#☆ . PRIMITIVE PERSON IN PANDORA ?!

[victoirey]

— smart phones & shimmyflies . . .

SYNOPSIS !

you find yourself, a 21st century citizen— in Pandora. what will you do ?

gn!human!genz!reader / " im sorry , do you guys have any chips ? "

taglist / @loaqi @mylovelo-ak @somerandomweeb2 @stomach-bugg09 @cheari @lo-aksgf

hi guys!! this is a prologue for a project I've been planning for a long time! I'm so glad to say that I am putting it in action! woopwoop! I have commitment issues though. I don't know why I'm doing this. the official tag for this series will be 'primitive person in pandora' , and smartphones and shimmyflies will be the official title <3

you slapped on a bandaid to soothe your papercut as you flipped through another page of questions— to be greeted by more questions. there you were, sat in your room— music fading in and out as you did your homework. every question was harder than the last , which was reasonable — as the subject was science , for God's sake. how the hell do you wrap your head around science? or atleast, what you're learning in science right now. what the fuck is an optical phenomenon?! what the fuck is a sonorus?! why the fuck am i learning this, you think, when I could be running free? I could be hanging out with my friends , making silly tiktoks and actually living!

your head drops onto the wooden table, as you groan. "why can't we learn about aliens?" you ask yourself, "aliens are actually interesting. and some may even be hot." you say, "most aliens are hot." honestly, you don't even know what you're saying. you just want an excuse to not do this homework. whether it be by sleeping, watching a movie, hell- maybe even writing fanfiction and posting it on some deadbeat app would be better than this! anything would be better, you concluded.

you raise your head, fast— too fast, that you can't calculate when to stop. you forget the affect that raising your head quickly has on you— and you begin to get a bit woozy.

then your head hits the wall.

blobs of black follow after.

you don't know what to do, you don't know what to say— God, you've been needing a break for so long. as more blobs cloud your vision and as more of your thoughts overlap eachother— your eyes start to get heavier. damn, you didn't know simply hitting your head on a wall could do that shit. atleast you don't have to do your science homework. wait, will you still have to do it even though you blacked out? you should ask Ms. M about that..

out of all the thoughts, however, one seems to be a constant.

i hope im out long enough to be absent for the rest of the week.

the lab was always a constant for norm. it served as a way to get lost in himself, in his work— and right now, he really needed it. they were in the process of building a lab some where near awa'atlu, somewhere near the sullys. it was almost done, but the natives thoughts on it weren't. every time norm stepped out of that lab, unwelcoming glares from the metkayinan people. still, he went on. he tried to better his relationship with them, to learn their ways, to adapt— just as jake and his family did. it was still a work in progress, but it was going good. he was doing good.

being so dedicated to adapting and learning these past few days, he cherished these moments of calm. he was back in his human hold— reading over metkayinan books. his five fingers turned the page of the book, gently; his five fingers— calloused, tired, and yet still... they were relaxed. all of him was relaxed. he felt like he was floating, like he was in a sensorial deprivation chamber — from back on earth. he felt just that. he felt like all of his senses were sucked away temporarily, with all he could feel being the slow pace of his thoughts as they skimmed through a book.

he cherished these moments. he cherished this moment.

you, however, did not. you think you're about to wake up in your pretty little bed but NO. God has other plans for you because apparently hell is too merciful and you feel like you're about to puke. suddenly, you're in a fucking... rainbow or something. maybe it's the bifrost. it's probably the bifrost. when did thor exist? you didn't know and didn't care. you're seven seconds away from absolutely deteriorating and you feel shittier knowing you didn't even get a chance to shower one last time before drowning! then again, you showered yesterday but you wanted to feel that sprinkling water on your skin before you fucking died! what the fuck, universe?! you thought— the universe didn't answer.

you feel like you got thrown off the roof and these are your last moments before you eventually splat on the floor and die. like literally, bones broken and all. your whole life fucking flashes before your eyes, pictures of you and your friends, of your family— the tears you shed because of them, because of school, because of everything.

you think,

perhaps this is mercy.

still, The Great Mother has other plans.

you splat face first into norm's desk.

he jolts away from you instinctively, the book in his hands discarded as he looks at the fellow human that just came out of nowhere. did the wind carry you here? he didn't want a part in this. you, on the other hand, don't know how the fuck you aren't dead — all you know is that you have a raging headache. you push yourself up, weakly, and criss-cross your legs on norms desk— hand on your head as you let out a big sigh. "fuuuuck..." you say, and your voice is so weak, quiet, & pained. it tugs at norm's heart strings.

then again, he's always had a soft spot for kids like you. even if they ruined his desk.

he coughs to get your attention. your eyes look up at him, and he awkwardly waves "hi?" he says, not sure how to react, "why are you on my desk?"

the headache is long forgotten now, as you jump off his desk and try to grab at anything to use as a weapon. he raises both his hands up— trying to show you he means no harm, and you near hiss, survival instincts kick in. "you are absolutely INSANE. CRAZY. APESHIT. BALLISTIC. if you think I am trusting anyone that lives in a mad science LAB !" you yell, gesturing to your surroundings. this was the most mad scientist core place of your life. "where the fuck am i?!" you ask, tears near. you don't know where you are. you don't know the people here. you don't know what these devices are. you just want to go home already.

norm pities you.

"hey, hey— listen, 'm not gonna hurt you. 'm not gonna hurt you." he reassured, as gently as possible— you back away from him, but that only encourages him to take one step closer to you. his arms remain in the air, "I mean no harm. my name is Norm Spellman. I'm a scientist here at Pandora, and I'm also an operator. I got no experience with weapons. none at all." he tried to joke in his intro, tried to reassure you once more— and you hate to admitit, but it worked. now , you were just confused. you stepped towards him, tears dripping down your cheeks— voice shaky, and yet you stepped towards him— some part of you felt gravitated towards him, for it seemed like the universe had deemed him safe. safe for you. "my name is y/n." you replied, he smiled. "nice to meet you, y/n."

you nodded, eyes still blurry with tears. norm didn't say anything, he just patted your back & beckoned you to sit down. for a while, you stayed like that.

you stayed like that, until finally, you licked your chapped lips and — getting through multiple voice cracks & loads of tears, asked,

"what year is it?"

it wasn't a question you'd ask usually, but faced with guns that could aim themselves— with phones so advanced that your phone couldn't compete, god forbid you don't ask. norm looks at you, your obsolete clothes, your worn out phone that did not look like a phone at all— and your reactions to the environment that surrounded you. he knew that you were not from here, and in the most literal way possible. you were not from this time period. norm pursed his lips, "twenty one seven-ty..." he replied, dragging the y. your eyes bulged, and you slowly looked toward the floor to calculate how far into time you've gone.

it was 2170 here. you were in 2023.

