#><strong>VERY WEIRD</font>

[wolfgirlboyjester]

KHOC Week Day 1 - Introduction

(Day 1 - Day 2 - Day 3 - Day 4 - Day 5 - Day 6 - Day 7)

I'm excited to participate in KHOC Week ( @khoc-week ) with Lamia, my favorite bristly emo boy in the whole world. I am currently in the process of writing a very lengthy and ambitious fic about them and the connection they make with a certain weird old man with an eyepatch. Lamia means a lot to me, and I'm so happy to have an excuse to show him to you all :]

The Day 1 prompt was a good excuse to finally nail down a design for them. I've struggled a bit in the past because there's a pretty big difference between the way I design characters (imagining what decisions they would make about their appearance based on their personality) and the way Kingdom Hearts characters are designed (what looks cool, and what is communicated about them to the audience based on their appearance). However, I think I struck a happy medium here!

I'm gonna spend the whole week infodumping about him, but there's more Sweet Sweet Lamia Content over on my main blog. (Be advised: I'm keeping my KHOC Week posts pretty PG, but there is more mature content in the links below!)

For more art: lamiart tag

For more Lore: lamiaposting tag

Text description below the cut, partly to keep the image alt text short, partly because the font might be difficult to read for some people:

Age: 25 (at the end of KHI)

Pronouns: he/him, they/them

Height: 5'8" (173 cm)

Homeworld: Radiant Garden

Keyblade: ???

Wields a broken, seemingly dead keyblade from the Keyblade Graveyard

Auxillary Member of the Hollow Bastion Restoration Committee

Father was a scientist in Radiant Garden before he vanished, along with Lamia's mother, during Maleficent's takeover

Has had chronic insomnia due to horrific nightmares ever since he was a child

Almost no magical ability

Swears like a sailor*

Doesn't eat much but has a massive sweet tooth

Autistic, trans

Scar on his lip came from a run-in with a Radiant Garden guard when he was a teen

*Strong language will not be present in KHOC Week posts

[chiropteracupola]

now that I have finished watching All The Sharpe That There Is, we have made a Tier List of our Very Strong Opinions. behold.

further (condensed) commentary from yours truly and usual partner-in-crime @sailorpants under the readmore:

S: Eagle, Company, Battle

Eagle: 'the plot of this one makes sense,' 'it really does show (well!) that this was the first book,' 'one of the ones we rewatch,' 'a good episode of television!'

Company: 'Pete Postlethwaite is a great actor -- Hakeswill made me want to throw up,' 'the lads and also the horrors,' 'genuine emotions were elicited,' 'well-established team dynamic at this point'

Battle: 'bad men! good men! beautifulest ladies!,' 'if Perkins must die then at least he gets a really cool death and to be bridal-carried by Harper and mourned by everybody,' 'the fucked-up love square,' 'plot hangs together well,' 'this episode has the most women of any Sharpe episode: four,' 'I have watched this episode three times', 'these rewatches were with lust (for the beautifulest ladies)'

A: Enemy

Enemy: 'decently written,' 'all the lads are there,' 'type of enemy Hakeswill becomes isn't as compelling and the inconsistency brings down both his episodes,' 'egregious women-tossing,' 'it is cool that there are other women; however Sharpe would not do That,' 'French people allowed to be interesting as a treat,' 'Sharpe and Teresa SOULMATES quote [screams]'

B: Rifles, Honour, Sword, Siege, Waterloo

Rifles: 'bit of a rough start,' 'the first half is good and then it gets Weird... phobias of sorts are In There', 'TERESA!'

Honour: 'extremely cool fights in this one,' 'Ramona!!,' 'some of the best Chosen Men banter in the whole series,' 'fake-Sharpe's-death plotline is quite well done,' 'unfortunate nonsense'

Sword: 'epic Harris moments cannot earn this episode a better ranking,' 'good casting and the background characters are cool,' 'the Lass deserved much better than this episode gave her'

Siege: 'oh, the chemical warfare episode,' 'they've learned to workshop their plans since Honour,' 'made me believe that Sharpe and Jane's relationship could have worked out, 'plot hangs together well (rare in a Sharpe episode)'

Waterloo: 'the scale of it doesn't quite sit right,' 'pretty good episode,' 'Paul Bettany is uncanny and I don't like whatever it is is going on with him,' 'getting the gang back together for one last Lads Adventure!'

C: Regiment, Mission, Revenge, Justice, Challenge

Regiment: 'more time with the Chosen Men could have saved this,' 'Company was a better 'the army sucks' episode,' 'the wet soupy episode'

Mission: 'it takes me two minutes to remember what happens in this one whenever I think about it,' 'again epic Harris moments cannot save this episode,' 'quite a high SCUM score,' '[impact font] MARK STRONG'

Revenge: 'ehhhhhh,' 'Lucille's nail-gun is the only thing that is cool and fun,' 'weird vibes about it,' 'Ducos' Bond-villain stuff is needless escalation,' 'Frederickson's ending is fun'

Justice: 'he's a cop in this one,' 'don't like Hagman's mustache,' 'Jane plotline no good, '[from sailorpants] when I actually watch this one I'm gonna have THOUGHTS'

Challenge: 'would rank this higher but I do have receipts on the fact that I was having a Bad Time throughout,' 'Toby Stephens makes this worth watching,' 'almost everything else about it is bad,' 'high points in every SCUM category,' 'four whole named plot-relevant speaking-role-having women! haven't had that many since Battle!,' 'TOBY STEPHENS CUNTSERVACIOUS LITTLE OUTFITS'

D: Gold, Peril

Gold: 'we don't need to discuss why we are ranking it like this'

Peril: 'the secret good Peril that lives in my head is so cool but unfortunately it is not real,' 'they are trying to have Themes and it is not working,' 'casting director is now finding conventionally attractive men instead of weirdguys with interesting faces,' 'Daniel Deever should have his own entire show but unfortunately this is a show about Richard Sharpe (I would write about him so much if I felt that I could do him justice but therein lies the Research Pit)' 'most important point is that he has a locket with Antonia's picture but the rest I could take or leave and I will probably leave it'

[satorisoup]

erm hi fwendss ^_^ this is gonna be like… a bit of a question but also a wittle bit of a rant… m’ confused ehehe T^T in tha small font cuz… s’ embarrassing for me… sniffles sosbsbs !!!!

b4 i start here are tha main components of da topic at hand : talks of little space, mentions of toxic ex bf, lots of typing quirks, some selfship stuffs, and wanting to feel more comfortable in my space without makin’ anyone else weirded out… needin’ advice methinks /nf

so like… i didn’t know that it wasn’t necessarily considered “normal” (?) to like… wanna be treated like a child sometimes… ?????????? (՞߹ - ߹՞) n e ways…

i’ve avoided dis topic for shosho long bcuz… i didn’t wanna be viewed differently n’ i didn’t wanna lose any of my cutie mooties or sumthin’ :< … but sometimes i rlllyyy wanna post how m’ feelin at tha moment but i don’t want anyone to be liek… “ lene never posts stuffs like dis” or “ why is lene talkin’ like dis” or “ lene is actin’ weird” yeah…

yeah n’ like… the thing i imagine tha most with my f/o’s is… them holdin’ me & rockin’ me like a baby or something… cuz s’ just so comforting :< n’ i want them to take care of me… and stuffs… and do fun tingsss like !! i wanna watch my favorite cute show wif them and ramble about it while they nod their head and tell me m’ so smart… MWUEHE dis is so embarrassin’. omigoodness…

which dis also might explain why i usually type wif lots of cute little quirks if anyone was wondering abouts dat… right now i’m feeling extra cutesie so m’ usin’ LOTS & LOTSSS ehe !! ^_^ it’s very comfortin’ to me so… yeagahshdb !!! :,>

dis alllll leads to my question… what would this be considered ?? :”0 is this weird… fwieeeeendsss :< i dont know wat to dooo… someone hold my hand or something i might cry T^T

when i was datin’ my ex (bad, yucky guy… nunu…) i do remember feelin’ little (?) at times… n’ wanting to feel comforted in a way that he couldn’t provide mefinks… like. sumtimes id hold two of his fingers wif my hand and he’d shake me off n’ stuffs… or when i wanted him to cuddle or hold me at all, even in a way dat was “normal” he wouldn’t… ehe… n e way… he did lotsa stuff that kinda made me feel wantin’ to be comforted more… but he was the cause of me feeling sad and i didn’t know what ta do… m’ very glad he’s gone :> there was too much pain in dat relationship… i wasnt ever comfy… n e way. i know kou wouldn’t ever dream of doin’ that stuffs to me… but i want to cope like dis… it makes me feel happy T^T

if i started typing more like how its comfortin’ to me… or if its a bit more quirked… would you be mad :< not all da time… but ya… ive always held back on it cuz… i didnt wanna seem weird or nuffin… sigh </3

will probs delete this tomorrow but !! i wanna know what ta do for realsies… this isn’t considered little space right ?? what is little space… :0 cuz if its when you feel younger than you are at times… yeah *nods* i fink. m’ sho sorry is this weird of me… :,< i dont wanna make n e one uncomfortable or something… oki. anyways…. WAHHHHHH !!!!!

any ways— to distract myself from dis ramble… look at my pwetty kiri (っ⸝⸝⸝ <) i wuv his hair like this shosho much… i just wanna smooch his cheeks :> nomnomnom !! (*ᴗ͈ ̫ ᴗ͈) his teefies… ehe :,> he’s so manly n’ strong… i want him to hold me mwuehe !! :3

sometimes i js wanna post abouts how much i wuv my sweetie pie shoto… n’ how i want him to smooch m’ cheeks ehe… or about kou :< my precious kou… s’ also why in all my selfships my nickname is usually sumfin’ along the lines of “baby”… ehehe ^_^

n’ i really want katsuki to hold me n’ rock me to sleep… s’ that weird ?? it might be out of character but… i like to imagine it mhm mhm :,>

or sumtimes i wanna play wif satoru… n’ be silly while he feeds me sweets n’ calls me his pwetty sweet princess :< andand there would be lotsa cakes !! and strawberries !! m’ favorite !! >//<

n’ i rlly love imagining gettin’ all dolled up in pwetty sundresses n stuffs dat choso likes :> n’ havin’ him hold my hands in his… ehe

ohoh !! and… holding two of sugu’s fingers wif my whole hand… :< n’ makin’ pinky pwomises… ouh… how cute… m’ kicking my feetsiesss !! ^0^

or ume holdin’ me like a princess… n’ lettin’ me watch as he cuts his veggies to make me a snackie… cuz he knows i wuv veggies… mhm :3

m’ sorry… gots a bit distracted thinkin’ bout all the stuffs i’ve wanted to say b4… ehe….. (つω`｡) i couldn’t help it !!

anyways, goodnight friends :> if u see dis & i delete it… yeagh… comments or askies r definitely appreciated sniffle :> im supa curious EEEK !! m’ shy excuseee me >//<

[smiles-ocs]

This story has always put me through a loop but I changed the story a TON and I kinda like how it is now!

The setting I’m going for some kind of technological world that meets this tribe that does things the old fashioned way. Tanisha goes to her local college and she feels completely self conscious and bad about herself. She doesn’t feel like she’s very motherly or understanding or affectionate like her older sister, but she doesn’t feel confident or charismatic like her younger sister. She’s just this awkward and sometimes rude person that no one likes to be around. She lacks confidence to say the least. She finds herself meeting this mythical tribe that was said to be either not real or extinct, and she’s taken prisoner because this tribe does not allow outsiders. Obviously this tribe has pointy ears so it’s easy to know who’s an outsider and who’s not. Normally outsiders are executed, and obviously Tanisha is upset by this cuz even tho she feels like her life sucks she doesn’t want to die, especially after her parent’s death and the stress it put on her older sister. Bo guarded her cell and got to know her, and he eventually grew to care about her and tried to convince the tribe to not kill her. He came up with an idea of some memory erasing thing that they could make (I’ll get into this tribe later) so that she wouldn’t die. They agree to give it time (his mother is the co-chief so that helps) and Bo kinda keeps an eye on her. She gets involved with their tribe and does physical training with him, and she gets pretty strong.

This tribe is called the Iraise tribe and it focuses on two things: the mind and the body. When you’re a kid, you grow up being involved with physical and mental training, and when you reach 12 years old, you go through an “opening”, where your third eye is opened and the color of your spirit is revealed. This tribe are the only people who have magic, hence why they’re so against technology cuz they feel it’s disrespectful to magic (but they’re also the only ones who can use magic lmao). Anyways, a yellow spirit is stronger in mind. Those with a yellow spirit strengthen the intellect and memory and study math, science, and other things to strengthen the tribe. They’re kinda involved with everything. While blue means body, and those with a blue spirit strengthens their bodies obviously. They’re the protectors, hunters, and gatherers in the tribe. I have so much crap for this tribe but I’ll move on from now.

Bo was trying to get the minds to think of some other way to deal with Tanisha that didn’t involve her death, so they’re doing that while she follows Bo around. It’s a lot, Tanisha gets stronger and gets more confident with herself as a result (no I am NOT projecting (I am)) and eventually, the two chiefs and tribe make a decision: to follow through with executing Tanisha. To make something that could erase memories would take a lot of time and it’s extremely volatile. Memories are CRAZY and they could end up erasing all of her memories, give her amnesia, or fail at altering her memory in general. They find that executing her would be a better and more ethical way to deal with her. Bo of course is distraught cuz he’s really grown to care about Tanisha, so that night he takes her to a train that he knows (he’s a curious fellow) and sends her on her way. Yes this will have consequences :)

Anyways huge tangent. It was really hard to find a good font for this story cuz it… has a weird aesthetic. Idk, I’m still figuring it out but I want to do something with Tanisha more cuz I love her sooooo so much

[vergeltvng]

Thanks for reading my guidelines. I go by the mun-alias Midnight (she/they), early millennial, living in the CET timezone. English is my second language. My activity level is medium to low, my reply speed is slow, please don’t rush me. I'm still learning about Tumblr rp etiquette and guidelines, please be patient with me. If you see me doing something unusal or weird feel free to correct me at anytime but be respectful about it.

01. GENERAL BLOG INFO. Besides being a roleplayer I am also a hobby gif maker, therefore personal blogs are welcome to interact with my posts. Basic Tumblr etiquette applies: Don't steal, repost or edit my gifs. If you want to insert a single gif into one of your posts please use the gif search function. If you are a personal blog make sure you don't reblog or comment on rp content which includes tag games, writing examples, headcanons, threads and answered asks. Speaking of asks: I will generally react in-character whenever possible but I am not an IC ask blog.

02. DISCLAIMER AND CONTENT WARNING. To interact with me, you have to be 18+ (personals and rp blogs, mun and muse). I am not affiliated with The Boys, its creators or the actor Karl Urban and I don't own the character Billy Butcher. I claim ownership of my own written headcanons and texts only. The Boys is an R-rated series and this is a general trigger warning for mature content such as — strong language, graphic violence and gore, physical and mental abuse, mention of sa, mention of child abuse, alcohol addiction, mental illness, terminal illness, trauma, sexual content, weapons, drug use, political and social commentary, sick humour, satire and overall rude behaviour which can be expected from this muse.

