nep said slowly. “If I leave, I won’t be able to see you off tomorrow before you go into the games. I know Darlene doesn’t care, but I figured you would–”

“I want them to have these before I go,” Stan said. “I…I asked them not to watch me.”

Nep looked even more confused, and then he frowned. “...you don’t think you can win.”

Stan said nothing. 

“Why…?” Nep shook his head. “Stan…”

“I’m not gonna,” Stan gestured vaguely. “You know, I’m not gonna step off the platform before the countdown finishes. I won’t seek out the Careers or anything like that. But I won’t…I can’t do it, Nep, I can’t kill someone.”

“I didn’t think I could either,” Nep said, and Stan shook his head.

“It’s not that, I…I can laugh and joke, right? Sure, whatever, but I didn’t come here because I thought I could win. I came here because I knew Ford would lose. And I…I couldn’t let that happen. I just couldn’t,” Stan whispered. “And I…I don’t want him to watch me die.”

“You’re not going to–” Nep started, and then realized he couldn’t make that promise. “Don’t count yourself out.”

“I don’t want to be in at all,” Stan said. “I don’t want–I don’t want to play at all. I just…”

Stan swallowed hard, suddenly dangerously close to crying. “...I’m tired, Nep. I just want this to be over.”

Nep said nothing for a long moment, and then moved forward suddenly, hugging Stan tightly.

It was like the floodgates burst open. 

Stan choked once, twice, and then wrapped his arms around Nep tightly, unable to hold back his sobs, terrified and exhausted in equal measures. He never thought he would miss home this badly. He had spent most of his life wanting to take to the ocean and see what lay beyond Panem. But now there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to be back in a bed that was too small for him, hearing the ocean whisper outside his window, Ford in the bunk above him.

“I’m sorry,” Nep whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Stan wondered if he had grieved for every tribute he had waved goodbye too. It seemed likely. Nep was too soft to be a mentor. And yet they kept parading him out. 

“I won’t be able to see you off,” Nep said again, pulling back to brush some hair out of Stan’s eyes.

“That’s okay,” Stan choked, though it didn’t feel okay. “I just…I want them to have it before it starts. Please.”

“...okay,” Nep said, taking the envelopes. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Stan said, relieved. 

“...good luck, Stan,” Nep said. “You’re a good kid.”

And when Nep said it, Stan could almost believe it.

*** *** ***

There was someone walking up to Shermie’s house, Ford realized, as he walked back there.

He had been living with Shermie since Stan was dragged away, unable to take Ma and Pa’s different approaches to grief. Ma spent her days tirelessly cleaning the house, buzzing with a strange and stressful energy, and Pa shut down entirely. He wasn’t working, either in fishing or his black market pawn shop he ran from the basement. 

Shermie, at least, had to pretend to be functional. He had a wife and baby to look after, and he had been unable to refuse Ford’s pleas to sleep on his couch, just for a little bit. Just until something changed.

Ford made himself useful. He helped Nora around the house, went with Shermie to help on the boats, even though he was terrible at it. He watched the baby, and found himself absurdly jealous that his nephew was perfectly cheerful, completely unaware of the horror show playing out within his family. 

Last night, Ford and Shermie had gotten in a fight over something or other, tensions high and everyone already grieving. Ford had taken it too far, and yelled at Shermie for how cruel he was to have a baby, to bring another kid into this goddamn world that needed more blood to oil their machine.

Shermie had gone quiet, and Ford’s face had burned. “I-I didn’t mean–”

“Take a walk,” Shermie said. “Go cool off before we both say something else we regret.”

And Ford had taken that as an invitation to walk around 4 all night, seething and panicked the entire time. 

And now there was a man outside Shermie’s house, hours before Stan was set to be released in the arena, to kill and be killed.

He looked nondescript, with thick black hair that hung just above his chin, tan skin and dark eyes. He was wearing long sleeves, even in the hot July early morning, but when he saw Ford, he perked up and waved. 

Ford jogged forward, suddenly recognizing him. The mentor for this year, Neptune Garza, smiling nervously like he thought he might be attacked. “You must be Stanford,” Neptune said, nodding. “It’s nice to officially meet.”