2023 minus 2170.

one hundred fourty seven.

your face contorts into an expression so shocked, so horrifically terrified— that norm can tell from eight hundred miles that you're scared.

you look at him again, and say, to his utter horror—

"do you have a gun on you?"

[redstrewn]

But the magic of human consciousness is a two-edged sword. We can use it to shape a brave new world or crack open a Pandora's box of hidden devils to destroy our world and all life on this planet. The temptation to misuse power is a hidden aspect of any archetypal figure; but since the powers of the Magician are so primitive and subtle, this temptation is his special bête noire. It is perhaps in recognition of this fact that the Magician's "black beast" is specifically pictured in card fifteen, where we shall meet him as the Magician's shadow, the Devil.

In Jungian terms, the shadow is a figure appearing in dreams, fantasies, and outer reality that embodies qualities in ourselves which we prefer not to think of as belonging to us, because to admit to these would tarnish our image of ourselves. So we project these seemingly negative qualities onto someone else. Such a person seems to always haunt our dreams, disturbing the atmosphere by saying or doing inappropriate or even downright devilish things.

Sallie Nichols, Jung and Tarot: An Archetypal Journey (1980)

[sylwanin-was-right]

Review of Avatar (2009) review by Local

My review under the cut:

Pt 1). Intro

- N/A (nothing to say)

Pt. 2 Religion and Plot

- "[...]just dont understand religious ephiphanies [...]" how does having an epiphany about eywa being real make it justafiable to hijack cultural symbolisms and set urself up as the Indigenous leader? Why couldnt Jake accept Eywa or respect Na'vi customs outside of his personal gains (via his avatar body)?

- I think its mischaracterizing to describe Eywa as a god and imply science as too incompataible with spiritualism. Both the Na'vi and the RDA scientists/Grace are right: "Eywa" represents a super organism or metaphysical life force with a massive nueral network that can be literally and spiritually connected to. Eywa is the spiritrual explaination for the natural phenomena of Pandora's evolutionary history of large scale neuro-networks. Grace and Jake having their spiritual epiphanies supplement their scientific or tactile knowledge only after all the destruction they were instrumental to is rlly dubious. Almost feels like poverty tourism or missionary work; why are the Na'vi set up as unfortunate and victimized for the colonizers to have their epiphanies about Eywa's spiritual significance to the Na'vi? What was really keeping the humans from accepting and respecting what the Na'vi already knew about Eywa other than implicit imperial biases ("we know more than you primitives")?

Pt. 3 Ur Metacriticisms are Silly

- it feels like many ppl are simply afraid to have meta conversations about colonialism regarding this movie lol. Avatar is clearly a political film. Its a call to action to a v limited extent but v obviously an allegory. Avatar is a story within itself cuz if its worldbuilding, yes, but metacriticism is inevitable when a white man makes billions from white savior films obscured as celebratory commentary aout Indigenous plight and allyship. The meta is important bc its pretty clear by the writing that its supposed to be, even if the movie is largely a world building, immersive sci-fi spectacle first.

- I rlly dont think argument against white saviorism doesnt hold water at all lol. The dismissal of meta criticisms of what makes avatar a white savior film (including thru its deus ex machinas) is very frustrating. Neytiri saves Jake from Quarirch but Quartich was one agent in the RDA's destruction; Jake was still set up to "save" the Na'vi from the RDA long before that point by being the agent to unite all clans under his particular leadership. The fauna come in as a signal from Eywa to help end the war, yes, but Jake was the only one Eywa used as the catalyst for such scale of influence. Why does "god" herself wait all this time to choose a colonizer of all agents of change (who brought her ppl to their deaths and then makes them legend among them)??? Why not Tsu'tey or Neytiri who were already indigenous, faithfully devoted, and against the RDA? Why did Jake so conveniently get to be chosen AND honored over everyone else? What does it imply about the capabilities and integrity if the Natives if a single colonizer's "ephiphany" was more narratively significant than the Na'vi's original awareness and value of Eywa? These questions to Avatar's many poor narrative implications are what makes avatar a white savior film. It was written that "God" has aency yet coveniently chose the colonizers to be judge jury and executioner on their own terms for personal salvation. Its disgusting!

- JC's writing is basically saying "ur hokey religion wont save u only i can" lol. Bc why else would Eywa choose for a human to be so powerful among her people just to be an instrument to their liberation? JC is implying that human integrity was extremely powerful; that having a change of mind as a human colonizer is what made "god" herself most receptive to aiding her children. But why does the change of mind of one or a few humans matter so much that she makes them leaders and legends? Why wasnt the fervent commitment and bravery of her own children enough to send a tool (in the for of a person and their intel) for them to use themselves? What does being a human driving a body have more in value than being Na'vi for a change of heart to be rewarded so quickly on such a scale than always believingf and asking for help first?

- i think he's being overtly concetious lol. Why does it matter how Avatar is percieved "in a vaccum" in a conversation abt its meta lol? The other commentor is wrong for reducing stories to some mythical "objectve value" in order to defend their position, but op only said he was gonna give him brownie points cuz he wasnt gonna take what they said seriously regardless. So what was the point of such commentary if there was an unwillingness to engage Avatar outside itself? Its frustrating how little he's willing to engage the meta so that he cant say something like "ur right that avatar didnt improve from its original inspirations like Dances with Wolves bc Abatar is only a little less overty white savior-ish, making the film hard to enjoy in and of itself".

- Theyre both basically doing a back n forth about film theory where op is just a devils advocate lol. Its annoying. "Why should a retelling be held to different standards" would be evident if he bothered to consider the meta and Avatar's real world applications.

- Its kinda conflicting how he's saying he hasnt seen any reason to dislike avatar but then says its fine to gague the film's quality by ur own personal metrics (like internal consistency or audience perception). It feels like op just.... doesnt want to engage certain poisitions bc hes made up his mind about what makes a movie and what doesnt, so he doesnt have to engage valid criticisms in and of themselves.

- Ok lemme get this straight (genuinely, cuz im struggling to follow)... op tries writes in a way that doesnt use "framing". Ok...so that means he doesnt want to place value on characters to "play god" bc he admires storytelling that lets a story exist entirely in and of itself. Ok. So he dosnt seem to care for meta criticisms bc he finds plot armor and self awareness in a story to be novel, but ultimately poor foundations for a narrative. Ok. He says using art as an elaborate way to present [an author's] truth to the world doesnt make sense to him. Alright I think this part explicitly reveals his bias and makes everything so far make sense lol. Doesnt make it ok that this is his reasoning for aboiding meta criticisms (instead of just low hanging fruit from random yt commentord lmao) but at least it gives an idyosyncratic reason as for his reluctance that adds more layers to this cracker behavior lol

- A movie isnt a story when it aims to present an underlying truth??? Im not buying this at all lol. Does he rlly not like allegories or parables thid much lol? I rly dont like the christain movie comparison to other allegorical films cuz... it implies that viewing Avatar as a "moral directive" would be indocrination or something? And thered be no artistic value in the movie if it were treated as completely self-referential and vaccuous? Again i think this is just that anti-meta bias showing thru, and also the white reluctance to challenge ur beliefs by analyze the impact of anti-colonial and anti-racist narratives and apply them to ones own thinking.