03. MUN ≠ MUSE. It should go without saying but at the same time cannot be stressed enough. This is a morally grey/villainous character. If you are easily offended we're likely not matching well as writing partners. Butcher can be tremendously rude and aggressive, he swears excessively and is quick to insult your muse if he dislikes them or feels provoked. Make sure beforehand that you can handle interacting with such a muse and do not take anything from him personal or too serious. If we started interacting and, for any reason, you feel discomfort please communicate it. I’m always willing to take a step back and sort things out.

04. INTERACTIONS. Best way to interact with me is novel-style written text from the get-go. It doesn't have to be long, it's just way easier for me to reply to than ic talk. I usually drop smalltalk after one or two messages or won't reply at all, I'm sorry. For long-term text exchanges I prefer sideblogs over Google Docs since I'm not familiar with the latter (I'm willing to learn though if that's your preferred option). I'm also very open and curious to try threads, I'd love to have some writing on my blog. Feel free to hit me up if you're interested and are comfortable with doing any sorts of public threads.

05. WRITING. No godmodding, power play or meta gaming. I also don't like forcing or rushing certain dynamics that don't feel like natural character progression. Plotting beforehand is welcome but not mandatory. If it ever feels like being stuck we can pause the writing and have a small plotting session between scenes or even for the same scene. I am a big fan of the "yes, and" approach, give me something to work with. I don't have an estimated length for texts, it always depends.

06. FORMATTING. I don't do a lot of formatting. I have an icon border and prefer small font, my writing is usually continuous text with no line breaks for dialogue. Let me know if this is difficult to read for you and I will adjust, no questions asked. Generally, feel free to format your text as you wish but here are some things I have issues with: Excessive spacing between words (triple space and higher), excessive bolding or italicizing to a point where it distracts me; all caps, text from font generators (captions and highlighted phrases are perfectly fine but I can't read a whole text in those fonts).

07. SHIPPING. I'm multiship and multiverse, meaning every ship takes place in its own verse if not communicated otherwise. I personally enjoy shipping a lot if there's good chemistry but Butcher is difficult to ship and due to his background pretty much unavailable for romantic bonding. It's not impossible though. I'm also interested in any setting where I get a chance to write him as an unhinged villain and diverge from the canon more liberately.

08. FOLLOWING. My approach to curating my dashboard is quite different, I would say, compared to what's considered standard. I follow a lot, and I mean a shitton, of people (4500+ blogs as of August 2024). I follow every blog out of interest and curiousity but please understand that it's impossible for me to interact with everyone. Don't get offended or take it personal when I follow and don't reach out and also never feel obligated to follow me back. If you softblocked me in the past and I refollow you it's accidentially. Please hardblock me if you don't want that to happen again, I won't take it personal.

09. ACTIVITY. My blog is labeled low activity for a reason. Yes, I am here for rp, but I like to do lots of other things on Tumblr, too. There's periods of time where I don't have the energy to work on drafts or talk to anyone. Rest assured that you never did anything wrong when I disappear for a while. What I'm not willing to do is constantly giving activity updates on a schedule. I might make a post on current stats occasionally and if I go on hiatus for longer I will highly likely make a post about it.

10. DON'T BE A CUNT. I have zero tolerance for homophobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, sexism, hateful comments in general, out of character drama, gossiping, constant negativity, passive aggressiveness, vague posting, guilt tripping, gaslighting and other similar behaviour. Just be a decent person and we're fine.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird!

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Cruz here. You can find more information about Penn and LeviathanPat–who is only mentioned here, but he still gets the clarification because I said so–here. EldritchPlier and Illinois belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(I wrote this as a birthday present for my amazing friend @sammys-magical-au! So, of course, we’ve got another special guest appearance by their badass OC! Please go reblog Sammy’s ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)

(Also: the awesome @inkbedou has created some lovely artwork of the main character here! Please go check out their stuff and give them a follow!)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied murder/death, blood/gore, knives/blades, implied animal death, occultism, mentions of ritual/sacrifice, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going here).

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Anything and everything came with its own sets of Give and Take. A lot of people—more than your mental health would probably be prepared for—had trouble understanding that sometimes, but not Cruz. 

For example: it was difficult to hear crimson splattering over the notes of his violin, but the small pool of blood at the head of his room was very much noticeable. There was that strong, infamous metallic scent of course, but it’d also be pretty hard to ignore how droplets were slowly but surely floating up to give his ceiling an impromptu polka-dot paintjob.

(Which, to be fair, was pretty damn cool to watch if you were in the right headspace. Yeah, it’d be so much harder to clean, but still.)

Honestly, this blatant middle finger to gravity wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened tonight. Or even several past nights, in fact. 

The more time you spent with sentient crimes against reality, the more reality warped around you. 

Especially the creature Cruz was waiting for right now: among his many horrific titles, he was nothing if not the personification of Fuck You I Do What I Want.

The blood began boiling and churning on its own accord. It was a little louder than the dripping chorus, but that still didn’t quite break through the violin’s voice. 

And then. . .the red started to drain.

The blood itself wasn’t drying up, the puddle wasn’t shrinking or evaporating at all. 

No. That rich, organic color started seeping out of the fluid, slithering into the air past the veils of rising steam, leaving the small pool to resemble liquid silver. . .or the skin of someone who was just about ready for putrefaction. 

The red seeped its way under that tiny gap of space between the floor and the bottom of Cruz’s bedroom door. It then spread to outline the door from the other side entirely, a white-hot glow mixing into it. The new light was impossible: dark and vibrant at the same time. Almost like an eclipse.

A low, echoing growl rumbled from the other side, announcing the arrival of the same guy Cruz had made a bargain with a few years ago.

It quickly evolved into a guttural, keening roar that made the door shake in its threshold and the air feel like it was blistering. If not for how much time and effort Cruz had put into adjusting, his ears would’ve started to bleed. 

Always up for collaborating, Cruz pulled the bow across his violin’s strings at a new angle, eliciting an evil HSSSSSS from the instrument. 

After about fifteen seconds, the monstrous cry transitioned into a voice, deep and smooth and tinged with grating, surreal venom.

“Heͪy͉ͬ͝ t̄̊he̖̪̬r̹e͍̽͢.̬ͥ Ho͈ͣ̂w͂̓ h̑̀a͖̖v̪͈̽e thi̷̾ͨng͖s͢ ḇͭ̉eͬ̇͞en̶̢?ͮ”

Cruz offered both a nod and a shrug, knowing that the abomination could see him through the wooden barrier. “Pretty alright. Can’t complain.” 

The voice hummed thoughtfully. “W͕ͧ̀el̲̑l̜͑ͯ,̖̿ I don't̾̈ͦ mea̲̓n̾ ṯo ål͈a͊͡r̭͖m̬̅̕ y̬oͤ̊̓u͚ͦ,̋͛̋ b̎ͮut̺̹ͅ th͇̗er͔̔eͪ'̶s͐ͅ s͗̓o̘ͧ̃m͙e̘o̞̼͆n̖ͥ͌eͥ ś̚tͪ̕and̋̓͢í̈́͞n̘̔g̃͊̚ o̅n̶͒ͤ t̏͑͝h̳͑ͮe f͗r̦o̓n͠t͍ p̩͗̚o̗r͛ch.ͯ́”

Cruz felt his hackles ever-so-slightly rise—

“O̘̼ṙ, d̴̎id̼͒̈ y̶ȍ̗̺u_̫ aͮ̓ļ̲ȓ͓̏e͒a̫̘͐dy̋ kn̻̹͗o̦͗̄ẇ̊ thͬa̷ͩͧt̉?̑ͥ” The voice continued. “I m̰ͅean,͈ͬ̀ iͮͨt_̨'d̙ͬ̿ b̩͋eͫ̔̒ pȓ͕e̒ͣ͞t͊ͯty̰̠ͬ ha̕͟r̭̺̃ḋ t͔ͦ͛o̴̫͎ mí̼̭s͚̈s̼ͧ him, ŵ̙h̛̄a͘ţ͍ͨ w̛̥it̖͖͠h̝͋ t̬h͙̊̽e̷͔ ća̜ͪͣmͮer̢̚a c̴̃͞r͜ȩw aņd̍̒ t̓h̨̫̾aͦt̯̚ u̯̍͢n͇̊n͈̱eͫ̄c̵̝͘e̢s̪̮̒sͦa̅ri̩͑͆l͗ý̛̅ lạrg̜eͤ c̀h̢̔ͯeͯc̦̓k͖̫̭ i̵n̚ h̠̎͗iş h͋̚͟a͔nḋ͓͝s͉̓͟.́̈́̎ . .̏̀͆”

—and almost immediately flatten back down. Cruz sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah-yeah, sure-sure. We both signed that contract a long time ago. You know you don’t have to keep trying those tricks on me, right?”  

A booming chuckle rattled through the house, carrying the scent of sulfur. “Aͥ͋h͗ͯͪ,̧͚͌ c̢̍'m̸͔̼on̤. I͞t̨͔̔'̙s̤ͪͅ go͇͓ỏ͎̿d̨͚ pr̲ͨa͇͜c̥̤̈ti̚_́c̗͖͞e͋ tͭ̅͊o̥ k̝̭̅e̩̙ep̮ f̯̥o̢͊͛l̹l͍̀ow̳̘e̛͔r̊̌s̿́ o̥ͥ̾n t̅̒́h̳̖̀ei̮ŗ͒̑ toę̳s̝.̵̦ B̺͗e̹͘s̶id͖͠e͌s̭̋͌,̰ o̥ͮld̃̇̽ h̾̋ä͔́ͭb́ͩ͗i̤t̛͔͟s j̝us̯t die̾́ h͑a͠ȓ̴̚d͖͂̋.͍”

Exasperation lingered in his features, but Cruz’s energy had never left. “And speaking of dying, you see what I put together?”

“I doͅ,ͯ” the abomination–whom Cruz had learned to call Plier, as it was the only part of his title that could be pronounced by a human tongue—replied. A faint sloshing noise followed his words; he was inspecting the large, ornate bowl that Cruz had prepared with tonight’s offering not even half an hour ago. 

Cruz nodded, grinning. “Everything should be nice and fresh. I mean, apart from the blood, since you said it's better when it’s aged a little.”

A thoughtful hum oozed under the door and into Cruz’s ears. A slick, grotesque, near-bubbling sigh came along, the type of sound that could only come from a (once) internal organ as it was sliced apart by something with razor-sharp edges. 

“W͖ͨe̖ͪl̨l,̽ šo̅ f̀́͡ar, n̤͕ͫo̢ͪ̽ v̧̩ir̠̾g̱ͪ͢in͉̍͋'̧͔s͚͜ t̪é̤͂à͑rs oͮ͘͟r͊ ć͘͠a̧̰̥pt̩͢u͒̐r̼͊ed mo͈o̸͉nͦl̿i͕͒g̟͖h̰̎t̠ i̪͌n̠̔ h̏e̶re.͆ O̵r̽, a̫̳͂t l̪͍͠e̹a͔̒̓ŝt, n̨̉ot̖̟ͦhing I wͮͯoͧͮ͋u̦lḏ̈́̿ ć̄å̹l̻͔̋l͍ a m͆o̲̚ṙ̶e̎̄̀ sͨ̔͛p̕į̩ͥrituaļͫ iͅn̰̼͆gre͙ͯd̪͆ͯi̫̾̑enͮtͪ͐͊.̀͞,” Plier announced. “M̬ayb͓͉̚e y̡où'̋̀v͙̈́eͩ̔͛ l̜os̘t̃̀ y̳̌ó͖̾ȗ̮͙ṛ̙ͅ t̥ouc͌h͚. .̨ͫ̕ .͜”

Cruz raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from sputtering a bit. This was done in jest, of course. He’d been working for Plier long enough to have built up some genuine trust; he knew how to dissect the monster’s words, how to tell what he truly felt or thought about things. 

For a centuries-old Stephen-King-wet-dream-come-to-life, Plier had a typical juvenile meanstreak. Sure, he saw most other humans as pitiful little playthings, but when it came to the rare few he found interesting enough to be worth his time, he was big on unconventional motivation.

His critical and condescending jabs were meant to be taken as a challenge, an open invitation to keep going and impress him.

At least, that’s how it was half of the time. . .

“M̛̀̐ȧy̨͇̬beͬ̅ y̼̰ou'v̥̍é̱ l̐̉ọ̔͑s̈́̈́t y͕̝͈our̎̌̕ touch̴̫͋,̠͊̈” Plier repeated, raising his voice just a bit after pointedly clearing his throat. “T̀ͬ̾his̝̆͡ d_́o̱eş͎̍n'̡ͨt̀ h͖̕ͅa̩vë͟͠ e̎̂ve̮̘n̒ h̗̞av͋ͧe̎ͪ aǹy̛͊̇ w̸̦a͘ṭͬ͞e̮ͨͪr͝ th͖͂ͭã̤̕t p͞ëo̯̦̽p̝ͧ̆l̜̂ͯe̞ͧͭ d̝͙̱ŗ̥̌o͟wn̬ed̔ i͔̳n!͟”

“Oh, you’ll get some in the future. Count on that,” Cruz assured, folding his arms across his chest.

Plier hummed again in a way that just screamed of how he was pursing his lips and mutilating those lips in the process thanks to the multitude of too-long, too-sharp teeth in his maw. But then, it wasn’t like pain was really a problem for him, considering he’d had a hand in creating pain itself as a concept.  “I sh̋oͩ̍uͥl̷dͤ gͤͭī̀ṿ̩̎ẹ̽ i̵̧ͅt t̿́̕ḧe̯ b̒ͧe̲ͪnef̧̛̖ịt o̿f t̗̃h͙̭e d͗ǫ̶̩ù̢btͦ. Ẃ͉oͥ͟ul̛ͬdn͖̆'̏͡t̺͟ w͗ȧ̖̒nͯt̄ t̾͗̓o͊ͤ̐ h͊_̹u̓ͫrt͛ yo̘u͉̝r̠͘͢ f̠r̈ag̵̑̎i͟le hum͍a̖n fe̷̵e̩͗_li̍ͬň̎gs.̷̼”

. . .And the other half was him just being a facetious asshole because it wasn’t like any mortal could dare try to stop him.

Cruz clicked his tongue, a dry chuckle seeping through his gritted teeth.

And with that, a mind-bending symphony of crunching bones, snapping tendons, and tearing flesh filled the air, all leaking through the door.

Cruz rocked back and forth on his heels.

After a moment, Plier gave pause with a bitter, sickening gulp. “Oh̯͔͟, g̈́o͆̆͌atͨsͧ͞ a̪͍̎g̒̃͢a̍in̞̔̈.̤̰͇”

“I thought goats reminded you of the Wars,” Cruz said, tilting his head to the side.

In fact, he knew they did, since Plier had regaled him with so many tales of the days when he’d first started climbing the eldritch hierarchy, of abhorrent conquest, of the streets in twisted cities in various dimensions running red (or green, or blue, or whatever colors non-mortal blood could be). 