“Mr. Garza,” Ford said, feeling sick. “I-is Stanley alright, why are you here–?!”

“Stan’s fine,” Neptune said. “You can call me Nep. Everyone does. Hey, your brother wasn’t lying about the six fingers.”

Ford frowned, but Nep smiled, holding up one of his hands. The pinky was missing. “Ever consider donation?”

“Um,” Ford said.

“Sorry, people keep telling me I’m not funny, I should listen to them,” Nep said. “He wanted me to give you this.”

He extended a hand out to Ford, holding a thick envelope. Ford took his, seeing his name on the front in Stan’s handwriting. “W-what’s this?” 

“A letter,” Nep said. “He has them for everyone in your family. He wanted me to deliver them in person, before the games started.”

“Why?” Ford asked. Nep shrugged.

Ford stared at the letter, tracing his name with his finger. A flash of anger went through him, sudden and sharp. “How could you just let this happen?”

Nep looked confused. “What?”

“How could you just let this happen?!” Ford demanded. “Year after year, sending people to their deaths. And you’re okay with it? You just let them kill people?! You’re going to let them kill my brother! You’re going to let them murder him! We need to do something, we have to do something, we have to stop them-!”

Nep suddenly covered Ford’s mouth with his hand, looking panicked. Ford tried to smack his hand away, but Nep held fast. “What the hell’s the matter with you?!” He demanded. “Are you crazy?! You don’t know a damn thing about what happens to you when you speak like that. Are you trying to get yourself killed?! Your family?! Stan?!”

Ford managed to smack Nep hand away, glaring at him. Nep glared back, and held up his hand with the missing pinky. “This is the least of their punishments. They go for the people you love. They pick apart your head, disfigure you, turn you into their lapdog. You want to help your brother? You shut up and keep your head down.”

Ford blinked, startled. Nep looked surprised with himself after a moment too, and hid his hand behind his back. “...what…” Ford started, and then re-gathered his courage. “What happened?”

Nep shrugged, eyes distant. “...I said no to something I shouldn’t have, when I was around your age. A lot of people paid the price.”

“But…” Ford said. “You were a Victor then. They leave you alone after you win.”

Nep shook his head. “They bring me out every year, to parade me around so I can watch my tributes die. That’s the rest of my punishment. They’ve made a damn good lapdog out of me. You don't say no to the Capitol. I learned that the hard way.”

“...it’s supposed to be over,” Ford said weakly. 

Nep smiled, and it reminded Ford of a grinning skull. “My games were almost a decade ago,” Nep said. “I’m still there. Every night, I’m back. Every night I’m surrounded by people who want me dead, people who are dying, and a gleeful audience who’d toss me into hell if they thought it might stave off boredom. I never left. I’m still there, fighting, cold, and terrified.”

Ford felt sick. “Why…why are you telling me this?”

“Because whether your brother wins or not,” Nep said. “He’s gone. He’s already dead in that arena. And if he survives, the version of him that comes home will be a stranger. You’ll still have to grieve him. And the faster you come to terms with that, the easier this will be for you. Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”

“That’s not true,” Ford said weakly. “You haven’t seen anyone win.”

“I’ve seen others win,” Nep said. “I’ve seen myself win. It’s not worth much. Sometimes it just takes away whatever you’re fighting for. So don’t be the thing that makes them take whatever he has. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ford said. “And I can’t…I can’t. I can’t just sit around and do nothing. I can’t try to convince our neighbors to send him sponsorships because that’s all they can do. I can’t watch TV and just…just watch them die. I have to do something. I have to. It’ll kill me, Nep, watching this helplessly, it really will.”

Nep said nothing, looking nervous. Even in the early morning, he already looked uncomfortable in long sleeves. “...there’s a rumor,” he said, and then shut his mouth, looking tense.

Ford stepped forward. “...a rumor?”

“...yes,” Nep said, looking reluctant. “I heard it some time ago, and then never again. That…that District 13 is still alive.”

Ford blinked. “They…they bombed 13 into oblivion before the Capitol was even the Capitol.”