- Ok sorting his dialouge out again lol: ...he saw a video criticism he thought was valid but refuted it saying he doesnt think a movie's sound track can necessarily or measurably be used for or against a story, and thus Cameron's missed opprotunity to supplement the film's narrative with a new "alien" sound (as opposed to a more conventional western, orcchestral one to highlight the Na'vi's indigenity) wasnt a win or lose for Avatar. I'll sort my thought on that later cuz i feel like Cameron not taking risks like that in his heavily indigenous inspired film was evident of bias and also reflects the nature of consumerism and capitalism (to make a "blockbuster" as recieveable as possible to richer audiences). He doesnt rlly explain why he doesnt think the music choices in a film dont belong in a discussion about writing, which i find strange cuz movie isnt just abt writing anymore, its abt the entire immersive and artistic experience, including the sountrack.

Pt. 4 characters

- "Relevant characters only!!!" Well i genuinely wonder what he thought of AWOW now 💀...

- What he's saying about making characters based on their relevance to the plot's needs (then making their quirks later) is valuable. As of watching this ive kept thid in mind for my own OC making.

- I dont agree w what he said about a romantic relationship having higher highs and lowe lows than friendships. Jake and Neytiri v much could have remained friends and the consequences of their conflicts could have dtill retained their severeity in the narrative because friendship is as powerful as romance and passion. Also it would have been a refreshing take on an indigenous and military relationship that didnt further push a romanticized narratives abt a colonizer courting "the chief's daughter".

- I think he's a bit too plot focused for me lol. He doesnt care that the avatar characters are one dimensional bc their character backgrounds arent relevant to the plot, yet ppl will tell u that a good story has "relevant" characters who feel real because their backstories resonate and inform their descisions and role in the narrative. Jake and other characters felt like tropes personified a lot of times, and the dialouge being very brief (in favor of action sequences) made ppl feel wooden. Sure u need planks for ur house's foundation, but eventually all of them start to look the same when then story's structure is built along. If op cares so much about the in-universe quality of stories, then why doesnt he care about ppl's complaints that Avatar has characters that dont feel real in their own universe? Afterall, Avatar is not based on previous material, the audience is not looking at a snapshot of real history, & the authors had very clear political intentions to necessitate a meta review of the story.

- He's very utilitarian about this plot relevance thing lol. Avatar is supposed to feel as immersive just as its plot is supposed to be coherent and consistent. Its completely new information about the speculative science of a vast planet and alien peoples that hasnt been written before. Having characters or parts of characters depicted as going thru stuff that is tangenital to the plot is immersive and interesting! Ofc u cant spend terribly too much time on it or ur movie will feel incohesive and episodic, but... its still valuable to have characters that supplement a plot in a collateral way rather than a direct way. It makes the world feel bigger than its writing portrays and makes characters feel like theyre part of their world outside the frsme of a narrative rather than tropes superimposed onto a world that only exists as far as the author needs it to be.

- The "exceptional" character jake is in Avatar isnt proportionate to what purpose he seems to serve. He isnt just a rouge jarhead that turns ally, he literally becomes the Na'vi commander, religious legend, and then clan leader for his ephiphanies and delayed allyship.

- I think op is rlly oversimplifying the critique abt the ethics of the Avatar program. Noy even in-uviverse are the ethics of the program questioned, theyre just a given and then a reoccuring theme. The avatars being used as tools is obvious, but also the "just bc we can doesnt mean we should" part of their exidtence is rlly never brought up by any charactor nor any limitations of the avatard themselves. I mean where did the initial Na'vi bio samples for the program come from since avatars are mixture of Na'vi and human DNA? Why does the necessity of the avatar bodies as tools also necessitate that they are permanent sites of escape from human disillusionment and desperation (ex: Jake abandoning his human heslth for hours driving his avatar)? What is the purpose of turning these "tools" into people (clan members, etc) by the end of the film? The ethics of the program go beyond the necessity of tbe RDA and of the plot, and its rather shallow to dismiss criticisms of the program (or even a need for there to be internal criticisms of its operations and existence) just bc theyre "logically" needed for the movie.

So next he talks about why he thinks avatar is good. Looking forward to that since the critcisms were quite bad, imo, and its just nice to hear nice things abt a movie i like from a different perspective. (I'll post those in a different reblog from this since this is long and mostly negative).

[cjweejay]

Phoenix in the Clouds

Pairing Recom!Quaritch X Male!Oc

Summary: When a reborn Quaritch returns to Pandora, he meets a scientist who changes his world. Can love bloom on a beautiful world hostile to humans?  

Content Warning: alcoholism, Mild violence

Master list

A reposting of chapter one part one, this time Edited to feel more cohesive 

Chapter one: The landing (part 1)

After the battle with Jake Sully and the Omaticaya people, many humans established Bridgehead City as their new home, from where they could observe ships decelerating from the sky. Many Research divisions and Avatars were destroyed as a precaution against any future Rebellion, and amidst this chaos, Dr. Wihongi was granted a modest research facility near the Waters of Pandora. Subject to strict regulations, Wihongi accepted this limitation, as he was eager to explore the plentiful plant life of the moon.

Until the RDA had other plans for him, He was instructed to go to Bridgehead City, Where he was told that he was going to be the coordinator of equipment and health for the newly funded Recoms. The phoenix project they called it, He thought it was a bit pretentious but that's what the RDA was all about.

He was trained in how to care for Na'vi bodies, and the Fabrication lab along with being given a modest team and just had to wait for the Recoms to arrive.

And They did, Though not for him, for the General, She wanted to see them before they had gotten Settled. To remind them they had a job. He watched them pass, Their large bodies foreboding and not to mention their training in the military. It was a deadly Combo, No wonder Jake Sully had such an advantage.

The Doctor noticed the Colonel, The tallest out of the Recoms. He was pushed back by a small crowd of Soldiers. His eyes meeting the Leader of the Recoms just for a fleeting moment.

Hours passed and the Doctor Ran around the City looking for the Leader Of the Recoms, He kept grumbling and complaining to himself.  He caught a glimpse of a large blue cat man and started to run after him, being stopped every so often by one of the orange or yellow Spider-like robots constructing buildings.

He finally reached the large Blue man panting and huffing,"I've been looking everywhere for you" He said through his teeth trying not to sound angry though it still came out.

The small human looked up at the Na’vi, his face red full of anger and exhaustion.

"Even though I'm hardly certified, My name is Doctor Wihongi. I will be the one to provide you with your equipment and evaluate your health when necessary.."

Quaritch looked down at the scientist taking in the others' appearance. His eyebrow raised, "Wait, you mean to tell me that Command saw fit to assign my unit with our own personal Q?" He Smirked at that. "Now that's a hell of a thing. What can you make us?"