“I̽́̚ s̴ͦ̈ee̴̵͆m͔̟̈ ẗ́͐͊o r̦e̟m͔͢e̜m͛ͯbe͌ͮ͟r̻͙̣ y̧̬ͬo̹u͘̚ te̍l͔̣͞l͂́͊ing̒͢ m͉͌̍e t̷͂̈h̨̎a̓ͮ̈t͚̖͊ I c̷̋oụ̬͠ldͥ̎͋ exͣp̷e̵̼͢c͍̀ͮṯͤ̚ ṡ͉o̢͘ͅm̤͘eͨ h̛u̙m̷̸a̷͕n̪ ř̫em̍̚ͅa͉i̸̬̯n̷͎ś s̒o̯o͍n̸͋,̧̠̟” Plier mentioned. A steady drumbeat murmured as he spoke–those had to be his claws tapping against the hallway’s floor. “P̰̕lͩuͣͦs̠̀̿,̢̞͐ ǒ̧̤b̅͌v̓îo͆us͍̯̫ḻ̆̽y͊̍ a͘ ni̒͜cë̳́,̨̞ raẁ͔ so̢ú̠̒l͉͙͡ to hạ̻̌r͂v̮es͕͐ͣt o̢͙̒n t̯o͓̾p̩ of͎̀͑ ț̊ͮḣ̿aͭͫ͗t̶͍.̈̏”

The upcoming retort died a quick-yet-brutal death on Cruz’s tongue. He chewed at his lip, then heaved a sigh and trudged across the room to flop down onto his bed. 

This elicited a startled, layered mrowh! from one end, where a vaguely cat-shaped creature with five piercing eyes and dark carmine fur that almost looked fluffy. . .almost, so long as you were a safe distance from it. When the small monster got to its paws and stretched before wandering over to its owner, it became more and more clear how that “fur” was a coat of spikes that could easily flare up at a moment’s notice.

Fortunately for Cruz, plenty of bonding time had passed by now, and so Macaroon was content to just nudge at his forehead and stick out a disturbingly long forked tongue to give him a classic kitten-lick.

Cruz reached over to gently scratch his pet’s tattered ears. He knew Plier was still watching him, still waiting for an answer. “. . .I tried, okay? I really did! I lined up five patsies for this month’s initial plan. Five! But for whatever reason, none of them ended up taking the bait! And after that, the goats were all I could afford to get!”

A long-suffering sigh echoed from the door, doused in oil and disappointment. “Y͐ỏ́u̶̡'̈́v͌̍ͨe̾͐́ t̘̿͢r̈́i͌̎ck̾̇͜ē̶d ḑ͙̓o̪ͮ̇z̛eͣͯnsͤ̄͐ ô̩̠f m̜̗o̵̬͐rͧt͆a̼͙ͥlͨ͠s̙͛ͨ,͓ Ċruz͚.̜̹ Wh̩ǎ͓͢ţ̎͟ c͐͛͞o̧ͥuĺͦ̇d'̢̐ve pͮ͑ǒ͘s̜̹͝s̻̃i͈̟̔b̑l̪̦̃y̫̞ b̻̆̽e͗͞en͊ so d͎̃i̵f̌ͦf̹͇͢ę͚̓rͬe̹̊nt̬̔ a̮b͗̚o̜ͤut̀́ t̫̽h̺ͨ̐ośe͊ o̓ṅ͙es̴̯ͫ?̠”

“I don’t know!”  Cruz threw his hands up in empty air. “I have no idea how or why it even happened! I acted my ass off for all of them! I thought I’d given more than enough charm and last-minute-guilt and likeable awkwardness!”

Memories of the recent past came rushing through his head. The quartet of nights he’d spent in a cheap motel just a few miles away, using the dingy little bathroom mirror as a makeshift scrying station. 

The phone calls he’d made each night to five “friends” he’d recently made, each one hailing from a different cleaning company; the way he’d requested they stop by this very house, one after the other, to tidy up on his behalf. 

The way each of them had just. . .not. Doubled. Back, even though human survival instinct was pRETTY MUCH ALWAYS IGNORED IN FAVOR OF CURIOSITY BUT APPARENTLY NOT THESE TIMES BECAUSE SCREW ALL THE PLANNING AND LURING AND EFFORT CRUZ PUT INTO HIS PROJECTS!

“Aͤͤ̉ndͤ̒ y̸̮̱óu̅ s͚u̓mmö́ͥͪn͕e̳͆d a̠̙ Mả̰nͣͣè̸ foͧr͂ͥͮ t̶̘ẖ̐̒a͓̬ͪtͥ,̳” Plier added coldly. “O͔ͫn̸ͨe̩ͭ o̿̑ͤf̨̌͜ t̵͎ͨḫ̷͠e̙͐ͯ Te̜̭k̗̿e Teͦ̈͆kͮe v̦͖̬a̙̓ȑ̋̄i̖̺anͬt͐ͦͮșͯͩ,̕ ri̋͞͞g̛͋hͮt̮͚̆?̺̲̒ W̆ė̽ak a͎s̭͖ͦ t̩͂̇hey͚ aͤr̢͂͘e͕̽͜, th̥͢os̨͛e t̍y͖̑p̛͓͟es̵̰ͨ a̝re̽͝ s͍̘̾t͈̙i̞l̊̀͟l̬͋̈́ pr̰̔e͋ͬ͢t̟ͯt̪y͗ d̩à̘ͬmnͪ ŗ̯ͬar̡͕̒e̤̪͈.̕”

“Don’t remind me,” Cruz begrudgingly agreed, muttering a few colorful phrases in Portuguese under his breath.

 Manes were the lowest of low in abyssal environments, but they were never in short supply, so they could still be somewhat useful for anything demon-related. So long as you were ready to deal with their tantrums or the invisible bile that drained through their pale skin like sweat. . .(The fluids that had leaked from the exposed, dangling guts of the one Cruz had used hadn’t really helped.)

“Y̭oͨu c͚̫̕o̙u̘̚ldn̻̗'t͇̣́ h̓͑ä͂̕v̝̆ȩ͍̮ j̲̉ͬù̽̄s̟̺ͫt͈̃͢ c̝ͨ̾a̜p̟̐̕t͠uŗ̮͟e̘͂d i̠̝t̊̈ aͥ͐͘n͋dͫ̔ͤ h̶͐ȇͥľ̬͘ḏͩͅ i̟̊͂t f͚͔ȍr̫̟ͮ t̡̯o̍͐n̨͊͗i̖͍̳g͉h̸͍̽t?ͯ͘ F̨la̐y̛͑̐ingͮͮ it́ͅ wŏ͖ͣȕ̓̕l͉d̴͇̄'̤́̅v̫e͟ b̈́̈ȩ͎en s̀u͖̲i̤taͩ͐b͐l͇̪̄e̽ en͈̉͜t̽͘̚e̮̪̒rtai̓ņ̣ͯm̂̓͛e̛̽nt̞,͔ s̯͘in̛̛͘c̶͔̾e͞ t͟h̺ͨͩẽÿ̰́͞'r̭̈́̿e â̮lwaÿ̯s̝ ŝ̤ͯǒ̴̟ d̉͘e͕̐͟s̡͔p̀͘eͫȑ̐͡a͋͟t̽e̽͜ t́̋o eͯx͒iśtͅ.”

“That was my Plan B!” Cruz insisted. “I knew it would do if I couldn’t get any people, but. . .”

He trailed off, cringing in spite of himself. 

“B̤̠̬ut. . ?̹ͫ” Plier echoed in the deadpan to end all deadpans. 

“. . .One target in particular sort of. . .scared it off,” Cruz reluctantly finished, remembering the last of his intended victims. A tall, lanky man in his thirties with fair skin, chocolate eyes to match his hair, the aura of a not-so-new father, and a Midwestern accent with a laugh that could only be described as the most adorable goddamn thing. 

He hadn’t done the task alone: throughout the staged cleanup job, a ginger-haired friend had followed along, chatting so brightly and casually. 

Loathe as Cruz was to admit, it’d almost made for a pretty wholesome little spectacle. . .well, until Mr. Dad Reflex had realized that Cruz kept two different types of trash cans in this house. Or, from Mr. Dad Reflex’s perspective, trash cans and hampers, the differences of which he had vehemently ranted about for at least five whole minutes.

The Mane, as they usually were, had been brazen enough to show itself. . .only for Mr. Dad Reflex to nearly smack it upside the head with the mop he’d brought along from his company’s storage warehouse. 

Hell, it’d gotten to the point where Mr. Dad Reflex had even found the bloody mess of Cruz’s summoning ritual for that particular exploit, only to clean it up and give a worrying amount of legit knowledge on cleaning bloodstains.

(As well as rant some more about how the wax residue from the candles was a bigger issue and. . .something about cleaning knives?!)

So, yeah. Even if Cruz had only gotten to know the basics in order to gain some of Mr. Dad Reflex’s trust, he now had a feeling that Mr. Dad Reflex would’ve been a powerful enemy that he decidedly did not want to make.

Plier was silent for a very long, very uncomfortable couple of minutes, no doubt reading Cruz’s mind to validate the claims for himself. Cruz didn’t bother trying to shield his thoughts; he’d read every single term of that contract. Letting Plier see into his head was just standard business. 

Eventually, Plier heaved a groan. Outside the door, the floors creaked and the walls trembled as the monstrosity shifted in place.

“Y͇o̪uͨ'̷ͥͯre̊ lu̓c͓̿͞k̭̣̇y̷ͪ th̄ͫ̽á̝̉t̻͂͐ yo͎͜uṛ̯ͣ ḿ̵ͪi̴n͇̊͛d̼͉͞ h̷̩ͭa̦s s̙̞͋o̮̿ͣme̓ a̦̖c̣̤͒t̆ͪṳͥ̈́aĺ͉ ș̔̉ù̥̙b̊́̎ş̏t̥́a͐́n̆ce͈̥̕.̟͝ O̺ͣt̛͕ḫ̺́eͧr̘̔͒wͥi̱͑̊se̾,ͪ̎̇ I̵̾ w̑ó̫̦u̇ͭ̈́ld'̻͘ve͇͚ jụ̵s͂͛t̤̒̅ tà̴̒ke͠n̟ tͥͯ_h̢ͣoͬse̫͆͠ p̅̇r̢e̴̬͘t͚͠ṱ̱̇y̸͖ l̀i̪t̸ͯt̅le̯̗ ē̾͌yẻ̢ͨs̸ of͛̾ͫ y_̩̀ò̧̅u̙rs̪ a͇ͩn͇̆d ȑͨe̶p͊l̠͕̬a͍͐c̨eͯ́ͨd̛ the̯_̘m wiͬ͢t̏hͥͪ ba̽͌͠by h̡̍ͤe͎a͌ds͓ s̡̿͠oͨ͒ I͗͡͠'͖͗d n̫̍ẹͩ̒v͓ͭ͌ȩ͡r̓̀ͤ h̠ͧ͠a̵ͤ͆v̪̀͜e̙̞͊ t̞o̭̱ l̦̭̺i̇͠s̲͟teǹ t͈͆o w͉̣eir̢̹͝d̺̲̑-̞͔ͬa͝s̑s̺̄ ẽ̳͡xc̝ͬus̡̏ͩes lͭ̋ik͎̩e ťhͬ̑i͔͜s̬̃.”

A smile etched its way back onto Cruz’s face. He lifted his head, fluttering his eyelashes in a very theatrical manner. “D’aww, you think my eyes are pretty?”

“Do̢̰͜n'͛tͩ p̷͛̈́u̳ͮͫshͧ̌ i̘ͮt͕,” Plier warned, but the new calmness of his voice betrayed him. The gnashing and chewing chorus resumed; he was focusing on Cruz’s offering again, greedily eating the corporeal parts and harvesting whatever emotions lingered from the goats’ departed souls with gusto.

Cruz sat upright, relief washing over him. Even with his and Plier’s contract, eldritch wrath was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, entities like Plier tended to have very special and very serious diets.

Cruz may or may not have learned the hard way that if even a spoonful of spleen-juice was missing from tribute after the stroke of 1:45 AM, the ensuing migraine from the consumer would quickly graft itself onto the offerer.

(Please read migraine as a literal tiny demon appearing out of nowhere, wielding a literal tiny ice-pick, and trying to crawl under your eyelids to reach your brain unless you add a layer of tinfoil to your ceremonial protection mask.)

A plume of fleshy-looking steam curled from under the door, gliding around Cruz’s violin from where he’d left it on the desk before fading into nothingness. 

“.̋ .̸ .̣̐̚Y̌ou̚͘ c̆̐͐aṅ k͙̉eͅe͕p̙̘ͅ p̹l͕̦a̼y̻̪̅in̸̓g̰ͫ if͉̌͘ y͇ͪ͋ou͇ wa̲ǹͅt̓͟,̇” Plier mentioned around all the horrible fleshy snaps and crackles and pops going on between all his teeth. He then huffed and hurriedly added, “A̎h͠, j̢̞̽u̵̹͝s͇t s͊̿͝o̕ t̵ͮ͜hi͍̝̊n̈́́g̈́s̤͍ a̱ͥ͝r͔ͯ̏e̩ sͧ̏o̲̓̍ d͕ä́̏m̎n_ ȁ͟_w̸̃͛k̴͙̩ŵ́a̱r̢̪d tͥͮ̋ő̶̉ň̳̲igh_͙̇t̢͗͌.̅ Ḉ̻a̭n̵'ț̴͌ ḇ̑el̫iev͓ͩȅ y̞o͒̀ͬŭ t̻͎͂hink̹ͧ I'̬ͯ̚m jͮu͓͌̏s͓̀ͅt̒ go͋͂̄nͧ̀͢n̉̓ä̢́͐ d̊o_ all the c̀ȯ̡̋n̫v̴͌eͅr͐́͡şa̶̛̮t̹io͌͊̕n-c̸̫_ar̕r͓̂͢y͜i͊n̳͑g͞ hͬ̏̿ȅr̐͜͠e̼̣.̼̕̕”

“Right, right. How dare I,” Cruz chuckled softly, knowingly. It was just nice to know that even abominations beyond comprehension appreciated music.

He hardly even felt the violin’s weight against his collarbone as he started pulling the bow back and forth, back and forth. Once he found the right rhythm, he settled on “Mx. Sinister.” He still couldn’t believe it’d taken so damn long for him to discover IDKHOW, let alone all the covers of their songs. It was hard to download stuff onto his trusty mp3 player, but that was the price to pay for having a device that couldn’t be tracked. 

Cruz began absent-mindedly pacing the floor, swaying in time with his notes. Macaroon watched curiously, pawing at the air and trilling to the tune, the pitch of his meows a bit all over the place. 

Plier made for a mostly courteous audience. He listened to the beginning, then hummed along as he sucked the marrow from glistening bones at the bottom of the bowl.

He even murmured the lyrics of the last chorus in his hideous native tongue. . .at least, until he cut himself off with a loud gasp. A subsequent thump called from outside the door, rattling on much longer than it probably should have. 

The music came to an unsteady halt as Cruz froze, his eyes snapping back open.

“What? What is it?” 