“Yes,” Nep said, nodding. “So it’s just a rumor. A rumor that they retreated underground and formed a resistance. A rumor that they’re waiting for the right time to strike, watching year after year. A rumor that…that they live north, in the wilds, in the wastelands. Dangerous to set out there alone. Not even because the Capitol will kill you and everyone you love, though they will. But there’s abandoned mutts out there, wild beasts, and the people who live there are not…friendly to outsiders. But you never, ever heard that from me. Alright?”

Ford nodded fervently, something like hope swelling up in his chest. “Alright.”

They stood there in silence for a minute, and then Nep offered three more letters to Ford. “I’ve already placed the ones for your parents in their mailbox. Hand these to the rest of your family?”

“I will,” Ford said, taking the envelopes. He paused. “...do you think Stan can win?”

“...it doesn’t matter what I think,” Nep said. “What matters is if he thinks he can.”

*** *** ***

Ford,

Sorry to make fun of you on live television. I figured I could get one dig in. I’m not really that sorry.

I AM sorry for breaking your project. I know you don’t believe me, but I want you to know it was an accident. I would never do that to you, no matter how afraid I was of being left behind. I guess I can’t really blame you for wanting to do it. I don’t know if Pa’s plan of moving up through districts was even possible, but you deserved to try. If anyone deserved it, it would be you. And I spoiled that for you.

I don’t regret volunteering. I never did for one moment. I would have done it a million times over to keep you from all this. I’m sure you’ve seen it on TV by now. Trust me, I know I make it look easy, but it’s not. I miss home. I miss the ocean. I miss hearing Ma spouting bullshit to her clients. I even miss the smell of fish. It’s crazy what things make you homesick. Most of all, I miss you. I think I always knew it would be the case.

I’m okay, though. Nep’s cool, and Darlene’s not as obnoxious as I thought she would be. There’s a makeup artist named Carla who’s been assigned to me, and she’s pretty cool too. I think it’s some kind of Capitol University assignment, but she’s treating me like a person, which is nice. I really don’t want you to worry too much.

Ford, you’re my best friend in the whole world, the best brother someone could ever hope for. I know we’ve been in a bad place this year, and I wish I could have fixed it. But I don’t hate you for it. I was never even angry at you for it. I know this letter isn’t the same as me saying things face to face, but I hope it counts for something.

Please don’t watch the games. I know they make you turn on the TV, but don’t look. I know you’ll want to, and you’ll think you’re a terrible person if you don’t watch every awful thing happening. But please. I don’t want you to. Please don’t make yourself watch. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something awful was the last way you remembered me. 

I love you, Sixer. Stay safe. Stay alive. Stay smart. Stay weird.

Your brother,

Stan.

[sharksfrommars]

FREEEE HIMMMMM!!!

1 billion notes and i free him

[sharksfrommars]

Yor : I have something to tell you about my job

Loid : I know. I told you I don’t mind at all

Yor : But I had many bodies

Loid : It makes sense, you’re good at it. You worked really hard to protect your family, I understand and I will always respect you

Yor : You don’t think I’m too dangerous to be around Anya ?

Loid : Anya is safe with you by her side, you’re her mother, you’re enough for her

Yor : *cries* Being an assassin is not hard but hiding it from my family is so hard

Loid : What do you mean being an assassin ? *thought she was an sx worker*

[sharksfrommars]

For Asylum Ford.

How much does he hate himself and Arrogance? After everything?

A lot. But not the overwhelming kind of self hatred that’s overpowering. It’s the slow, creeping kind. The kind that lingers on every mistake you’ve made like mildew. The kind that creeps up from your toes straight to your heart if you’re not careful.

His therapist talks about it a lot, it’s a common discussion point in their sessions. For a long time, Ford denied the fact that he had cripplingly low self esteem, even before bill. It took a lot of long, hard conversations to accept that, because Ford’s always been bold and tenacious, the kind to go for what he wants regardless of what others say - low self esteem and hating himself clashed with his self image. But it was there and it just kept getting worse.

in some strange way, it was a good thing that Ford ended up in an asylum. He genuinely needed the help, people had been telling him that since college. Of course he never listened, it was difficult to distinguish between genuine concern a cruel mockery.