The Doctor shrugged,"anything you need, just give me a few hours notice and it'll be yours"he said as he calmed down a bit. Quaritch looked a mite amused at the claim.

"I don't suppose that means you could whip us up some recom-scaled AMP suits, does it? Or maybe some powered armor." His eyes unfocused a tad as he imagined the sight of himself crushing Sully's skull with his own servo-enhanced hands.

The doctor noticed the other daydreaming and he cleared his throat. "Ah well we don't have the budget for that"he said a bit nervously,"I meant like...uhm" he cleared his throat again,"weapons, and other hand held equipment as well as clothing"he said as he looked up at the man.

The Colonel nodded. "Fair enough." He thought about his previous experiences with the Na'vi, and compared it with recent reports. Prior to Sully's defection, the Na'vi had typically used primitive technology. Bows and knives. That meant that their main advantage was numbers, as their weapons were only dangerous to unarmored humans and vehicle cockpits. Now, they were using human weapons, making this a more typical guerrilla insurgency, with the added benefit of native air-power.

Unfortunately for them, this was exactly the kind of conflict he'd cut his teeth fighting when he was Force Recon back on Earth. And he knew exactly what he needed.

"How about some bullet-proof vests and helmets, then? Uniforms with cut resistant threads."

The doctor nodded, taking a mental note of what the Colonel requested, “bullet proof vests are already available in the Barracks, as for uniforms we will get them out to you as soon as possible.”

"Copy that." He gave the doctor an evaluating look. "You know, doc, you're a lot different from the other eggheads EDA brought in. Most of them cared more about their pet science projects than RDA or humanity as a whole. What's your deal?"

Dr. Wihongi huffed,"I could care less about any of you but after the rebellion, I was put on a strict, 'don't get captivated by pandora's charm' regimen" he said as crossed his arms,"so that means being a butler for you and your Motley crew"he grumbled.

Quaritch gave a quick blink. "Ah." He assumed it made sense in some ways. Sully's treason was supported, according to accounts, by the old doctor's science team. Keeping them on a short leash was arguably the smartest move RDA could do. "Well, Alfred is the best part of Batman's crew," he ventured, hoping to break the ice.

"I beg to differ," The doctor shrugged, "but if all you need is the uniforms, I should get going now; my office is right next to your barracks, so just knock."

"Will do. I'll need to take a close look at our armory to see what we have available. No point asking for a custom frag grenade when we have some available, after all." He thought for a moment. "Then again, a frag that's like Bangalore might be useful..."

Dr. Wihongi nodded, "Maybe," he remarked as he began to walk away.

The Colonel watched the doc leave before continuing his wandering around the city, making a mental map of the place as he compared it to Hell's Gate. Even the name was different. Hell's Gate had been a mining base, given the name for how deadly Pandora was. Bridgehead was just that, a proper foothold for human civilization on this deathly world. When it was finished, he expected it to be a shining monument to humanity.

Quaritch returned to the barracks, opting to consult with his unit before embarking on their first mission into the jungle. He also decided to take a short look around the armory to see what they had available in terms of equipment. He nodded in satisfaction of the larger rifles and carbines supplied to them, albeit he was concerned about the absence of proper marksman guns.

He also went over the grenade options. He was happy to find that the numerous rifles and carbines could be customized, including underslung shotgun and grenade launcher possibilities. The grenades, on the other hand, were mostly incendiary and fragmentation. Both were beneficial, though the first was less so than one might expect given the wetness of the Pandoran jungle. However, fire was a powerful psychological weapon.

As he walked around he drew up a mental list of additional goodies he wanted his unit's new resident Q to manufacture as he went to his team's barracks.

Quaritch sat in his bunk, listening to his fellow recoms yammer. It was a familiar feeling, marines joking around, wound up with energy and ready for action. If his men were human instead of tall blue aliens, he could imagine himself in... well, any of the conflicts he'd been in, actually. There'd been so many. So many battles and bullshit and lost friends. And while, technically, he never really knew any of them, the losses still stung.

He knew Paz was dead. Hopefully, Junior was on his way back to Earth. He gave a chuckle. Kid would be well taken care of. Not a lot of guys got to enjoy the fruits of their life insurance money directly. His would ensure his kid had a bright future.

[summeroffice]

Interview with Yulia Latynina

1:31 [About the deepfake of Yermak] We are gradually plunging into the terrible era of the dominance of artificial intelligence. We don't even fully understand yet what it will be like, what it will look like and what problems we will all have. This also applies, by the way, to these deepfakes that allow you to imitate your voice and the image and accordingly, the whole conversation can be built on a fake as such.  

2:43 I only have one piece of advice to respected people, to ask very, very good questions, for example, well [he smiles], that is, ask counter questions to check how deeply the person understands the subject they are talking about. And try to react to this calmly, with irony, to all these pranks, jokes and so on. They definitely won't have any consequences; they won't discredit their reputation already today, that is, everything of this plan that will manifest itself somewhere, well, it will hardly discredit their reputation.  

5:06 You know what's more shocking to me here in this situation, that these pranksters, remember Russian special services have some personalised hand-held pocket pranksters [Latynina says their names] who periodically call even politicians of different ranks in the West, they get through to them and accordingly they receive some kind of compromising product like, again, it doesn't work much but do you know what amazes me, firstly, how the security services work, which do not analyse the fact that such pranks are constantly being carried out and so on, and second, why say something in a telephone conversation, especially if you don't know the caller's ID well, and you're not entirely sure that it's him, why say some things that go against your public position. Because you are a media person and so on. This always confuses me a little.  

6:06 But there will be more and more of this, let's say, fake material. I repeat again, even now we don't fully understand what kind of Pandora's box we opened when we talk about artificial intelligence. Yes, it's still young, he's still learning, he's still in the nursery on the Internet, that is, he hasn't yet shown himself in all his beauty and maturity and wisdom or not wisdom, and so on.  

He of course will allow us to solve information problems of an extremely destructive nature in the near future and we will be shocked by what it will do with the help of artificial intelligence, how it will distort reality, it will distort it much more deeply and probably these primitive pranksters will go into oblivion and these primitive deepfakes will go into oblivion. That is, more complex psychological effects will probably be on people.  

9:41 I emphasise once again, I generally treat many products that I see in global media with great irony now because when global media, dependent on reputation, regularly refers to anonymous sources over and over again, which is not confirmed later, as a rule, then of course, it is probably not worth taking it seriously.  

10:27 I'm not a supporter of conspiracy theories. Do you know why? I was taught from childhood that the main mover of modern humanity unfortunately, in both positive and negative sense is either the wisdom of a person or his stupidity. 90% of the negative only happens because of stupidity, and not because of conspiracy theories.  

20:45 I am sceptical about the characteristics of Mr James Bond, performed by, for example, Sean Connery or Daniel Craig.  