“S̙͞h͡ù̆̚t̲̊ͧ u͍p̩!̹͇” Plier snapped, his voice suddenly so much more hollow than Cruz had ever heard before. “I n͈̪̓e͋ed to̷̞ c̜̗o̠͇̿n̩̿͋c̰e͊n̳̆t̻ͨr̝aͥͩ͢t̟ͩe!̹̲̓”

The air itself quivered and went numb; any sort of heat or coolness was drained right out of it before Cruz could even register the change. A vein tried to burst somewhere under the skin of his face, but years of adjustment pushed that natural response aside. 

Macaroon’s head jerked up, ears flattening and spikes puffing up as he let out a low, cautious yowl. That made something clammy grip at Cruz’s ribcage.

Obviously Plier’s senses were far more advanced than his own, even with all his practice, but Macaroon was a simpler creature. Yes, he had his own type of monstrous power, but he was still a cat at the bottom of each of his six (or was it seven? Cruz had such a hard time remembering) hearts. If he was picking up on something and responding like that, then it had to be serious.

Cruz approached and sat back down beside Macaroon, carefully stroking his pet’s back. Macaroon’s only response was to lean against him, still shivering as his too-long, too-elastic tail wrapped around his wait. 

It felt like an hour had passed before Plier finally piped up again, his voice now much louder and sharper than before as he seethed.

“Ḧ́̾ E̡ͩ '̓̚ Š͑͡  B A C Kͥ̚ .ͦ”

Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, hesitating before he wondered aloud, “. . .Who?”

Instead of an answer, he got to watch the pool of color-drained blood blink out of existence, no stench or stains or anything left behind. Not even the spots on the ceiling remained. 

“Pǎ͈̩cͦk ỳ̳̍o̢̎ū̩͢r͕ͧ̑ t͕̑ͦhi̵͆ń̛̥g̤͓̓s̶̗͢,̨̲ͮ” Plier demanded. A cacophony of scraping and scuttling pounded at the walls around him in the hallway outside. “Y̘̑͘ȯ̹̹ŭ͕'̇͠r̴e̋ mo̕͢vͧiṇ̸̿g̳ͭ̔ ou̘t. Rͯĩ̪ǵhͣ̃̀t̝ͬͅ no̻̞̿w̆.”

Cruz fidgeted in place, a shiver racing up his spine. While he was no stranger to home-hopping—you could never afford to truly settle down and get attached to a place when you did the stuff he did—there was something in Plier’s tone that he didn’t recognize. And, as open to change as he was, he did not like it. Not one bit.

“But. . .wait, hold on—”

The air around him rippled again, and his lungs suddenly felt like they were melting from the inside. Cruz shook his head, grinding his jaw as he steadied himself. 

“I̸̔ s̑a͜i͍͌͛d,̲̐̃ S̪̾H̸UT̸̘ͪ U̖̽͑P̬ͪ,͈̲” Plier hissed. “T̘h̼̪eŗ̼̌eͯ̑'ͣs̢͚͊ nͭͭ̍o t̵̢̛i͌m̗e̩ͫ̓ t̹o éͪxͬ̃͋p̸͓̓lͦ͜a̢̗͑in̤̎͠, a͒nd̝̖ͥ ḙ̥ͩven̥ if̄ t͟h́̎͌er̸̨͊e̽ w̠̎͑ä̼̟s, I̞ w͓̞ǒ͌̇u͌_̡l_̵ͩd̼̹n't̩̱́ h̵͙a̷̬v͚̚e tͭo̚.̯ Yȍͧ͡u'̒ḻ̐l̪̄͝ f̷̌ö̫́̈́l̰͓l͛͛o̹̰ͩw̒ a̓̀̚lo̎n̖g̝̞ ḁ͇ͤn̲͂dͨ k͒̿̕eè̩ͬp͚ ȕp wį̪t͕̙h ṁe.̖̓ Ğot͔͊̿ i̅t?”

Cruz nodded, and the melting sensation vanished from his chest. 

“Gọ̑o̤͟ḋ̫͟.̛̱͌ No̴̰ͤw, y̶̡o̩̞͊u n̯ȅ͈ed t͙́ͨo͇̒ get͇ o̱ͬ͡u̮t o̴ͮf̑̆̚ h͎eͤͮr͎e A̲̍̃Ṡ̗A͎P̻ͦ.́͊ I alͅr͔e̾ady̡͂̋ hä͘v̪̋ͧe a ne͗w͐ pͣ͝l̡ͭa̸̐̐ce̞ f͍o̢̞ͦr yo̠u̡̖̰ t͂o̫ g͟o̜̜̍.̾ O͋̕n̡ce̥̅ ýo͂ǔͫͬr̤͆̃ car̸ͨ ì͎͞s̏̓ lo͉a̴͗͌d̆̀e̢͓͜d̗ͬ u̞p,̮͒ I̶̱'ͬ̓ͬl̽͆̚l ğ͇̀ui̺̤d̉̃e you th̩́̿e̴̫ͤrḙ.̫̙”

Unlike many times before this, there was no snark or unconventional chipperness to be found on Cruz’s end. He was quiet and efficient, fishing spare boxes from his closet and filling them up with everything in his collection. 

All the old books with yellowed pages bound in slowly-decaying leather, all the various artifacts he’d managed to buy on the Dark Web that reeked of old blood or curses or pieces of stubborn spirits. It didn’t take long before the trunk of his car was full. The bare essentials—his mask, his robe, toiletries, etc.—were quickly crammed into his leather messenger bag, which soon found its place in the backseat.

The driver’s side door was halfway open when Cruz froze, sentimental panic wracking his stomach. Cruel irony, like the absolute bitch she was, struck. Something important was missing, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it even though he’d been holding it just a few minutes ago!

Cruz was just about to turn on his heel, to rush back into the house and tear it apart from the inside out. . .when a muffled yip rang in his ears. He glanced back at his car to find Macaroon sitting in the passenger seat, the well-worn fabric handle of a violin case between his jagged teeth. 

Cruz just about collapsed right there, a helpless laugh leaking through his lips as he got in and buckled up. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, reaching over to tuck the case back with his other bag. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Macaroon rolled his shoulders, raised a paw to preen at his ears with a very smug air as if to say, Damn right I am.

And with that, he was off, making sure to keep his headlights out as he left his latest buner-house behind. Macaroon rose up on his hind legs, bracing his paws against the window to watch the world pass by. 

True to his word, Plier’s voice was in Cruz’s head the entire time, nearly palpable as a tumor as he gave directions. 

Hours came and went, but Cruz never felt tired. He’d grown accustomed to a more nocturnal schedule anyway, but right here, right now, it felt like volts of electricity were thrumming in his blood. He just kept driving, kept following instructions, kept telling himself that things would (hopefully) make sense again sooner or later. 

The stars were still glinting when Cruz blinked and found himself pulling into a parking lot. The building that was now in front of him was enormous, decorated with patterns and lights that all glowed with a variety of colors. 

If not for the distinct lack of bars or casinos nearby, Cruz almost would’ve assumed he’d driven all the way to Las Vegas.

“Ȧ̜a̷͍̎a̱̾͞aằ̖à͇̥a͠n͙ͤͩd͓ h̍͠ẽ̱͐reͣ wͫ̚e a̵̐͟r̯̦e͈!͊” Plier crowed. “Tr͕̳̉y͉̣̘ n̵̘ͭo̬͑ͅtͯ t̮̬͈ó t̖͔ä́͞k̘̚é̷̤ i̘͠tͫ a̟ͮ̕l̼l̛͚̔ in̠͇ at̖͎̽ õ̩n̍c̖͢e̴̵̛.”His voice was still comparable to molten lead as it poured into Cruz’s mind, but it was a little more calm than earlier, so he took this as a good omen.

“Where’s here?” Cruz asked, squinting. 

At the very front and foremost spot on the roof, glaring down at everything were neon words set in a sleek, intriguing font: THE DROWNED MOON

Just below the name, slightly smaller: Cinema and Horror/Thriller Gallery

And lower than that, another luminous sign stood to the left of what had to be the entrance: COME AND WATCH WHEN SLEEP IS HIDING FROM YOU

And on the right, another greeting(?): CONSUME AND DREAM WHERE THEY CAN’T FIND YOU

“T̩̄h̞̔͢e mͯa̫î̥̈n pͬar̦t̳ o͘f͕͎̿ mŷ te̸̚ṟ̆r̖̚i̘̪t͉ͥ̎o͚r͈y̡͛ o̲̜̐n͛̚ È̷̤arͥt̤h,̨̮̏” Plier explained, pride boiling. “Ȉ̮t̕ u͞sͧ̔͜éd͙̯̂ to b̜eͣ ḁ̳͞ t͊̑h̻eateŕ̘̹ t͍̉͝h̖̬at̊͒ s̨pecif̗ͨ̎i̠c̸̾a͟l̝ͤl͌y̤ s̍̓ͯho̮͚̓w̟̅e̐d͛ͧ́ à̛̺l͖ͧl̉̚ s̛͙or̸͇̉t̛s͔̍͠ o͑f̤ͪ c͇u̚ḽ̈́̈́tͨ c̣͓̑l͉ͧasͅsi͚̜ͤc͐ͪs̳̐͊,̴̐ p̖ͭ͠lu̵̗s ťͥh̛ͫę̢͝ ẅ͆͞ĕ͉͐írd̙͂͗ u̩p-̢ͪa̠͍͙n̶̗d͆ͩͦ-͉̓ͤco̦̘m̈́i̓nͨͨg̃́͞ f͕_̈il̮̹mͧ p̎ͤ͞ro̧j͎̟̣e͘c̲t͖͕ͥs͢ ṭ͔̽ȟ͡a̟͙͜t͌ th̛ͦ̈ë̵́͌ l͍̙̈a̍r̃gͯ͢͝ĕ͝ṙ̢̇ c͜ȯm̛͎paͧn̷̢i͎̦ͯe̕s̼ a̦r̵͓͢e to̻ỏ̱͇ b̆it̅c͊̏̀h̖ͬy̵̮ t̳͢ơͮ͗ ac͞c̥̉ep̫̉̂t͜.”

Cruise nodded, humming. “And ever since you got your hands on it?”

A shrug was evident in the monster’s tone. “O͛̏h̨ͯ,͋ it̸̲̐'̹s b͑̔͠a͚̽s̸͛ic̲̚a̦ͭ̐ll̤͗y̌̿ t̤h̸́ḛ̠ sa͆͑ḿ̙̹e̺ͧͪ t̛̑͞hin̑g̶.̲̖ I̚ jù͈s͞t̰̰ maͬ͂͠d͙͌͡è͉ á͘ͅ fe͈̣w.ͪ .̼͌̓ .̒s̷ͥ͒p̫͠e̜c̰͈̑i͙̥a̗l re̿_nnov̸̰̆a̷͕t̳̑̀io̡nͨs,͉ ĺ̡et'ͨs̡̎̾ s̵̏a̷͈̐y.̼”

A sinister chuckle slithered around Cruz’s skull.

As soon as Cruz parked, the glass doors at the front swung open. A small group of people filed out, walking with a stiff-jointed gait. 

Acting on instinct, Cruz tightened his grip around the steering wheel, but Plier only laughed again. 

“R̰̥͊ȇ̎l̷ȃ̖̖x̗.̢̤ͧ T͍̂h̎͠i̲ͬ̑s pͫ̃͡l̙̥̘a̱c̓ĕ̆ d̺̉͡o̍ͪu̴̧͔b̬̊͐l̏é͗̔s a̢̖͗s̀ a̵̯̞ hò̏l̛dḯ͇̃ng̘ pͫ͞ȩ͟n f̖̓͞ǫ̵̪r͌ s̩̼̎ome o̤͐͊f̷͉̚ m͇̲͕y̮̓̓ ṭ̉͂h͈ral̑lͬ̎͑s͔ͪ̀. T̘h͔ͨ̇ĕ̏͡y c͑a̛̗͛n'̗t h̳urt y̦͞o̳ͅu u̶ͥ͌n̛̐le̙̐s̼̽́s͉ I̪ t̥̿e͂͟lḽ̄͒ t̝h͒͡eͯm_ ṫ̼̅ọ̬_,̼ͤ ạͪň̒d y͋o͑u͇'ͨ͘r̐e͙͎ s͌t̡̀̆i̶͐͢lͫl͝ to͔̍̕o̷̜ͥ uͦͥș̇͠e͔f̒ul fo͕̰͈rͪ an̷̢̚y̷t̿ḧ̖̽i̜̜n̲͎g l̅͗ike̝͆ th͜_à̵̝t͖̏.̯̫”

Cruz pursed his lips and offered a half-nod. Even if Plier always insisted on mixing potential threats and potential promises together, it was still nice to know that, by process of elimination, he still didn’t (completely) consider Cruz a puppet who needed an internal lobotomy in order to work. 

Cruz hopped out of the car. Macaroon followed suite, quickly growing to the size of a large dog. He stayed by his owner’s side, tail slowly lashing and shoulders arched in a protective warning. 

The thralls barely even seemed to notice; their eyes still blinked and moved and saw, but whatever was behind them had been dead for a long time. The wide, unmoving smiles on their faces didn’t do them any favors. One of them popped Cruz's trunk, allowing the others to each take a box and wander back into the building. 

Cruz hummed, taking his messenger bag and sliding it over his shoulder. Keeping a gentle hand on Macaroon’s head, he trekked along behind them, approaching the now wide-open doors. For all the glow and glam on the outside, it looked like there were only a few flickering lights on further inside. 

“Y͐̿òu͖ l̛͈ỉ̤̂ve͎ h͛e̻ře͈ͣͅ n̬ͦǫ̽w,” Plier declared. “Y̜̮o͍͖u̴̻ cͬǎ̛̹n̤ͤ sͧt̘͆ȉ_l̺͟ĺ̿ f͎͋ind̫ d͈ͥ̉eĉ̷o̔yͤ p̛ͩ͝lͣaͣͦ͞c̽̒e͛̽͝s̤ͥ̂ f̪̰ͅor̿ ce͎̚r͛ṭͬ̏ai̯ͪn r̙͞it̎u͍͙̓al̮_̈ş if y͗́͡o̬͒u_͌ l̢i̗̦ke,̐ bu̙ͩ͞tͯ t̵͊̍h̸͐̕i̛̫̊s î̛s p͉ͥͣe̓̇ͅȓ́̕m̤e͉͞n̮͛ā̱̄nt̒ͬ.͗͢ I͉̋f͝ y͙͋ò͈u'rͯe̪ ģo͟ͅnn͠a̤͐ w͚ͤͣơr̶͎k͆ ḟ̯ǫ͕r̢͜ me̡͉̘,̠ t͇͡h͢en̴̤̿ y͑͝o̟u͡ m̝͓i̛ģ̴̈́h_̾t̙ ás̆ weͪll be͚ a l̪̕itͣ̓t̘͈͎l̫ḛ̵̡ c̎lo̗͆͟s͗̄ͅe̤̥r. Fͅor͊ m̼o̟ṟ̛̙à͖̩l̂éͤ.͚”

Cruz stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears. “. . .Really? You mean it?”