But, despite how bad of a time he had, he learned a lot. About himself, his mind, his own weaknesses and strengths. He learned when to ask for and accept help, to depend on the people he could trust. He learned to manage the effects of the years of bullying and cruelty the world has inflicted on him. He learned how to hate himself a little less every day. Of course, he has mostly bad days, but by the ages of 60, they’re finally evening out.

[sharksfrommars]

thinking about if Stan was with Ford as Bill manipulated him into the worlds most toxic situationship, and he just had to watch, unable to do anything because his own relationship with Ford is so strained.

like, Stan can tell that Bill is bad news, but Ford gets mad whenever he brings it up. Ford trusts Bill more than he trusts Stan. Which makes things much much harder for Stan.

imagine watching your twin brother fall into an abusive relationship and your RIGHT THERE. But he’s in too deep and can’t recognise that he needs help. Imagine having to actively fight the isolation your brother’s parter is enforcing on him without upsetting your brother so much that he decides to cut you out completely.

There is so much fucking angst potential in here. Stan has no idea what to do. Maybe he was homeless until very recently, and now his housing depends on Ford, which means it depends on Bills whims. Ford doesn’t kick Stan out, but it gets real close. And no matter what bill does, Stan’s not going to leave his brother alone with bill. He needs to protect him. But this isn’t something Stan can really protect him from…

[sharksfrommars]

[sharksfrommars]

What do you MEAN, you made bill glow??? MR HIRSCH WHY IS HE GREEN.

[sharksfrommars]

I love when ppl make gendered terms nonbinary by inserting the word “they” into them it cracks me up so much it’s so fucking unserious.

“Theyfriend” gotta be the worst one t-t

also, “gentlethem”

“theydies”

it’s even funnier when it’s not even a gendered term aswell. Likr 8 years ago when liberal media outposts online kept going on about “theybies” Likr baby isn’t already a gender neutral term.

Never stop please

[sharksfrommars]

I know you must be getting sick of my Asylum Ford ask but…

Do you ever wonder what Stanley’s version of a Better World AU would look like?

Don’t worry lmao I like receiving questions it’s cool that ur so invested in my silly little ideas,

I have no fucking clue what Stan’s better world would look like. One where he didn’t get kicked out in the first place maybe? Or perhaps one where Ford just doesn’t say all that stuff about him in the portal room. One where instead of being met with a crossbow, and with the overwhelming sense of failure, he’s met with a brother who missed him.

Like, Ford’s in a slightly better mental state when Stan arrives. He explains the situation with bill, and actually listens when Stan tells him it’s a stupid idea. So Stan sticks around to help. Ford apologises to Fiddleford, they manage to kick bill out, and they all live happily ever after.

the three of them go into business together, with Ford and Fiddleford creating inventions and Stan selling them. He was never a bad salesmen, just a bad product designer. So, of course it takes off.

Stan ends up making a lot of money. They make a massive impact on the consumer technology market, bringing home desktops decades before anyone else. And Stan, as the CEO, is the face of it. He’s rich, famous, and best of all, has his brother right by his side.

Ford and Fiddleford keep developing the portal tech, and Stan and Ford decide to join the first expedition into this new world. The institute of Oddology is formed, entirely bankrolled by themselves. Their parents are proud, they’re household names!

portal Stan shows up and meets Fiddleford, just like in Ford’s better world. I imagine Stan stuck around for a bit to learn about dimensional travel, but he left before he met himself (to avoid a cosmic disaster)

Stan leaves with a dull ache in his heart. In a better world, this would’ve been his life. If only his Ford hated him less.

[sharksfrommars]

Look at that neurodivergent rage

rewatching amphibia, I’m on episode 2, and oh my gosh I love sprig so much

he’s my baby boy he had so much adhd in him already

[sharksfrommars]

rewatching amphibia, I’m on episode 2, and oh my gosh I love sprig so much

he’s my baby boy he had so much adhd in him already

[sharksfrommars]

I think, when the world is quiet,

that’s where I am.

My heart can only heal in silence.

[sharksfrommars]

tumblr is such a shit site I had a whole rant about british politics and kier starmer being racist typed out and when I tried to send it tumblr died and didn’t save the draft.