29:03 How is it, victory has many fathers, for loss there's always one person to blame. Latynina corrects him: У победы много отцов. Поражение всегда сирота. (Quote by John F. Kennedy about the failed attempt to invade Cuba in 1961; he borrowed it from Tacitus).  

33:07 I really like democracy. It really allows for discussions and discussion is a progression, right, that is, through discussion you will in any case come out, well, if this is a constructive discussion of course, and an intellectual discussion, you will come out with some more or less optimal solution.  

41:51 This is already the second criminal case against Arestovych. Isn't it too much? 

[Deep sigh] You like all the time for me to comment on Arestovych? [he laughs] Look, I understand that he worked together with me and so on, I understand, and I have sympathy for the time when he worked in our office because he performed certain functions. Now, it seems to me that he went where you shouldn't go.  

I'll say a few words about criminal cases now. He went, you know, look, how I feel about criticism in principle. I believe that a person who is smart and who deeply understands processes is obliged to engage in critical rhetoric but at the same time to talk about immature functionality, right, that is, criticise the functionality, how to improve it. But at the same time treat the country that is at war with warmth and sympathy.  

What did Arestovych do now? He entered the niche of emotional condemnation of his own country. The country that is bleeding. It is unacceptable. In my opinion, it's immoral precisely from the point of view of those arguments and the rhetoric that he chose. That is, he condemns his own country, looks for some shortcomings in it, and of course there are shortcomings, like in any other democratic country, there are shortcomings, and they require correction of course.  

But during the war, you must understand what the soul is of the country in which you worked, lived, were born [Arestovych was born in Georgia] and so on. And this soul today, this is another. You are not attacking the functionality, not the state as such, well, from the point of view of institution, you are attacking the country itself, the essence of this country, you are attacking its right to be one that can and continues to defend itself and this is an extremely dangerous tendency. This is unacceptable.  

Everything that concerns criminal cases, again, this is law enforcement authorities, in this case, you say the second thing, this is a specific case based on a statement from a local deputy from the point of view that he reported her as having committed some kind of offence, and so on. It seems to me, more generally this should of course be commented by either a law enforcement agency or the applicant itself or Mr Arestovych himself or his lawyers because honestly, well, it seems to me that this is some very small matter for me to comment on it.  

44:09 Latynina says that she understands Podolyak but on the other hand, there is a need to bring people to reality. She understands how dangerous it is when people have crazy inflated expectations and Arestovych brings them to reality. Arestovych told the truth, and this is very expensive. 

46:05 [He sighs and shakes his head] You make one logical mistake. You call the truth something that is not it. What you call truth is the subjective opinion of a person who is unrealistic today in his assessment of his own country. This is not truth. This is an attempt to compensate for one's accumulated grievances. It cannot be truth what you thought yesterday that your career was going exclusively upwards, and you will be venerated in this country but today this country says, you are going not with us, you're going to a different direction. And this is a grievance for unrealised opportunity that was really ?, that's all. And when you are in such a psychologically altered state, you cannot be truthful, these are obvious things.  

48:57 Why I condemn what Arestovych does. Here the most important thing is to choose the right, very careful words, not to break hope, not to break expectations. Yes, speak realistically and we speak realistically. Some things we say absolutely realistically. But don't make others depressed, don't finish people off, don't say that everything you did, all your hopes - this is nothing. This is not allowed.  

56:28 Those who are really against the war, they get sky-high 7 years or 10 years. I looked specifically at the criminological report for, for example, the murder of a newborn, someone got 4 years there in St Petersburg. For, let's say, theft of 150 million pension roubles, they got 2 years on probation. 

[embklitzke]

Crownless - Chapter 4 (original draft)

She lingered in the bath, letting the heat not only only seep months of captivity and privation form her flesh but letting it soothe the aches of her body and the churning in her mind.  The warmth left her relaxed and the scent of the soap—goats milk and lavender, she thought—helped with that, too.  She washed her hair twice before just laying there in the tub, staring at the wooden planks of the ceiling above her.

The Protected Zone.  The words were familiar, meant something, something just out of reach but not that far, not nearly as far as her own name seemed.  Her surroundings were much more primitive than her gut screamed they should have been and the man’s choice of words when he talked about the person who’d looked at her wrist—healer, not doctor, not something else—only added fuel to that particular fire.

Then, of course, there was what she’d seen when she came into he bathroom.

That was magic.  I know that it was—it had to be.  How she knew, she couldn’t quite say, but she knew that the ability to do it was important, above and beyond what he’d already done.

The little things suggest larger things—the ease suggests so much more.  I know that, I just don’t know how I know it.

Who the hell is he?  Why did he bring me here—why did he come for me?

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment.  The water was slowly starting to cool.  The possibility that he’d come for the place she’d been held, not necessarily for her in specific, had crossed her mind.  It was becoming increasingly likely, in her estimation, that scenario was actually the correct one, but if that were true, then it opened up a Pandora’s box of more questions.

Questions can be as dangerous as they can be useful.  She frowned at the thought.  It felt so familiar but she knew it was something she’d heard, something she’d said herself, but not something she’d come up with on her own.  That bit of wisdom came from someone else.  She just couldn’t remember who.

“Maybe if you stop trying so hard, something will click,” she murmured to herself, then sighed.  Sitting up a little straighter in the tub—it was huge, much bigger and better crafted than she’d have expected given the surroundings—and carefully wrung as much water as she could from her hair.  She’d been careful to keep her splinted wrist as dry as she could, though the linen that held the splint in place was certainly damp.  She hoped it would dry out without incident, but that was a bridge to cross sometime later.

Her skin puckered as she climbed out of the tub, though the chill that seized her eased as she wrapped herself in the towel.  It was thick and warm, again surprising her with its level of quality.  She cast another glance toward the closed bathroom door, frowning.

A man who wields magic easily but quietly, living out somewhere in the Protected Zone.  Some kind of local wizard or wise man?  Or something else?  A faint frown tightened her lips and somehow made her temples ache.  What she’d seen of the house so far suggested that it was a modest dwelling, not terribly large, but comfortable.  And yet…

Something just feels weird.  But then again, didn’t everything?

She dried off and dressed, finger-combed her hair as best she could after toweling it.  He hadn’t left her any shoes but there were a pair of socks with the clothes he’d left for her.  She shoved them into a pocket of the soft linen pants and hung up the towel to dry before she quietly padded out of the bathroom.

He was nowhere to be seen in the main room, a space that seemed to be part kitchen, part sitting room, part study.  One corner of the room was dominated by shelves festooned with odds and ends and at least two dozen books bound in different colors of leather.  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she crossed to those shelves, reaching slowly for one of the books.  The embossing on the spine suggested the title Legend of Starfall, as did the beautifully decorated front piece.  Her fingers brushed against the ink and paper, lingering against the words for a moment before she closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.  For all she knew, she’d have time to read all of the volumes on the shelves and then some before they parted company.