“I̾͆ m͙e̒a͐n iͭ́t̝̝.” Plier’s voice was suddenly softer than silk, having tapered down to a whisper. His smile was evident: malevolent yet, somehow, genuine. “Y̾o͡u̢͐'̮̽r̢e̖͍̽ ǹͩ͐o̴t͠ q̛ũi͇͐t͜e̼ͮ r̷̭̐e͂̏͜ady͇̗̕ f̝orͪ t̉he ne͇x͖̦́t̥̄ͅ st̝ͩe̜̼̖p̷̧̀s,̧̢ b͐ut̛̯̃ y̔̎̕o̡ͣ̒ŭͤ̉'̖͉ͬr̅e gé͚́tti̘̣̠n̗̊g̣̫͠ t͐h̝̄͠e͞r̼͇e.̺ͤ́ It̷͕ͮ'̩ͥs̙ o̠nly̵̅ a m͊at̼̅ẗ̡́e̪͐ȑ̬̣ ǫ͔̞f t͚ͧi̵̅͐m͛e.͂_”

Cruz’s eyes wandered up to the full moon. For the next couple minutes, all he could do was stare at it. In fact, the longer he did, the more its cold, pale glow seemed to shift, just barely lifting a veil to reveal. . .something else. The illusion was gone in an instant, but Cruz could’ve sworn he’d seen veins, seen an iris, seen a pupil. . .

“Thank you,” he breathed, his lips stretching into a new, excited, hopeful grin. “You won’t regret it.” 

“Y͡eą̢͝h̤̀,͚ w̨͔ẽl͈͐l, y̸̻͒ou'ḓ͊͐ b͐́et̸tẻrͪ n̽ot m̗áͬͧk̦͉̰e͟ me̼̿,̣” Plier snorted. “Ñ̦_o̽̈́ͣw̿ hu̸͔r̯ry u̧̫p and̎ g̩ͮe͇ͥţ ì̤͠n̸ͧs̺̔̂i̭de͍̞̍.ͯ́̚ W͚͛ë͔̹́'v͙̎̀e st̼̄īl̨̑l̜̉ got́̚ s̥̬̈́om̫e͈̤ͧ w̨͍͖o̢rk̅ͥ͘ to̻͕͘ dͬ̒͂o̶.́”

“Yes, of course.” Cruz quickened his pace.

As he took the first steps into his new home, all the anxious joy buzzing through his head dredged up something else. 

“Hey—” Cruz blurted. “It looks like there’s a little more breathing room than earlier.” 

That seemed to catch Plier a bit off-guard. “Ú͉̻h. . .̵̮̑Ȋ͖̹ g̜ͭue̦ss t̠̙ͬh͗e̜͙̓r̞̹ͯe i̟s̻̈́.̖ Ẇ̧̇hy?͉̺”

“Well, can you tell me anything about what happened now?” Cruz inquired. “You said that someone was back. So. . .who are they, exactly? How do you know?” 

“O͕ͣh̲͡. R̫i̼g͍̋̾hͨ͜t͡.̡̯͘ H̒ I͐̑ M̴͒ .” Plier seemed to growl deep in his throat, aggravation sparking into a flash-boil. “T̅͟h̳a̵̓ͪnk͙̋s,ͯͫ y̩̅̀o͜u ĵ͢ủ͓̂st̶̹̘ H̾A̭D to_ ru̥in my̶͈ mo̩͊̌o̦̿d̢̛͒ a̺̪l͕͍͟l̢̓ o͘v̪ͭeṙ̻ äg̺ą̎ī̯̃n.̖̀̾”

Cruz held up his hands in a defensive lame gesture. “Hey, it’s only a question. I just feel like I’m owed some explanation after all the rush, don’t you think?”

“Ma̞ͤy̒b͝e,̪̙̍ ma͔̫͝y̋b͜è no͆ͅ_t̟͓,ͧ̃” Plier snipped, his cryptic nature watered down by how obvious it was that he was now sulking. “L̗ͅo͓õ̹k͎̿͋,̈ t̢ͨh̨a̫͎̕t̞̦ͤ'̖̱s̑ a̻̽ͨ w͜h̤̠ͤol̝͖ë̢-͖̔a͞ss s̥t̂̓̆or̻͎͗y̴͝ fͦ̚or̍̂ a͐n͘otͭ̔h̶̫̙e̹ͩ̚r͊ d̩̓͘a͑y͕͡. Ri̭͖g̥ͨh̬t͉͉ ň̠͡o̮w̸̹͝,͖̠͝ ả̵̏ll͖̱̾ ÿ́̍̇ò̮̾ư̼̇ n̳̣e͎̘̐ȩd͎̞̓ t̷̓o̎ k̥̺̀n̼o͂ͅw is̽ th͋͞at͛ an old ri̻͞v͖̾à̢͈l̶̈́ o̱̕fͦ̎ ṃ̣͜iń̰e i̘s̓ A͑P̞̂̔PͬḀͧͅR̶̤͊E̶̵N̯͆̓TL̬̻ͪY̶͇ͦ o̤̰̊u̳ͮt̿ o̵f h̍̓ib̆e̝ͧͫȓ̑͆n͎aͩͤt̿̕io̒n̡.̧ͨ”

He paused as though wondering if this rival in question could hear him. Cruz sympathized, since there was a decent chance that really was the case. 

“Ạn̵̘͓d̓̊ a̒l͍ͬ͟s̲̀̌o̬͚͎ t̸ͤha̩̳͑t HͮEͮ̇̕ C̎A̝͇͊N̪̿͡ S̗͋ͧÚ̢C̮ͮK A̺ͨ VHOC̪̐T͎ͬ͜Ȍ E̞͓̿G̽͂Ġ̥ͨ!̷̸͟”  Plier added, raising his voice enough to make ancient church bells crack. “A̭̮͔ W̹ͪHÔ̸͙L̦̥E CL̡̻U̢̞͛T̅ͨĆ́H̙ͣ O͖̿̐F̰ͨ '͐ĘM̦̼̺,ͥͦ Ș̸͖O̚ Ḭ̗̼ C̨A̪͇Nͭ W̯͐ͦA̛͎̫T̋ͭͥCͦH̱͠ H͚̯IMͪ T͈R̙͞ͅỲ͈̐ T͐O Ṟ̷ͦU̮̙̺N H̷̛͔IS̈ M͌ͫO͇ͣU̘͗TH̘͜ WĨT͜H͟ H̯̏͠I͓S̞̀̆ B̡͌UĻ̓͂L̤̃S̀͗H̤Į̛̺T̳ P̮Ŗͯ̊O̷P̦̋̚HͭE_C̗͎IES W̄̿͞H̞͟E̝̣͘N͡ T͕Ḫ̌E̤̎ S̸͝H̴͉̳E̠͓͑L͇͚͜L͜S M̭͇͍AKE H̴̝̪I̜̮̊Ş̑ TƠ̭͝N̒̚G̤̋͟UÈ͓̙S̗̏ ŚHR̴I̙ͪVE̥̓Lͤ́ U̔̀P̑̆!̤”

“. . .Well, alright then,” Cruz murmured, now digging through his pockets in search of his mp3 player.

___

As adaptable as they always tried to be, Sam Ryder was not in the best mood right now. 

To be completely fair, not many people would be too thrilled at having to track energy signals, drive day-and-night to a some middle-of-nowhere desert, sneak into a motel at the heart of some rest-stop town and lockpick their way into a specific room only to hide out in the darkness of its little lavatory and wait for what felt like FOREVER for the occupants to return. 

Ah, yes. Just another questionable charm of the industry built on stealth and secrets that most people were probably better off not knowing. 

Sam shifted from side-to-side, muscles tense, bored and impatient from having to be so still and so quiet. But this current, last-minute mission was important.

If those energy spikes the team back home had picked up were anything to go by. . .if there was even the slightest possibility that something out here was related to the Rift—

The door swung open.

The room’s main light clicked to life.

Two figures trudged inside, their movements exhausted yet shaky. 

Sam held her breath as the duo passed by without even glancing in her direction. She could hear them shuffling around the room, hear something heavy and solid being dragged along the floor, then lifted up and plunked onto a mattress. 

She set her jaw, cracked her knuckles as quietly as possible, and then waltzed out like she owned the place. There were a precious few more seconds for her to study the duo, as they both still had their backs to her. 

That changed the very millisecond she cleared her throat.

“Professor Jenkins—” she greeted, looking at the one with raven hair that nearly tickled his shoulders and features that seemed to point to some kind of Asian background. 

She glanced at his companion, a brunette man with fair skin and warm eyes that quickly grew to the size of dinner plates. “ —and Doctor James, I presume?” 

Part of her had expected a scream or two, but the most they were given were strangled gasps, as well as flinches so bad that her own stomach almost started churning with that cold, infamous type of shock.

“H-How. . .how do you know—?” Dr. James asked, stammering badly as he held up his hands and backed away, clearly trying to put something, anything between him and this surprise guest. 

“What, you think cable is dead or something?” Sam rolled her eyes. “Your reputations proceed you, and all that jazz.” Indeed they did. While she honestly preferred YouTube for entertainment these days, she could remember catching a few news stories about ancient tombs being explored, as well as at least three new species of dinosaur being discovered. 

All accompanied by respective photos of the men who stood before her. 

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Prof. Jenkins demanded, quickly moving to stand beside his companion. 

“That’s not important right now. Don’t try anything stupid, and you might get a little information for your trouble.” Sam took a few steps forward, making sure the authority was clear as crystal. “I have some questions of my own for both of you, actually. And you’re going to answer them. Honestly. One way or another.”

The two archeology buffs exchanged concerned glances. Prof. Jenkins’ brow furrowed, but confusion shifted into understanding at breakneck speed. The same went for Dr. James, though he started shaking again, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

That made Sam pause. Now that she could finally see their faces, it was clear how they’d both been wracked with fear long before she’d surprised them. 

They’d both already seen something. 

Something very, very bad.

Sam couldn’t help but cringe at herself. This had to be handled carefully.

You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

(Even though she’d definitely laughed very hard at sentiments like that more than once in the past.)

“Listen, I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ve just here because I got word that whatever is underneath this area might be extremely dangerous. And, unfortunately, it seems you guys have gotten way too close to it,” she reiterated with a sigh. “I can tell that something big happened around here today, but that’s just it. For the sake of my work, I need to learn more.”

As they listened, the duo seemed to ever-so-slightly calm down. Their adrenaline and fear was still very obvious, but it looked like they were at least considering trusting her now.

Sam spotted a desk near the corner of the room. She slowly approached and settled down onto the swivel chair set before it. She motioned for her two new conversation buddies to take their own seats. “As long as you cooperate, nothing bad will happen. I promise.”

Another moment of painfully awkward silence dragged by. But just as Sam was about to add a little more force to their elevator pitch, Prof. Jenkins heaved a sigh.

“It’s a bit fucking late for that,” he announced, hesitantly crossing the room and sitting down on the corner of the other bed; that must’ve been the one he’d claimed after check-in time.

Dr. James’ face kept twisting with stress and anxiety, but he, too, eventually took a seat on his own mattress. “Not sure how things could get any worse,” he agreed, reaching up to knead at his forehead, his hand still trembling a bit.

“Nice job tempting fate,” Sam said with a mirthless chuckle. She glanced between them. “So. What’s apparently worse than anything right now?” 

“. . .We’re not entirely sure ourselves.” Prof. Jenkins fidgeted in place. “There’s a few underground cave systems just half-an-hour away. The only reason we came out here was to check one of them for fossils, or gems, that kind of stuff. We—we didn’t mean any harm.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve seen shit that would turn anyone white, but. . .he was something else.”

Sam blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. That certainly didn’t sound like anything to do with the Rift, but they’d been wrong before. “I’m sorry, ‘he?’ You’re saying you found a person in one of those caves?”

“Not a person,” Dr. James argued, fear quickly spilling onto his features all over again. “A monster! A goddamn monster! O-or a demon, or a spirit, I have no idea. But whatever he was, he was not human! And now he’s somewhere out there and no-one else can go into that place and it’s all our fault!” 

He curled in on himself heaving a combination of sob and sigh. “So many teeth and eyes and moving skin. . !”

Prof. Jenkins was back by his side in an instant, grabbing one of the paleontologist’s shoulders to help him stay steady.

Sam, meanwhile, felt their heart sink. While they were now at least eighty-five-percent sure that the team didn’t have to worry about the Rift. . .it looked like different-yet-just-as-horrible option was on the table.

After a long few seconds, Dr. James straightened his back again, though his eyes were still so full of pain and panic. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just been such an awful day. One traumatizing thing after another.”

Sam nodded, a generous dose of empathy worming its way into her features. “Well, that’s a good summary, but it’s still not quite enough.” She sighed again, then leaned back in the chair. “Start from the beginning, please.”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou @mostlyghostly42 @safe-hayven @sunny011387 @heichoublack @m0naca @beomjunniz

[thewebcomicsreview]

souper-slingsubmitted tothewebcomicsreview: Could you have a look at my friend’s webcomic and give your opinion of it so far? https://frankyfierro.thecomicseries.com/

Okay, let's take a look.

Not super fond of this first page having a big text dump. It is good that the text dump is broken up into paragraphs instead of being a brick, but maybe if you're doing a wall of text you don't need the pretense of all the word balloons, since the dialogue makes it obvious Franky is speaking in the first person here. That's me being nit-picky, though. I do like the actual text itself, which establishes Franky's character very fast.

Actually, y'know what? I'm kind of coming around to the text dump opening. It's not what you're "normally" meant to do, but it's short, it's flavorful, and between that opening and this title page I feel like I have a impression of what this comic is about already: Jimmy Neutron meets Serenity Rose. Let's see if that impression is accurate!

I like this art, and I like that the narration box is passive-aggressive (since it's established that Franky is the narrator), but man I do not like that lettering. The pixelated font may or may not be a fit for a comic about a machine-maker, tbd, but there's no excuse for left-justifying the text.

Like, this art is really expressive and charming in a cartoony way, but the sterile artificial lettering kind of doesn't support that tone. I presume "Frank ,let" is a typo, but...what's with all the ellipses? Am I meant to read it as "I thought I told you (pause) not to call them toys!!!"That's kind of weird and doesn't seem appropriate to the scene? Is that intentional?

The dialogue generally has this slightly surreal feeling, which I feel uncomfortable criticizing since I'm not sure if the creator is a native English speaker and maybe I'm the asshole here.

So I'll just note to maybe run your dialogue through a spell check at least, because there's a lot of typos, like "figth" there.

Like, I'm pretty confident that the principal is meant to sound wacky, but I'm not sure if Frank is or if that's just typographical errors.

Lest I sound too negative here, by the way, the art is very strong for what this comic is doing. There's actually a lot this comic is doing right, it's just the dialogue that's hurting it.

"I seem to have hit you with the doors again this month" is weird but in a funny way, and I laughed at it. Why "this month"? That's so weirdly specific, like she's accidentally hit him with the door once a month for the last eight months or something. I'm not sure if that's intentionally the joke or not, but I did laugh.