[sharksfrommars]

Tumblr really stumbled into a beautiful feature with the whole "tags are separated from the main post" (as they should be, they're metadata) + "tags can be as long as entire tweets" thing. They make a really nice form of textual subvocalization/whisper mode/aside/whatever (they're flexible!).

I keep finding myself wanting to make such asides on other sites and find myself subtly irritated that I can't. I wanna elaborate in a way that is diminished compared to the main post!

[sharksfrommars]

someone liked my better world au post, and reminded me of this Drabble I wrote. I added some more to it, so here it is. Don’t expect much more from me lmao. Hope you enjoy!

A better world (but you’re not in it)

25 years. It had been 25 years since Ford had last seen his brother. 25 years since Stan had cut all contact with the Pines family and dying in a car crash. 25 years of not having a twin. Arguably longer than that.

Ford had done well for himself. He was a world renowned scientist, having invented inter dimensional travel. He ran the Institute of Oddology in Gravity Falls with his best friend Fiddleford McGucket. He never had to worry about money, enough that he could afford to give it away in droves. The White House was in regular communication with him directly. Craziest of all, his father had actually said “I’m proud of you, son.” Ford was worried that it was an indicator of the end times, seeing how absurd it sounded coming out of his father’s mouth. Ford may even have shed a tear.

He had a big house, a nice car, a successful career. But he was lonely. His only friend spent half his time in California with his wife and their second child’s infant kids. Most of the other scientists he worked with looked at him like he was completely unapproachable. They looked up to him, which felt great, but it meant that none of them would ever want to just be friends with him. There was always something else, something they wanted. And after… him, Ford decided not to trust people like that. 

When he was younger, Ford thought that becoming a famous scientist, and achieving his dream would fix everything. No one would think he was weird or off putting anymore. They’d just see him as a genius, a respected member of society. Part of him, deep down, felt that if he became accomplished enough, he’d become normal.

It turned out it didn’t work that way. Ford was still clueless when it came to his peers. His jokes never landed, people talked about him and not to him. People still thought he was strange. It was a stench he could never wash off — weirdo outcast. Even if he had the ear of the president or was regularly invited to evening talk shows, Ford was nothing but a freak. 

A freak with an empty space in his heart. The hole Stanley had left there when he told Ford to never contact him again, the last words he’d ever say. When Ford sent him off with a journal full of regret. Ford didn’t have many close friends. He had no close family. He was alone.

Then, in the middle of the winter, he got an unlabelled package with no return. He opened it, wondering if it might be a Hanukkah gift from Shermie or something. 

It was a book. Usually a solid gift for Ford, but not this time. It was a children’s book, with crude drawings and a whimsical plot. “The epic Misadventures of Juno and Jules: tween-age monster hunters!” It was the kind of thing he’d have read when he was 8. Not the kind of thing you would usually send to a 57 year old man. Ford skimmed through it, not really paying attention. He wasn’t really one for children’s fiction. And he has no clue who sent it.

Ford ended up sending the book to kid grand nieces in California. They were definitely closer to the target audience for the book. From what Shermie said, they seemed to enjoy it.

The next year, Ford got another book. It seemed to be the second instalment, “Juno and Jules: mystic madness in the Bermuda Triangle” Still no return address, no idea of who sent it. He’d asked around, but no one else had even heard of the books. Ford ended up looking up the book online. It seemed like the 2nd book hadn’t been released yet. Someone had sent him an early readers copy. 

Ford just sent it to the grand kids. this time he didn’t even open it.

The next year, “Juno and Jules: beyond the stars to nowhere in particular”

The year after that, “Juno and Jules: how to beat the devil at his own game”

And the year after that, “Juno and Jules: into the heart of the Trigonometry king”. Judging by the cover, it seemed the author agreed that Triangles were evil. Perhaps the author was a fan of Ford’s work? It didn’t matter. Ford just sent it to the kids, no questions asked.

—————————

That summer, through a series of very complicated events, a particularly messy divorce, and at least 3 broken bones, Ford’s grand niblings were coming to gravity falls for the summer. It energised Ford - he hadn’t actually seen them in a few years. From the letters their parents sent, it seemed like Dipper and Mabel were creative and curious kids. They’d love gravity falls, Ford was sure of it.