Her gaze drifted toward the door.  He said I was safe here.  From who—and what?  Another question without an answer.

He said if he wasn’t out here, he’d be outside.  Would he have gone far?  Sunlight slanted through the windows, the shade and angle suggesting—she thought—afternoon.  Had it been two days she’d been unconscious or closer to three?

Does it even matter?  It probably didn’t.

The door was unlocked when she tried the knob.  The fact that there was a lock on it at all—not just some kind of latch—struck her as meaningful, too, though the meaning and the reason she knew were two more things lingering just beyond her grasp.  Still, if he’d left the door unlocked, he couldn’t have gone that far.  He wouldn’t have left her alone in an unlocked house if he wasn’t going to be nearby.

Would he?

No, she thought.  No, that doesn’t seem like the type of man he is.  Cagey, mysterious, careful—that kind of man isn’t going to leave a stranger alone in his house and go far without taking more precautions.

As it was, she spotted him sitting in the grass a dozen yards from the front door, gazing out over the water of a creek that ran parallel to one side of the house.  From outside, it seemed even smaller than she’d imagined and yet it seemed right.

He glanced back at the sound of the door, his brow arching slightly.  She managed a smile and padded out into the grass to join him, sitting carefully alongside him.  The air smelled clean, the scent of flowers and the trees on the wind, and it seemed quiet except for the sound of that wind through branches, the birds in the trees, and the sound of the water tumbling over rocks in the creek.

“You look like you feel better,” he observed quietly.

“I do,” she admitted.  “Thank you.”

He nodded, leaning one arm against his knee as his attention turned back to the creek.  “The people who had you—they’ll never hurt anyone again.”

“Because they’re dead.”  The words came easily, far more easily than she expected, her tone matter-of-fact.  They didn’t surprise her at all—and she wasn’t sure if that scared her or was a comfort.

Silence lingered for a moment before he answered.  “Yes.  They weren’t supposed to be here.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered.

He shrugged.  “That remains to be seen.”

“Really,” she said, glancing at him sidelong.  The afternoon sun painted more shades of red and gold into his hair, picking up highlights she hadn’t noticed earlier.  It also made the level of five o’clock shadow that dusted his cheeks that much more pronounced and she wondered for a moment if he’d spent the last two days and nights in that chair in the corner of the bedroom where she’d been sleeping.  Had he been keeping watch over her?  Why?

“They came here to hurt you,” he murmured, not meeting her gaze, instead fiddling with a piece of grass he’d plucked form near his foot.  “Maybe other people, too, but you were the only one I found there.  They were here with ill intent and malice and intended to use the Protected Zone to hide what they were doing from the rest of the galaxy.  They didn’t belong here.”

“But I’m not from here, either.”

“No,” he agreed.  “They brought you here.”  He finally looked at her, his gaze steady.  “And you get to take the time to choose what you do next.  If that’s staying here, fine.  I’ll help you get on your feet, find a place.  If you decide that’s not, well.  That’s a bridge to cross when we reach it.”

“You said when,” she observed.

“I did,” he said, then sighed, standing up.  He raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, every muscle strung tight, tension cording his frame.  “Maybe I already know somehow that you’re not going to want to stay here.  I guess I can’t blame you.  The Protected Zone isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

“You’re not from here, are you?”

He winced slightly.  “What makes you—”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “Instinct, I guess.  But you’re not from here, not originally.  You chose to be here, chose to stay here.  I don’t know why, but you did.  But you had a life out there in the galaxy before you came here, didn’t you?  Something out there brought you here and something out there makes you stay.”

He shivered and turned away.  “You’ve got good instincts,” he whispered.

“Do I?”

He turned a wry smile on her, though the rest of his expression was laced with pain.  “Oh yeah.  Much better than you realize, I think.  Most people can’t—don’t—make those connections unless they already know something.’

“And I don’t.”

“Not unless you’re the best actress in the galaxy and while you might be good, I doubt that you’re that good.”  He glanced at his feet, then slowly sat back down, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back against his palms.  “So what do I call you?”

“You’re the one who knows my name,” she said, studying him.  “Will my knowing it hurt that much?”

“I suppose not,” he said.  “Not if you can’t remember everything attached to it yet—and if you remember, well.  That makes choices more complicated, I guess, but it won’t change the fact that you’ve got the chance to make them.  Your name’s Kelcie Dorothea O’Shaughnessy and you’re right.  You’re not from around here.”

“And neither are you.”

“No,” he admitted.  “Neither am I.”

———

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[moonindustries]

James cameron avatar the game psp iso

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[2jewellery]

What's Hot In Charm Bracelets For 2022?

See on Scoop.it - Top jewelry affiliate program

Charm bracelets are popular pieces of jewelry that can be worn by anyone at any age, and in 2022, they will still be going strong. The idea behind charm bracelets originated as early as the 14th century when sailors started wearing them with amulets to protect them from harm on their journeys. Fast forward to today and you’ll find charm bracelets aren’t just popular among women, but have become an essential fashion piece in the jewelry collections of men and women alike.   The story behind charm bracelets They come in a variety of forms, but they all share two things: intricacy and preciousness. The best charm bracelets—and there are many that fit into that category—are crafted by artisans using expensive or rare materials. They often feature intricate design elements and represent a year’s worth of labor. Top charm bracelets might cost several thousand dollars, but it won’t matter because most people won’t know what these pieces are worth.   The history of charms In primitive societies, people do not have modern high-end science and technology, they can only rely on the most primitive way of survival to survive. Living in caves, and hunting, in order to protect themselves, in order to resist nature, in order to avoid the damage of wild animals, primitive humans wore animal skins, animal bones, and animal teeth on their bodies, necks, hands, or feet. The purpose of doing this is to pretend to be a beast to confuse others on the one hand and to carry weapons with offensive capabilities on the other hand. People at that time were simply doing defensive work and didn't realize that this was the earliest decoration.   Later, people found that once a person wears more jewelry, it proves that the more beasts the person hunts, the stronger the ability. Later, people made bright and eye-catching ornaments from the fur and bones of the beasts they killed and wore them on their wrists and engraved patterns of mountains, rivers, stars, and moons on them to show off their abilities, which also made bracelets, etc. Jewelry has become a symbol of identity, ability, power, status, as well as bravery, and wit.   Types of charms used Charms have historically been used to add expression and personal meaning to jewelry. In particular, charm bracelets have always been popular among women and girls, who use them as a way to express their individuality.   These days, people are using charms on more than just bracelets. Charms can be found on necklaces, belts, and even phone cases. As more accessories incorporate charms, a variety of materials and styles become available—and finding cool charm bracelets has never been easier!   How to choose charms There are hundreds of thousands of different charms out there, so how do you choose which ones to put on your charm bracelet? The best charm bracelets include both sterling silver and gold charms.   For something a little less expensive, consider cubic zirconia; these are similar to diamonds and will look as good as gold but without all that hefty price tag. Whether it’s silver or gold, make sure each charm is real—not some cheap imitation.   Jewelry companies like Pandora and Chamilia Pandora and Chamilia were two of many jewelers that came out with new cool charm bracelets. With all of these businesses producing such fantastic products, competition between jewelry companies was fierce. They had to keep innovating to be better than their competitors. The top three coolest and best-selling charm bracelets were: Pandora’s Perles de Famille collection, Beaded Family Tree, and Chamilia’s Double Tribal Bangle bracelet.   Why do you like/love your bracelet? After examining multiple charm bracelets, it’s clear to me that there are good and bad charm bracelets. As a result, I like my bracelet because it has high-quality charms on it. One of my favorites is the Beach House charm because we love visiting our beach house every summer. The only con to my bracelet is that it doesn’t come with any great starter charms.   For example, some other companies offer charms such as a graduation cap or an engagement ring. Because these companies have more advanced charm technology than mine, their bracelets tend to be of better quality. However, since I don’t want to buy additional charms for my bracelet just yet (I want to wait until my birthday), I would say that overall my bracelet is pretty good!   Types of people who wear them A good charm bracelet represents a personal statement—and wearers are just as varied. Some wear them to celebrate their heritage, religious affiliations, interests, or accomplishments; others wear them as an accessory to their favorite outfit or because it was a gift from someone special. Whatever your reason, do your research before picking out charms for your new bracelet.