Because, like, this announcement doesn't make sense. "The president of our wonderful student council...Simona Garfunkel Stradivari" and then suddenly the next word balloon has an entirely new sentence even though the old one didn't finish. I'm confused. Is that the joke? Is it weird on purpose? What is this? I don't understand. Is it modern? Or is it just a mistake?

(Also, it should maybe be "The wonderful president of our student council" instead of "the president of our wonderful student council", since the story is all about Simona the villain getting undue praise, and none of the other council members matter)

(Also also that's a pretty expressively drawn speaker, with the scrunchy lines look. I like it)

This is a good panel that demonstrates the point I'm trying to make by harping on the grammar. Here, the ellipses in the second balloon "She's gonna be fine...maybe" reads like she is pausing. Except there are a million ellipses all over the place so I don't know if that's intentional, I just kind of have to assume that's what the author means. (Also "Shorty" is improperly capitalized, which I presume doesn't mean something)

So, here's the thing with this comic. The art is good. It's very good, it's wacky and expressive and cartoony for a wacky and expressive and cartoony comic. The plot, which I've skimmed over here, is perfectly cromulent. The characters are strong. The stakes are clear. It has a lot of mid-2000s anime energy, which is what your friend seems to be going for. The comic's really only got one problem, and I feel a little bad harping on the one thing the comic is doing wrong instead of what it's doing right...but that problem is omnipresent. Cleaning up this dialogue would make a massive difference. My recommendations are:

Run the dialogue through a spell check to make sure there are no typos

Read the dialogue out loud after writing it. If it's supposed to sound wacky, fine, but if it's not meant to sound weird it shouldn't. Have someone else read it out loud if you need someone to check it for you.

Just a little bit more attention to making sure the dialogue works, and this comic could actually be pretty solid! It's so close, there's just this one last layer of polish that's needed!

[sterlingarcher23]

Flying W - Wonder Woman.

The Winnebago RV used is from 1972 - The logo is called "Flying W" (and in 1986 the Winnebago RV industry established the Flying W program in to recognize select dealers for service excellence and superior customer satisfaction.)

I don't know about you but the version of this one in particular reminds me a bit of ...

They even shot her standing there with this logo in her back. And it's a "Flying W" like "If you want to stop One you will need to fly" again making a connection between One and Max or better: Max is One. One of the good Ones since there are only three Ones in the show: 00I and 0II.

Theres no doubt a strong connection towards Wonder Woman been made in the show.

That's issue 326 > 3+2+6=11.

The first issue of The Legend of Wonder Woman (the comic Lucas is reading to Max in the script if I recall correctly) was released in May 1986. Weird, did they want to push Will's birthday to May (Birthday gate) allegedly because it better fits the lip movement? - I doubt that this is an oversight and they didn't use it because it was released much later but another clue left in the script that March and May are interchangeable and there are potential timeline shenanigans in the show.

And since the Duffers like Upside-downs/inversions, just have some fun and invert Max's initials ... Or just the Wonder Woman logo.

And note that Mike offers El some M&Ms (because he didn't get his break...I mean KitKat) while Max is right there in the background. So MM=Max Mayfield. And certain fonts especially in the Wonder Woman logo once inverted give us different initials.

I guess reflections/Upside-downs/inversions/mirrors are all just a coincidence. There's nothing like this in the show at all. There's nothing to see here, folks! Or is there? That mirror shots are btw like a Stranger Things version of the Sherlock mirror.

If Henry's shadow is Vecna(Edward?), then Max's mirror is...El. The walkie talkie isn't very subtle. Seriously, I wouldn't do/talk about this if there weren't inversions and mirrors etc in show and it's not even very subtle. Many parallels people talk about are actually mirrors. (Even literal mirrors like the one 00I gets thrown through which then switches the alignment of the shards to give us a mirror of him and the "Zoomer"-El that fights back.) It was the first thing that I noticed and that's what started this.

Oh, and shall we guess who's in room 110? (Just saw it, so take it with a grain of salt but this looks like Maya behind the window.)

Mirrors: 011/110

So, MM=WW because as pointed out in the comic reading scene Wonder Woman has another name, alias or "alter ego": Princess Diana. Like Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Clark Kent is Superman etc etc

All you need is simple math. 5'6 / 5 6 =??

Nah, just imagining things.

................................................................................

I do have an idea what the blue hair tie and yellow watch do resemble and mean as an allegory that totally fits the narrative. And yes, it's Wonder Woman linked too.

Had a post some time ago about the Lasso of Truth - and remember the poster for "Dear Billy"? It says "No more lies".

That Unbreakable is an inspo is obvious (and official) and David Dunn's weakness is water. (You know the whole rabies/fear of water thing which I likely will address in another post.) Nonetheless, the superhero coding is there.

[thekuraning]

Late 4 ship meme uhhhh guzma x cyrus AKA parental issues/we need therapy the ship

i had to think REALLY HARD about this one grkjhgld this is the first time ive ever considered this ship!!! which is funny because i have gone down the guzma/giovanni rabbithole beforef hriuehge

please excuse both my handwriting and the weird font, i turned off my tablet and was too lazy to turn it back on again

i feel like i should explain myself for this one too

so like yeah therapy??? they meet in therapy maybe??? like. state-mandated therapy for both of them for their Crimes. And guzma comes in acting like the Big Man in the room like a completely hardened criminal like yeah man im in a GANG i was a GANG LEADER we took voer a TOWN and messed shit up hahaha whatre you here for nerd? >:) and cyrus looks him dead in the eye and says "i summoned an eldritch beast and almost rewrote all of space and time in my image." and guzma doesnt believe it first but then like one day nanus just like yeah no thats basically what happened

anyways they like. get coffee together afterwards while they wait for the bus. and i dont really see them having a big huge romantic affair or anything. im not sure if theyre ace or aro or demi or what but for them as characters i dont usually envision them really getting physical often unless its with very specific people. but i think they would form a very strong bond over their experiences with their families, the isolation they've felt in their lives and so on, and guzma's not the most book smart but despite being loud and wild he's very dependable and like. stable when he's given room to be. especially as they're both very forthcoming characters and guzma isn't afraid to speak his mind to cyrus, and will take genuine interest in cyrus's hyperfixations.

idk they have a lot to bond over i guess :thinking emoji: guzma will always be impressed by cyrus's big brain and cyrus will always be impressed how guzma can be the world's biggest dumbass but also like be very grounded and worldly about some things.

also its not so much that guzma borrows cyrus's clothes, it's more like cyrus kind of insists on him having Decent Clothes to wear when hes hanging around Team Galactic as though they do not all look like galaxy quest rejects

[cooking-pokemon]

So I went to the lab this morning to learn about battling. The professors were out, but an assistant named Hop was able to help me out. We spent a few hours on a crash course of things most people learn by the time they turn ten apparently, things like types, moves, what the Pokemon League is and what it does, etc.

Then he insisted on a ‘practical lesson’ by having Blueberry battle against on of the lab pokemon. Hops normal pokemon were apparently way too strong to consider giving us a fair fight.

Before the battle, he handed me something called a Pokédex and told me to scan Blueberry so I could find out her moves. I’m not entirely sure how it worked but a light came out of the eyes on the back and scanned over Blueberry, and then her information showed up on screen. Electric/Flying Swablu with the moves Peck, Growl, Disarming Voice, and Thundershock. There was a little blurb about the Swablu species and in large black font it said “NOTE: Swablu are usually Normal/Flying types. You have something pretty unique here!” I kind of already knew that Blueberry had a weird typing though. I was about to show the screen to Hop but he shook his head with a smile. Apparently it’s part of battling to learn what your opponents moves are along the way and have a flexible enough strategy to account for surprises.

The battle itself was against something called a Chewtle. Hop told it to use Water Gun but Blueberry dodged fairly easily by just flying out of the way. I figured Chewtle must be a water type because of the move and how it just looks like a turtle so called for Blueberry to use Thundershock. It was amazing to see the crackle form in her wings and a little arc of electricity form between the yellow markings on her head feathers. It was a little scary to watch the Chewtle shriek at the shock.

It looked pretty hurt but it didn’t go down. Blueberry flew around in circles chirping happily at her success. Hop seemed extremely surprised but shook it off and ordered Chewtle to do another Water Gun. I called for Blueberry to look out but she was distracted with her little celebratory swoops so she got a good soaking but seemed more annoyed than hurt. I was afraid to do Thundershock again so I called for Disarming Voice instead. Blueberry let out a high pitched, very loud sound and a pink wave of energy came from her beak and slammed into the Chewtle knocking it out. I was pretty worried about it but Hop just recalled it into one of those pokeball things and said it did a good job.

Then Hop and I had a long discussion about Blueberry. Apparently pokemon with unusual typings are extremely rare but not unheard of. Usually only experienced trainers ever take one on. I explained how when I first got here, the professors got me in touch with @belamew , a daycare somewhere in the multiverse that had recently had some Swablu that needed homes.

Hop went on to explain that Blueberry might be a bit more difficult than the average Swablu to take care of just because the unusual typing can have strange effects on a pokemons normal temperament. I haven’t had any trouble with her yet though so I hope I don’t have to worry about that.

I told him why I was wanting to know about battling in the first place, that I was looking to get a job at the new Battle Cafe in town. And apparently I have to get a Trainer License to work there so… I guess I’ll be getting that tomorrow.

Blueberry seems extremely pleased with herself, constantly puffing her feathers and giving happy chirps and dances so. I guess she likes battling. Yay.

I asked to see the Chewtle, just to see how it was doing. Hop let it out and it seemed pretty tired and a bit dirty from the battle but otherwise fine. It didn’t even seem upset at Blueberry, letting her ride on its shell while it stomped around the lab dramatically!

I asked if there’s any pokemon who don’t like battling… and I was surprised with Hops simple “Oh, sure.” I asked what happens to those pokemon. He didn’t seem to understand the question at first but eventually said “Then we don’t make them battle. They’re just our companions, or they’re just living their life in the wild, or whatever it is they want to do.”

After that, I could finally feel myself relaxing a bit about the whole idea of an entire society run on pokemon battles. There might be some outliers, but it seems like the norm is people genuinely caring about their pokemon and whether they even like battling. So, tomorrow I’ll get my Trainer License, register Blueberry as my ‘starter’, and go interview at the cafe!

[lumilasi]

In relation to the snow witch/cat lesbian duo, here are the said witch's dads. The first one, Marcus is AGES OLD character I've had for a decade that I still love a lot, and I actually didn't change his design from the old one almost at all? I simply drew him better now, thanks to having my drawing skills improve at least somewhat in the past decade.

Lethas is an amalgamation of an entire family of old dragonic deity characters squished together. I'll draw his dragon form sometime later.

...The font I'm using is kinda not matching for the fantasy vibe, but I really didn't feel like doing graphic design so to speak rn lmao

Fun Facts below:

Marcus is a Romanian noble in heritage, though local villagers rarely see him, and think of their count as bit of a weird hermit. Pleasant and polite enough, but odd.

Marcus doesn't have human staff, he uses his powerful ice magic to create icy entities that act as servants.

Marcus' Patron Deity is Jack Frost

Irina was abandoned at his doorstep as a toddler, and he was initially hesitant in taking her in, but saw potential in her already strong magic, and was admittedly kind of lonely living there alone

He and Lethas are in a mostly platonic, non-sexual relationship, but they do come off like an old married couple that bicker constantly, and clearly have a very strong emotional bond between one another.

Marcus is gay (and basically anyone who meets him can tell he's not straight, there's no way lol) and Lethas basically has no sexual/romantic drive whatsoever given the way his kind are born. (So he's Aro-ace if you apply human labels)

They started out as rivals, but overtime kind of become each other's only company (up until Irina showed up)

Lethas was actually frozen as a statue in dragon form in front of the Vasile castle for almost fifty years, and was released accidentally by Irina when she was 8.

She thought he was going to eat her dad, only to see the two start bickering and head inside for tea, as if him being frozen by Marcus for five whole decades wasn't unusual. (It was an accident, Marcus actually thought he'd accidentally killed Lethas and was relieved to find out that wasn't the case, even if he doesn't show it openly)

Lethas is a soul dragon, a being born from the lost souls of dead warriors perished in wars. All his weapons are formed from soul fire.

Lethas was born sometime around the age of the roman empire, though can't remember exactly when. Marcus is couple hundred years old, but he did spend about half of it on ice literally, hence he actually appears younger than he should. (Long story, he met Lethas because the dragon released him from ice accidentally)

Lethas breathes fire like average dragons, though his soul fire is immensely powerful and can't be put out in any other way, except essentially powerful exorcism magic or a soul eater's devouring of it.

Lethas immediately took into his role as the more strict and responsible dad, the first thing he did when waking up was to pick Irina up in his dragonic form and place her gently on the balcony of her room, patting her head, before turning around to bitch at Marcus.

The swirly pattern on Lethas' cloak doesn't just glow in soul form, but they move and swirl around too.

Split hair and coloring with Lethas symbolizes the duality of life in all its forms; life and death, sky and earth, fire and water, war and peace, etc. or that's what Lethas likes to claim anyway. Marcus suspects he just thinks it looks cool.

Marcus' coat turns into hues of blue and white when he fully activates his powers. The snowflake/star design on it is actually the center of the Warlock sect symbol for this world's Arcane Council (body that governs primary magic users, I.E beings whose main thing is magic, rather than the magic being result of being some sort of mythical being)

Technically, you're not supposed to remove parts of the symbol if you wish to utilize it, but Marcus didn't like the hostile looking spiky eyes surrounding the central star pattern, so he didn't include them + made the colors more to his taste.

[aita-blorbos]

aita for being sensitive? I'll try to keep this short.

(oc)

I am very sensitive. I have a list down below, but if you're impatient, you can just skip to the next time the font is this size for convenience.

I don't eat much, but when I do, I have a very strict diet, one that a lot of people feel grossed out about. People call me a leech or a bloodsucker--this isn't necessarily true. I also have dietary restrictions: salt makes me feel very ill, and I can't have garlic, either. If seeds are involved, I usually end up counting them instead of actually eating (it's called arithmomania).

I am sensitive to sunlight and get sunburned very easily. I can't touch silver or cold iron because of sensory issues. I don't really like touching holy water or crosses either because of things that happened in the past--it makes me feel like I'm burning.

I have poor circulation that makes me feel cold to the touch, and makes me look kind of dead. I have more robust canines that I'm very self-conscious about--I feel like I can't see the real me in the mirror. I also have a fast metabolism.

I use a lot of more 'old fashioned' slang, and people keep making fun of me for it and my mannerisms. But surprisingly, though I feel nervous, I don't get physically anxious about their comments--I don't feel my heart beat much. I also have old fashioned objects--quills, Victorian nightgowns, books that haven't seen the light of day in a hundred years.

I have an affinity for bats, cats, frogs, and other creatures, and I get kind of upset when people say that that's too weird. And what's worse is that people keep treating me like a monster. I don't understand why. My friend keeps telling me not to attack, maim, or kill anyone.

I do have some upsides, though.

I'm very fast and strong. But even when I'm not, I've managed to survive some pretty whacky things. I heal relatively easy.