He waited by the bus stop, wearing his best suit. That was sure to impress the kids, right? McGucket thought not, but Ford figured he’d ignore his friend’s advice in favour of trusting his gut. It worked on the president after all!

He was nervous as the bus pulled in, and two 12 year old kids hopped off the bus. Mabel introduced herself and her brother immediately, bombarding Ford with all sorts of questions about cute boys and vampires and such. 

Dipper was much more… sceptical. He seemed to be in a bad mood, not saying much and giving his great uncle strange glares. Ford was immediately concerned that he’d somehow deeply offended the child. He’d have to check with his employees who would probably know better. 

That evening, they all sat in the parlour eating pizza, as Ford finished up on a paper.

Once he was done, he turned to the kids. They were both huddled around a book, dipper taking notes and Mabel colouring in the illustrations with a variety of glittery gel pens.

“So…” Ford started, awkwardly, “what do you think so far!”

The twins looked up. Mabel smiled.

“It seems like a great place for summer adventure! Right, dip?”

“Mabel, your idea of ‘adventure’ is rolling around on grass”

“Hey! That was some quality grass I was rolling on!” She exclaimed at her brother’s rebuttals.

Ford didn’t get it, but he moved on anyway.

“I think, tomorrow, we’ll go into town! What do you think?”

“Sure” said dipper, his focus having returned to his book. Mabel cheered and went back to her colouring.

“What… are you two reading?” Ford asked.

Dipper’s eyes lit up. He started to ramble about the deep lore of the books, and how there were a number of secret messages hidden in them. Mabel chimed in every so often about it being funny and easy to read “if you’re not a massive dork”. It took a while for Ford to realise that they were the book he sent them.

Dipper blushed. “Oh yeah… I guess I’ll thank you for the books…”

Ford smiled. “I’m just glad that you two enjoy reading. It’s very important at your age.”

Dipper looked like he had a question, but he didn’t ask it until Mabel prodded him.

“GRUNKLE Ford, Dipper had something to ask you!” She said as dipper seemed to try make himself as small as possible.

“Of course!” Ford said, “I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability.”

Dipper pulled down his hat before speaking.

“Um.. grunkle Ford…. DO you know who wrote the books? Like do you know the author, because there’s no information about them online anywhere, and you always send is early reader copies do…”

Ford sighed.

“I’m afraid not, my boy. Those books mysteriously started appearing in my mail box a few years ago. No return address or anything. I have no idea who sent me them.”

Ford looked at dipper, expecting disappointment. Instead, dipper seemed more lively than he had been since they arrived. It seemed he was a mystery solver at heart.

[sharksfrommars]

sometimes, the world feels so terrible. Like everyone despises my existence, and there’s no place for me here. I’ve been feeling that a lot lately (probably cus of the current news cycle). The best part of being at the intersection of multiple minority groups is the slowly increasing sense of dread that clings to your skin like leaches and sucks the joy out of your life.

I can’t escape the feeling that there’s just no space for me? Like I’ve had to fight for my seat at the table, for my right to be recognised. I’m lucky I’m as tenacious as I am, because I’ve seen many people lose such interesting parts of themselves in the name of conformity. But it’s a double edged sword. Cutting off parts of you is the price of admission.

I’ve been feeling bad recently. Like mould on my skin digging deeper and deeper into my blood kind of bad. The world sucks and it hates me.

yet I persist. Somehow.

I get up every day and I exist

not out of spite, nor anger

but simply because I do.

Because I’m alive and breathing

somehow

[sharksfrommars]

I hate writing so freaking much. I get so excited about scenes and I write them and it’s great and then I remember that if I want my comic to be good I gotta go back and EDIT IT???? God hates me so much. All this and for what? Making a story I just REALLY want to see out in the world???

I wish I could just jump straight into drawing :( but without the writing I do wouldn’t know what to draw ARGGG.

just wrote a scene that turned out better than expected, which was great and I had fun. Except I hate the process of actually writing sm. hand on keyboard makes me want to bury myself in dirt to be eaten by worms. Spelling and grammar are my mortal enemies actually. The actual process is so freaking hard for no freaking reason what the hell. I want to no-clip into blue void.