[amyx2001]

Ok if you’re sure we’ll start off with Solitude, which isn’t as developed as IRIS. Solitude is Will’s other personal project, alongside IRIS, and the newest, Pandora Anthology. In the way of canon content, all we’ve gotten is a little video on the DaGames channel titled SOLITARY CONFINEMENT, The DaKnockout Solitaire movie which was $&@#ing hilarious, and the Solitaire song Hail to the Jester Queen and King which SLAPS. We only know one character so far: The main villain, Xavier Rotom. This guy. Now, all we know of Solitude so far is that Xavier has kidnapped five people to his collesseum, and they’re forced to play his game: Solitaire X. Solitaire X is like normal, classic, Klondike solitaire, but locked into Grandmaster mode, the hardest mode of all. His goal is to overthrow the capitalist society of advanced technology, AKA the modern world, and send humankind back to primitive times. He claims to have the family members of the five victims he’s captured, and threatens to kill one for every mistake, but aside from his word, we don’t know how true this is. Apart from that, we know nothing about Solitude. There was a little skit made of a Joker parody with Abrahm Valentin, the villain of IRIS, and Xavier, but it’s not canon. Xavier is alluded to being royalty, or trying to take over and become king, but it’s unclear if he’s the king, the prince, a scientist, ect. Again, his story has only just begun, and we don’t even know who exactly our protagonists are. It’s possible the protagonists are Will, Chris, Shawn, Chrissy, and Chichi, but nothing’s been confirmed. I do believe that, like how IRIS is a metaphor for all of Will’s struggles in life, Solitude is symbolic of the isolation of the pandemic. I’m not certain though. In terms of fancontent, there’s not a lot, and as far as I know it’s all on twitter, but if you go on there and search Xavier Rotom, you’ll find some cool stuff! I’ll warn you, everyone is thirsting over the card man. E v e r y o n e wants to smooch him. You’ll probably find art of him being shirtless/extremely buff and doing a sexy pose, and there are two artists in particular (I’m not naming names, but if you find the art you’ll know) who draw him in a way that definitely makes me sigh in exasperation and fondness because I love the artists, I love Xavier, but his mantits are not the size of basketballs guys, calm down(light hearted, not serious) If you want my thoughts on him, I look at him and my brain just yells “HIMBO.” As if he’s NOT a villain who, if he’s being honest, is going to slaughter the families of five innocent people for screwing up and losing a game of Solitaire. I can’t help but see all of this as a bit of a ruse and he’s actually just shy and anxious and had a bad upbringing so he doesn’t know any other way to ask someone to play card games with him. It’s absolutely not what’s happening but a human can dream. I definitely do believe that he’s got some kind of trauma related to technology, though, and I headcanon he got into a laboratory accident that fused his mask to his face. I also headcanon that said mask can emote to an extent. My main deal with him is just “He’s tall and strong and cunning and evil and probably has trauma, I want to hold him like he’s a gerbil in my hands, he’s my poor little meow meow. My little son. He’s not very bright but I love him." For the most part this is all the rambling I’ll put here for now, believe me, explaining IRIS will be even longer. Also you asked to know of the "sexy” characters, so I guess if you like guys like this he counts?? Also you may enjoy Abrahm if you like Xavier. -Z

[sirsharp-a]

Namesake. ❜

Summary:   Her features betrayed nothing but the desire to separate herself from her current identity. Warnings:  N/A. Drabble 2 of the history drabble collection.

     “DON’T call me that.”

     The words felt too charged to be contained by the walls of the tavern.  They shook resolutely, as if desperate to fold over, to let the ferocity in her voice out of its unwilling grip.  Her rage was like something fresh out of Pandora’s Box, teeming, scalding, sinking straight into its target like a jagged set of teeth.

     Edgar stood still, unblinking, seeming somewhat surprised by her outburst.   “... pardon?”

     She’d never had such a volatile reaction to him addressing her by her surname before--  never once so much as hinted that he should stop.  What’s different this time?  Why do you look like you’re seeing straight through me?  Where is your mind, Miss--

     “I haven’t been ‘’Miss D’otore’’  for a long time now.”

    "I don't understand,"   he admitted, a candid crease forming in his brow.   "You never corrected me."

    She lingered like an omen, eyes wild, painted nails looking sharp in the lowlight.  Then, it diminished slightly.

     "... I'm correcting you now,"   she muttered ruefully, her voice a sober whir.  In the dead of night, it sounded almost like an incantation, the kind that an old witch would murmur under her breath as the full moon rose.   "Isn't that enough?"

     "For future reference,"   answered the Alpha, dual-toned gaze narrowing slightly.   "But you have no right to yell at me for something I didn't know."

     "Are you hurt by it?"      "Scorned."      "Right.  You Alphas are too tough to be hurt by something, aren't you?"      "What is your problem with me, Grace?"

     There was a terse little silence, one that filled The Strahvern almost as wholly as her rage had previously.  Both of them had plenty to say, yet neither of them dared to.  Despite her boldness, she knew that she was treading a fine line between rightful indignation and unnecessary fury.  As much as it killed her to admit--  even to herself--  he was right.  How could she expect him to know something like that when she hadn't bothered to say anything?

     Frustration dissipated somewhat, leaving behind a reluctant resignation.   "... you're my Alpha,"   she started, the response clearly disconnected from the question he'd posed.  "... meaning you can reassign me a new surname."