I have a hypnotic personality. I feel like I know what people are thinking, and I'm usually right.

I always know who's coming to greet me, and people can't sneak up on me easily. It's like I have almost...enhanced senses.

Here's where the problem really lies.

I met a really pretty girl, who we can call 'A' (idk her age) a while back, and I fell in love with her at first sight. We slowly grew closer, and closer, until we were inseparable. I was thinking about A one day, and I realized that I noticed some strange behaviors from her.

One night, I was in my backyard, and I saw an odd-looking wolf...turns out A's a werewolf. I still stayed with her and supported her, and I still love her so, so much.

Anyway, I was talking with A the other night, and I told her some things about myself, and she came up with the idea that I could be a vampire.

I don't think I am, but I do think that it's a big probability--I survived an attack a while ago from my ex (500F). I didn't tell her any of this, however; I told her that that would be insane, and that would never happen to me. We got into a pretty big fight, and there's a lot of space between us now.

AITA?

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

Last weekend we showcased some psychedelia from Milwaukee’s radical underground newspaper of the 1960s and 1970s, Kaleidoscope. Today we display some letter forms from this groovy time. Some of us may want to forget this lettering style, while others might wish for a comeback. For the latter, be cheered that psychedelic letters didn't die with the 1970, but continue to live on with a range of psychedelic fonts.

With its abstract, swirling patterns, and very loud colors, the vividness and intensity of these letter forms recall the hallucinations of those under the influence of psychedelic drugs. While these designs certainly derive from the drug culture of the 1950s and 1960s, graphic designers of this period were also influenced by traditional design trends, such as Art Nouveau, Dadaism, and Pop Art. Psychedelic letters and fonts share the common elements of distortion, extremely ornate lettering, strong contrasts, collage components, and weird iconography.

We hope you groove on some of these letters, and if you want to see more, you can hang out with our digitized version of the collection.

View more posts on Kaleidoscope.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

[greypetrel]

hiiiiii arja!!!

11. What pairing/character/subject did you create the most for this year?

23. What WIP(s) are you taking into next year with you?

28. Did you learn anything about your art/process/style this year?

Hi Rowan!! Thank you for asking! :D

Tis the prompt list

11. What pairing/character/subject did you create the most for this year?

Second place goes to the science bros of course, the first it's here! Aisling is a strong first, it's been... A rough year (full of great things and new friends I am very grateful for, but eh), and she was just the happy-go-lucky character I needed. Thematically, it's a long sort of "Enjoy what you have even if everything else sucks".

23. What WIP(s) are you taking into next year with you?

Gifts I didn't finish in time. Maybe one less because I'm at a good point. A discarded sketch for an ongoing project that I like and want to do anyway for me. I have one original story to rewrite or decide to scratch/give to an author better fit than me for it (I LOVE that story and the characters... I do not think I'm the right person to tell it, lately. Maybe it's seasonal depression, I'm trying to rewrite it after more research but I'm a little disheartened and don't know what to do).

Dragon Age wise, this is my folder of unfinished things:

(Other's is a folder with drawings of my characters by other people, I keep it on my pc for rainy days <3)

28. Did you learn anything about your art/process/style this year?

That colouring-wise, for me it's either fully graphic design and blocky, or very textured. Cell shade isn't for me and I do not like it on my style. That it's true that top tier art supplies don't make you a good artist, but they do help you getting the process faster and easier. That I may not like orange all that much, but it leads to nice results in art. *begrudgingly* I can colour a full comic! :D (and I still hate Anime Ace as a font. It's stronger than me, I'm sorry, I just think it's ugly and I won't use it.) Oh. And I half-learnt to draw horses (half because they're difficult and their anatomy is terribly weird HOW ARE THEY STANDING)

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 9: Plants

(Disclaimer: only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. If you’d like to learn more about LevianthanPat, go here. This story is actually something of a sequel to the first time I wrote about him and EldritchPlier, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. CryptidXian is yet another one of the LxianEgos made by @sammys-magical-au; go here to learn more about him.)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied sleep problems, implied nightmares/night-terrors, gore, blood, organs, body horror, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going to FancyTextGenerator.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3   Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

It feels like only a moment or two has passed since you closed your eyes for the night. 

Now you’re reopening them and finding yourself in something that is most certainly not your bed. Most other people would probably panic in this situation, but you don’t. You know you don’t have to.

For one thing, whatever you’re lying in isn’t a bathtub full of ice, either. ‘Matter of fact, as you push yourself to sit up, a decent amount of leaves fall away from your face to join the rest in the pile around you. They all come in lovely shades of red and orange and yellow; it makes sense, considering the state of the trees outside your apartment. 

For another thing, you can’t feel the leaves as you brush them away from your clothes. It’s not that your skin is numb—everything within touching distance just doesn’t have the texture it should have. The leaves don’t crunch or crackle under your weight (very unsatisfying, I know).  

You’ve learned to recognize this hazy, near-weightless sensation. 

You’re asleep right now. You’re dreaming. 

And you have enough experience to brace yourself right now. You may not know how or when it’ll happen, but you absolutely know that there’s going to be a twist here.

Hundreds of years of scientific progress have already passed. Research has grown, numerous experiments have been documented, and people can still only throw their best guesses at the concepts of sleep and all its weirdness.

You doubt humanity will ever be able to fully understand sleep. 

A bit of a pessimistic outlook, yes, but you have every single damn right to be a pessimist. 

It’s been months since the constant stream of nightmares started plaguing you. 

Ten months, to be specific. 

Ten. Whole. Months. Of having a raging dumpster fire for a sleep-schedule. 

(To be fair, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit relieved that the nightmares didn’t finally end at nine months. Because timing like that would’ve just been begging fate to open a whole new horrific can of worms for you. . .)

Sure, this has paved the way for you to become a somewhat lucid dreamer, but that’s not really a silver lining. Just because you’re aware of when you’re dreaming doesn’t necessarily mean you have any more power in aforementioned dreams than you did before. 

You’d think that, at this point, you would’ve been able to adjust the nightmares. 

You’re sure that you could’ve adjusted to them, but you cAN’T, BECAUSE THE DAMN NIGHTMARES ARE ONLY HALF OF YOUR PROBLEM!

You heave a sigh, dragging your dream-hand down the side of your dream-face. It feels like how the plume of smoke rising from a freshly-ignited scented candle looks.

Yeah, the impending scenario is going to suck, but there’s no point standing here and getting yourself worked up over it. In fact, that’ll probably just make things even worse whenever they do decide to happen.

Might as well just take it in stride. 

You pick yourself up, pulling a dream-leaf from your hair and letting it flutter down to the ground, which is blanketed by long, unkempt grass. Turning around in a small circle, you realize that you’re in the middle of. . .some kind of garden? There’s a decent amount of trees surrounding you, all at varying distances from one another, but it seems only one of them has actually shifted colors and shed its leaves. 

All the rest are in full bloom, their branches covered in flowers. You can recognize a crabapple here, a cherry blossom there, a few different Cape Myrtles. The explosions of color are so pretty that it takes you a few seconds to realize how the trees are twitching. Not swaying like they would in the wind—there’s no trace of a breeze around you. Twitching. Like wayward muscles in a person’s arms or legs.  

You chew your lip, making a note to not get too close as you start walking. The grass almost feels like water around your ankles. It’s not wet (thank God, because having to deal with wet socks on top of a nightmare would just be needlessly cruel); it just seems to have the same weight as a creek or a pond. 

You keep your head on a swivel, miraculously alert and aware for a sleeping person. You know there’s really no point, but you’d still rather at least see the danger coming than be caught off-guard. So, of course it doesn’t take too long for you to discover the patches of flowers that are growing around the bases of the spastic trees. It takes even less time for you to realize how the aforementioned patches apparently go on as far as the eye can see. Sure, there’s enough space for you to wander without accidentally harming any of the flora, but they’re still pretty much everywhere. 

It makes you think of anatomy textbooks, of their chapters on the circulatory system, to be exact. The grass-pathways can be compared veins, which would leave the flower patches and trees in the roles of larger organs. 

Logically speaking, wouldn’t that make you a germ? A foreign, invading virus?

You’re not sure, but that doesn’t mean you want to find out.

Even with your paranoia, you just can’t help but pause to kneel down and get a closer look at the flowers. You immediately have to rethink that choice when several stems all pivot in place in order for their blossoms to look back at you. 

A mix of roses and peonies, each one coming in either a dark or pastel hue. They’re all gorgeous. The slick, rolling eyeballs in the centers where the pollen should be. . .well, they come in different colors too, along with different pupil-shapes. Some of them are welling up with tears, which drip out between the petals and plop down into the soil. 

You have to swallow a lump in your throat, but at the same time, you don’t think the eyes make their flowers look bad. Just a little strange. It could be worse: they could be shooting lasers in your face.

For whatever reason, you offer a polite nod to the flowers before standing back up and continuing your stroll. Even as you move farther and farther away, you can’t stop feeling all those little eyes on you.

You’re casting a shadow—all of the plants are as well—but it’s dim and flickering. You can see everything just fine, but the light beaming down on this environment is dull. That doesn’t take away from all the colors, but it still makes you feel like there’s a thin dusting of tarnished brass over everything. 

You look up, craning your neck. 

The sky is completely and utterly filled with clouds. Rather than white, they’re a mixture of gray and a deep shade of mottled yellow, along with a tint of otherworldly blue around the edges. They really do look just like clouds always seem to look in abstract painting: a bit jagged around the edges, still and purposefully layered. You can’t see any trace of the sun (if there even is a sun in this dream). 

You keep glancing down at all the flowers you pass. Plenty of them have teeth lining their petals, along with little tongues that waggle up at you without making a sound and uvulas in the place of their stigmas or styles or whatevers. (None of these ones burst into song, to your slight disappointment.) 

A number of the flowers actually appear normal, if not simply weird-looking all on their own with no help from ever-shifting dream rules. Orchids of the bat, monkey-faced, naked-man, et cetera variety. A plethora of chimeras, pitcher plants, voodoo lilies, sundew, swaddled babies, dancing girls, baneberries. . .Hell, you even come across a few classics: sunflowers, tulips, sweet williams. 

But they all seem to have a sort of. . .fleshy aura. Like they’re bound to become abnormal one way or another and you’ve just so happened to catch them before the changeover. You don’t know how to make sense of them. 

Sooner or later, you come across a hill. It’s a small one, but standing on it can offer a good view of all the other flora around here. It’s also topped with one tree, keeping it  sequestered from all the others. You move slowly, carefully, squinting up at this particular tree. Once you’ve scaled the hill, you realize that it isn’t twitching at all. It’s standing perfectly still, like a normal tree should. Curious, you begin to pace around it. 

Your instincts tell you there are trees just like this in the real world, but you’re still positive that you’ve never actually seen one. It seems to be about thirteen feet tall, covered in reddish-brown bark. Oblong, glossy green leaves adorn its branches, many of which end in little clusters of hanging fruit. The berries are a cheerful color, soft orange enveloped by red, perfectly spherical with rough-yet-fuzzy-looking surfaces. They look a bit similar to strawberries, but you predict they’d taste a little more tart. A mild, sweet scent is wafting off of it from all angles. 

While it doesn’t have an entire patch of smaller plants to loom over, there’s still a generous amount of black flowers growing close to its trunk. You rack your brain as they stare at them. Morning glories? Hibiscus? No. . .hollyhocks. 

You’re so proud of your memory that it takes an embarrassingly long few seconds for you to notice movement between the flowers’ stems. (It’s honestly kind of hilarious, considering how you’ve been bracing yourself for whatever is going to make this dream into a nightmare.)

But then, out of the corner of your eye like The Shining, you see a gnarled, pale hand rise from the ground.

You freeze in place. A prickly sensation crawls along your spine. 

As you watch, the hand is lifted higher and higher into the air on an unnecessarily long arm. There seems to be an elbow-esque joint every twelve inches. By the time it could easily tap you on the nose, the hand dips back down, causing the rest of the limb to arc with a series of pops and clicks. The hand hovers by one of the hollyhock blossoms. A few bony fingers reach for those dark petals; sharp nails protrude from the cuticles, but they don’t tear into the flowers. No, they’re just. . .gently probing them. Almost like a curious toddler would. 

That allegory dies a quick death as the long, low creeeaaak of a tree branch breaks the silence, as you look back up to find a ghoulish face, angled upside-down, mere inches from yours. With nostrils ever-so-slightly flaring like a raccoon and dead, milky-white eyes drilling into yours, the creature announces, “฿ØØ.”

You don’t scream, but a high-pitched, unintelligible noise still escapes your lips as you reel back. You trip over your own feet, feeling as though a bucket of icy water has been dumped over your head as you collapse onto the grass. 

The creature snickers at your shock. As it turns its head rightside-up, bangs of black hair fall into place just above its eyes, matching the stubble growing along its jaw and above its lips. Its head ever-so-slightly pushes toward you. This helps you discover how its neck looks a lot like that arm protruding from the hollyhocks. The only difference is that it’s even longer. As you get to your feet and back away, you see how the creature’s neck is poking out from behind the fruit tree.

That’s. . .not possible. 

The tree’s trunk is thin enough to wrap your arms around. There’s no way it can actually be hiding the rest of this entity’s body.

And yet, that’s exactly what it’s doing. (Or maybe this creature just doesn’t have a torso? Who’s to say? Not you, that’s for sure.)

“₳Ⱨ, ₮ⱧɆ ØⱠĐ Ø₦Ɇ-₮₩Ø ₱Ʉ₦₵Ⱨ ₮₳₵₮ł₵,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe proclaims, speaking in what you believe to be a thick Portuguese accent. “ł₮'₴ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ₣Ʉ₦₦Ɏ.”

“. . .W-where the hell did you come from?” You blurt. You know that’s not the nicest thing to say right after meeting someone, but Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe literally started this off with a jumpscare. 

“₮ⱤɄ₴₮ ₥Ɇ, ɎØɄ ĐØ₦'₮ ₩₳₦₮ ₮Ø ₭₦Ø₩. ɆVɆ₦ ł₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₮ØⱤɎ ₩₳₴₦'₮ ₩₳₳₳₳₳₳Ɏ ₮ØØ ⱠØ₦₲, ⱧɆ₳Ɽł₦₲ ł₮ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ł₥₱ØⱤ₮₳₦₮ ₱₳Ɽ₮₴ Ø₣ ɎØɄⱤ ฿Ɽ₳ł₦ ₥ɆⱠ₮.” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe raises an eyebrow. “₦Ø₩ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₮Ⱨł₦₭ Ø₣ ł₮. . .ł ₵ØɄⱠĐ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₳₴₭ ɎØɄ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₳₥Ɇ QɄɆ₴₮łØ₦.”

The way your stomach sinks feels even worse that it would in the real world. 

You realize far too late that this entity isn’t just a product of your brain. He’s not just another nightmare. 

He’s a sentient being. He’s in a weight class of his own. 

And the fact that something like him is interacting with you while you’re dreaming does not bode well.

“I don’t want any trouble,” you insist, holding up your hands defensively. “I’m literally asleep right now. If I’m trespassing—or if I did anything to disturb you, I-I swear I didn’t mean to.”

The closest section of Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s neck is pushed upwards, folding horizontally. Two joints bend by either side of his head, pointed toward the sky. It’s only when the arm extends further from the hollyhocks, along with a second arm that stretches around from somewhere just out of eyeshot, and glides closer to him, hands spreading in a lame gesture that you realize he’s simply shrugging without shoulders. “₮ⱧɆⱤɆ'₴ ₦Ø ₮ⱤØɄ฿ⱠɆ. ł ₲ɄɆ₴₴ ł ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ'VɆ ₭₦Ø₩₦ ɎØɄ'Đ ₣ł₦Đ ɎØɄⱤ ₩₳Ɏ ⱧɆⱤɆ ₴ØØ₦ɆⱤ ØⱤ Ⱡ₳₮ɆⱤ.”

“. . .What?” Somehow, you’re caught even more off-guard than you already were. “What do you mean by that?”

“ØⱧ, ₵Ø₥Ɇ Ø₦. ɎØɄ ₭₦Ø₩ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₥Ɇ₳₦,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe chuckles, lightly shaking his head. Even with the total lack of irises and pupils, he’s still able to give you the classic Seriously? look. “ł'₥ ₦Ø₮ ₮ⱧɆ ₣łⱤ₴₮ ₥Ø₦₴₮ɆⱤ ɎØɄ'VɆ ₥Ɇ₮. ₳₦Đ ł ₩Ø₦'₮ ฿Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱡ₳₴₮, Ɇł₮ⱧɆⱤ.”

You can practically feel the color drain from your face. You don’t try to stop yourself from nodding. You’ve been taking sleeping medication, practicing healthy bedtime rituals, yadda-yadda-yadda. 

And even if that stuff has been helping a little, it’s still pretty damn useless in the face of certain things.

Two things, to be precise. And they both start with P. (Well, as far as you know. You haven’t been able to learn their full names; apparently because you need multiple forked tongues for correct pronunciation. You’re still not sure why either of them bothered sharing this information, since you don’t exactly have faces to put those partial names to.) 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe watches you think, his face-splitting grin becoming thoughtful. He tilts his head to the side, edging just a little closer to you. The way his neck contorts through the air almost reminds you of a caterpillar climbing a tree. 

“How do you know about that?” You wonder aloud. You’ve learned that it’s pretty common for creatures like him to just know many things without actually having the means to, but you’re still curious. Besides, if he’s content with just chatting, then maybe he’ll stay that way until you’re able to finally wake up. 

“฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ł'VɆ ₴ɆɆ₦ ł₮,” he answers. “₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩₴ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₱ⱤɆ₮₮Ɏ ₲ØØĐ ₲₳₮Ɇ₩₳Ɏ₴ ł₣ ł ĐØ ₴₳Ɏ ₴Ø ₥Ɏ₴ɆⱠ₣. Ɇ₴₱Ɇ₵ł₳ⱠⱠɎ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱤɆ ฿Ɇł₦₲ ₵₳₴₮ ฿Ɏ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴.”

Your train of thought screeches its way into a collision. “Wait—so. . .so, you’ve been in my room before?”

“ɎɆ₳Ⱨ, ₳ ₣Ɇ₩ ₮ł₥Ɇ₴. Ø₦₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₳Ⱡ₴ɆɆ₱, ₮₩ł₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ JɄ₴₮ ØɄ₮ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₳₱₳Ɽ₮₥Ɇ₦₮,” he replies, very much unbothered by the way your jaw drops. 

You blink. You blink again. You begin to pace around in a small circle, hands subconsciously rising to grasp at your head like it might fall off. 

Memories of previous nights barge their way between your ears. The red light outlining your bedroom door from the other side. . .the pair of glowing eyes on the rippling figure looming against the glass of your window. . .their respective, concerning-yet-oddly-personable voices calling out to you, going back and forth between squabbling with each other and trying to convince you to let one of them inside. . .

“Do you know them?” You finally ask. You’re not sure where that question came from, but it feels like it could be important. 

For the very first time since you saw him, Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s smile fades. He clicks his tongue and chews his lip.“ɎɆ₴, Ʉ₦₣ØⱤɆ₮Ʉ₦₳₮ɆⱠɎ.”

Your nights of being a literal captive audience for Plier and Pat’s disputes have been terrifying enough. You never would’ve guessed that the one classic vampire rule could apply to outer abominations, but you damn well haven’t forgotten to thank your lucky stars for it. 

. . .Except now you’ve just learned that apparently not all surreal horrors have those limitations and you’re talking to one that’s pretty much had access to more than enough blackmail material and if he’s been able to do that then how many others have been sneaking in while you’re unaware and—

“ɎØɄ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₲ØØĐ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ ł₦ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴, ฿Ɏ ₮ⱧɆ ₩₳Ɏ,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe mentions. His seemingly-unconnected arms draw closer to each other, folding across his che—uh, neck. The left hand’s palm supports the elbow of the right arm as its hand idly grasps his lower jaw. “ł ₮ØØ₭ ₴Ø₥Ɇ ₵Ⱡł₱₱ł₦₲₴ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆ ₱Ø₮₴ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ĐɆ₴₭. ₳ⱠØɆ VɆⱤ₳, ₲₳ⱤĐɆ₦ł₳, ₳₦Đ J₳₴₥ł₦Ɇ, Ɽł₲Ⱨ₮?”

You’re snapped out of the near anxiety-attack in a way similar to a rubber band breaking. 

“Um. . .yeah, that’s right,” you cough, thinking of the three green friends you recently purchased from that nursery downtown. You’ve personally named them Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin, but that information doesn’t really seem relevant right now. Besides, there’s a good chance the monster already knows that.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe nods, and his grin reappears so quickly, like it never left his face to begin with. Despite his unsettling demeanor, you can still detect some genuine gratitude. “ł'VɆ ฿ɆɆ₦ ₥Ɇ₳₦ł₦₲ ₮Ø ₳ĐĐ ₮ⱧØ₴Ɇ ₮Ø ₥Ɏ ₵ØⱠⱠɆ₵₮łØ₦ ₣ØⱤ ₳ ₩ⱧłⱠɆ ₦Ø₩.”

You nod back, mind momentarily going blank. You’ve learned that there’s a slew of unsavory truths behind even the most unassuming things, but this guy’s apparent fondness for horticulture doesn’t seem too nefarious. (Read: seem. You still need to stay on your toes.)

About thirty seconds of painful awkwardness pass the two of you by.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe lowers one arm in order to drum his nails on the fruit tree’s trunk. 

You rock back and forth on your heels, biting at the inside of your cheek. And right as you have an idea of what to say next, a long, low, gurgling sound breaks the strange silence. Several more join it.

You and Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe glance down just in time to see how the black hollyhocks are trembling. The nearest one leans forward, with a round lump in its stem that definitely wasn't there a few minutes ago. You watch with confusion and mild dread as the lump works its way up, pushing at the plant’s green skin from the inside. Then, once the lump settles at the part where the petals all gather at the base of the flower’s head. . .it retches like a drunk college student on helium. 

The hollyhock angles its blossom downward, and to the tune of a long, sickening sssqqquiii-plop! a slimy heart is pitched out, landing on the grass with a solid splat. Strands of blood cling to the black petals. The bloom quivers in a way that almost looks like heavy breathing.

A small scream tears through your throat as you stagger back, unable to take your eyes off of the new mess.

. . .Well, that last part changes once all the other hollyhocks start spitting out a variety of wet organs, the blood threatening to spray on your clothes. You know it’s just dream-blood, and you know you’re just wearing dream-clothes. But you also know that there will always, always be unpleasant side-effects to touching blood that’s just leaked out of something it shouldn’t possibly be leaking out of in the first place. 

You clamp a hand over your mouth; the wave of nausea that rolls over you feels itchy and sweaty and poisonous. 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe, meanwhile, heaves a sigh as he leans toward the flowers. “ⱤɆVɆⱤ₴Ɇ Ⱨ₳₦₳Ⱨ₳₭ł,” he announces in a grim tone. His smile vanishes again, this time being replaced by a guilty wince. “ł ₥Ʉ₴₮'VɆ ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ₦ Ø₦Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ⱤɄⱠɆ₴ ₩ł₮ⱧØɄ₮ ⱤɆ₳ⱠłⱫł₦₲. . .Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮. . .”

His neck encircles the tree, giving it some space as he examines each of the gore-spewing flowers. The worry in his features grows worse and worse. If not for your reasonable disgust, you’d probably feel sympathy. 

Eventually, he stops what you can only categorize as his method of pacing. His neck arches like that of a striking cobra as he purses his lips, obviously thinking. “₦Ø₮ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ł ₵₳₦'₮ ₮₳₭Ɇ ₵₳ⱤɆ Ø₣ ₮Ⱨł₴ Ⱡ₳₮ɆⱤ,” he murmurs. After retracing his path around the fruit tree, his milky-white eyes wander back over to you. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your eyes twitch and grow to the size of dinner plates. Your body doesn’t feel light anymore. It feels heavy, far heavier than what the scale in your bathroom suggested the last time you used it. A sensation that can only be described as pin-and-needles mixed with overwhelming heat oozes along your skin. You keep backing away. Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe. . .well, he doesn’t lunge at you. He doesn’t look angry enough to do that. But he’s still following you, still staring at you.

Out of nowhere, your ankle collides with something solid, and you fall back. 

You don’t topple into the grass. You don’t crash down onto anything.

Your vision swims, the world around you becoming an awful mix of spiraling colors and noise as you fall and fall and fall and—

Your ears pop as your eyes snap open. You gasp for air, sitting up with enough force that it’s a miracle you don’t trebuchet across your bedroom.  Your hands fly to your head, scrubbing at your eyes, pressing at your temples. 

And as your vision adjusts itself to the darkness, as you roll your shoulders to try and force yourself to stop shaking, you happen to peer over at the pots on your desk. 

Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin peer back, still and silent as always.

. . .Or, they are now. 

You swallow a lump in your throat, wondering if you actually just managed to catch Cher’s snow-white petals quivering.

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedos

[pollylynn]

Title: Potent Potable WC: 1000

“I can’t miss what I didn’t have.” 

— Richard Castle, The Suicide Squeeze (2  x 15)

She should never have let him talk her into going out for a drink. She certainly should never have let him talk her into an appletini. But he’d badgered. She’d caved. And now she’s sitting with him in the kind of bar she never, ever goes to, sipping an appletini. 

“It’s disgusting,” she says for what is either the fourth or the fortieth time. “Gross.” 

“Well if you’d finish it, I could get us real drinks.” He takes another sip of his own decidedly unfinished, radioactive atrocity. He tries and fails to disguise his grimace. “Mmm. Celebratory.” 

“No real drinks.” She snatches at the stem and takes an ill-advisedly large swallow. “A drink, I said. A. Drink.” She gives him an irritated salute with her glass and nearly baptizes herself. As she pitches forward to save her lap, she wonders somewhat muzzily if the stuff is more or less corrosive than anti-freeze. 

“More,” he says as he scowls down into the green depths. “Has to be more.” 

For a moment, she’s startled by what seems to be a manifestation of his familial talent for mind reading, but it’s worse than that. She’s apparently musing aloud under the influence, and what the hell is in these things anyway. It’s not like she’s a lightweight or something.

“Excuse me.” She shoves the drink pointedly away from her as she waves one hand to get the bartender’s attention. With the other, she’s fishing in her jacket pocket for cash. “Can I get a water and settle up?” 

“Settle up? No!” He sounds devastated. Even for someone with his tendency toward melodrama, it’s more than a bit much. It's the appletinis. It has to be the appletinis.

He catches the bartender’s attention first. Of course he does. He provides an assist in whisking away the sticky, spurious martini glasses and mutters something in a low voice as he gestures to the tippy top shelf. A pair of rocks glasses appears with no rocks in them. What is in them is a bare finger of whisky that smells absolutely divine—that clings to the glass when she tilts the amber liquid for the sheer pleasure of seeing the way it catches the light. 

“The appletinis,” he says in somber tones as he hoists his new glass, “were not celebratory.” 

She frowns at him a minute, just long enough to make sure that he understands that she has not agreed to the drink she very definitely about to have. She lets the frown loosen the tiniest bit and brings her glass into solid, satisfying contact with his, “Not the least bit celebratory." 

They lapse into silence, properly celebratory drinks notwithstanding. It’s not awkward. It certainly should be—she keeps expecting it to be, but it keeps on not being awkward. 

It’s not exactly comfortable, either. She still has the strong sense that she shouldn’t have let him talk her into this. She is fairly certain, in fact, that when Esposito had peeled off at the font gate of Cano Vega’s property, she should have done the same, But she’d let him talk her into more than appletinis. 

If it had just been appletinis, she could have laughed it off as one of his wiseass jokes. But she has known since Esposito peeled off and she didn’t, since he initiated the appletini challenge and started talking about real drinks being the prize for finishing the sub–cough syrup concoction. she’s known the whole time that real drinks would follow unreal drinks.

In the not-uncomfortable silence, she wonders what that’s about. The whisky is remarkable. It sets right in her mouth every thing the appletini had put wrong. It returns her to herself. It’s a relief after descending into whatever weird, beyond-drunk place they’d both been sent by their poor choices in life, but it’s unnerving, too. The silence and the internal reset leave her with time to ponder the why of it—this place, these two barstools, his elbow brushing hers as they reach for their drinks in perfect synchrony. 

She’d like to stop at the why not? She needs a drink from time to time. They’ve done a nice thing for Maggie Vega and Lara. Why not celebrate? Why not stick around for the real drink, the one that does not, as it turns out, say “I’m grieving” in quite the same way an appletini apparently does. 

But when she steps up and contemplates the why, she thinks they might be grieving. Or he might be and she’s along for the ride. 

She doesn’t know she’s going to ask until she’s already asking. In her halting, fumbling way, she’s asking, “What do you know about him? I mean . . .  what has your mom . . . said?” 

She trails off into awkwardness and there it is—the much-anticipated uncomfortable-ness. She can’t imagine what possessed her. She flashes immediately to the on-the-fly tragedy he’d created when’s he’d had the gall to ask how he got so interested in death. She thinks of the three or four or six obviously fictional stories—all completely different from one another—that she’s heard him deflect with on talk shows and behind a table piled high with his books at a signing. 

She clenches the rocks glass in her hand hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She squirms internally and holds herself rigid to keep it from becoming external. Literal. She curses herself for very definitely not having enough cash on her to cover however much this top-shelf whisky costs, otherwise she’d be tossing that down and beating a path to the door. 

The silence stretches and stretches and stretches out. He breaks it. 

“Love child,” he says with a lop-sided smile into the depths of his glass. “Just like Lara. She’s always told me I was a love child.”

It’s an honest answer when she expected utter flippancy. It’s an answer that exists nowhere among the many myths she’s heard him peddle.

It is, apparently, a product of the power of the appletini. 

A/N: I'm so sorry this series has been far more erratic than I anticipated; the dog is wanting to walk upwards of 5 miles/2 hours per day, and teaching is a wreck. I will try to get back to at least 2 or 3 per week soon. Thanks to those who are sticking with me. Appleton's on me. Ew. That would be sticky.