     "Yes."   Edgar paused, eyes scanning her face. Her features betrayed nothing but the desire to separate herself from her current identity.  "But why?  Why do you want to change it?"

     "Isn’t it enough to just say that I hate it?”   Her voice was strained, angry eyes almost pleading.  “If you insist on using my last name to refer to me, I want it to be a name that doesn't revolt me,"   Her eyes finally flitted away from his.  As firmly as she wanted to hold herself, Edgar was imposing.  His very aura demanded submission, and she could only be grateful that it didn’t translate to his personality.  With a hint more desperation than she would have liked:   "Who else could I ask?"

    He stared at her keenly, eager to work out how she was feeling.  It was difficult to read her as it was, doubly so when she was stepping out of line.  While most crumbled under the pressure, she only hardened--  like polished marble, refined and formidably upright in spite of its innate fragility.  Despite her aggression, Edgar found it impressive.

     "Very well,"   he said, eyes searching hers for a moment.   "I'll do it."

     It wasn't as if he hadn't bestowed all of his members with surnames at some point or other.  They weren't born with them;  rather, the leaders of creeds had yet another task under their belts.  In the rare event that a lye wound up in another Alpha’s care, their surnames were often changed to mirror their new ‘beginning’.  It was a tad poetic for a specie so primitive, Edgar thought, but he wouldn’t argue with it.

     'Mox', for Ivan's brawn.      'Flit', for Raph's evasion.      'D’otore’, he assumed, for Grace’s impossible speed.

     But what suits her?  What captures her elegance in a way that I’m satisfied with?

     It came to him in an all but prophetic moment of clarity.  Slowly, he took a step towards her, a hand reaching out until his index finger could make contact with her chin, tilting it upwards slightly.  She glowered up at him, cool blue eyes burning with contempt, but did not resist.

     “... Adler,”   he murmured, crimson pupils contracting slightly.  Even the way it felt on his tongue was right;  perfect, in fact.   “Sleek and swift-footed.  That’s you to a T, isn’t it?”

     And confusing.  Oh-so-confusing.  I don’t understand you at all.

     He released her then, content with his assessment.  It appeared as if she was too, not a word of adversity uttered despite him having made contact with her.  He didn’t make a habit of it, didn’t invite himself into her space often;  he’d simply wanted to catch her in the right light, like a jeweller inspecting his latest work.

     "... hm…"   Grace mumbled, tilting her head slightly to one side as she thought about it.  She hated to admit that it was pretty, that she liked it very much, but such was the truth.   "... I suppose Adler will do."

     Inside, the woman was glowing.  The euphoria she received from being separated from her previous namesake was immeasurable.  She felt infinitely different, reborn in some way, yet as if she'd been allowed to keep her wisdom.  It would take time, a lot of it, to truly escape the confines of her past miserable existence, but a fresh slate felt like a great way to start.  Wasn’t that what people did when they had mid-life crises?  Pretend to die, run away and start somewhere completely from scratch with a new name and a fresh face?

     He didn't miss the corners of her lips turning upwards, though decided not to comment on it.

[bettersafethandicks]

hey i went digging in the landfill again and check it out its twince x reader

oh my god i did this too much i wrote too many word oh shit oh fuck im sorry

like a 75/25 split of troy : tyreen attention to the reader

a spiritual successor to my last troy/reader fic now that like, the games actually out.

contains: 0% sex

contains: CANNIBALISM yuck, nonsexual nudity on reader’s part, gender neutral reader, biting, blood stuff, drugging, kidnapping/getting a lil tied up, monster troy, getting touched n pampered like a nice spa day :), petstuff

5746 words jesus FUCK

It wasn’t the best job.  Sure, things could be worse; things could always be worse on Pandora, and one should count any second spent not prying their arm out of a skag’s mouth as a blessing.  Still, sitting up in a poorly-lit office perched over an eridium mine was so boring.

Officially, you were supposed to be here to oversee outgoing shipments and supply purchases; making sure the weight matched what was on paper …not that you knew what to do when it didn’t match.  That wasn’t your problem, though; you reported it in the daily logs and it was someone else’s corporate war after that.

“It’s time for our Flay of the Day!”

The little screen beside you cheered out in Tyreen Calypso’s energetic voice; the COV-sponsored ads had slowly begun to take over the Echonet recently.  They were always interesting, at least, certainly better than the Hyperion trash that was playing a few years ago.  Even if you didn’t tune into their dedicated channel, you didn’t mind the interruption of the background noise of Space Ghost Adventures.

You looked up from the spreadsheet to watch the short clip. Sometimes the Calypsos themselves would be on, usually if they had a recent raid or some ceremonial murders to show off.  Those were always the most entertaining, seeing the terrible, awesome power of the two of them; they were cool.  Tragically, today’s clip was user-submitted.  Bandits killing bandits- this was Pandora what else was new?

You turned back to your work, listening to the comical dubbed-in sound effects and Tyreen’s gleeful mocking.

Ear-splitting warning sirens jolted you upright.  You groaned, spinning around on your chair to the door.  Someone had pulled the stupid fucking alarm again and-

Screaming.  Yelling. Gunshots that weren’t coming from the screen.  Before you could even stand up to look out the window overlooking the mines, the door to your cramped office slammed open, and a burly, armor-covered bandit stomped toward you, gun drawn.

Your hands were in the air before you could even process it. Instead of the bullet between the eyes you were braced for, the guy was yelling at you to get the door to the safe; a second of hesitation to understand his words earned you a strike to the side of the head with the pistol.  After that you were at the safe, punching in codes and letting the tech scan your biometrics to disable the locks.  Shouting and gunfire was still audible from outside; you pressed your back to the wall of the little office as members of Pandora’s Official Welcome Committee filed in and emptied out the roomful of refined eridium and cash.  The bandit seemingly in charge kept his weapon trained on you, making sure you didn’t try to call in backup or reach for some hidden gun of your own.

It was stupid to think you’d get out of this, in hindsight.

A rather embarrassing yelp escaped you when the human wall holding you at gunpoint reached out to grab your arm.

“Take this one, too, ‘n be careful not to bang em up too much. The soft ones are great arena-bait.”  He grunted, handing you off to another bandit who yanked you effortlessly off your feet.

“Wait wait waitwaitwaitwait-“  You whined as you were dragged out of the room.  

Your begging fell on deaf ears; you looked at the mines as you were hauled off, seeing a few casualties on the ground, but not as many as you expected.  The workers had probably fled when the raid started, the lucky bastards.  Shackles were clamped onto your wrists before you were shoved roughly into the back of a technical with the rest of the loot, landing painfully on a brick of eridium.

The bumpy ride was lit by the soft purple glow of the alien mineral.  You knew you probably shouldn’t be this close to it, people got sick from this didn’t they? On second thought, eridium probably wasn’t the biggest threat to your health right now, you could worry about that later.  If you got a ‘later’.  

It was far too soon that the technical stopped, and the harsh light of the sun was blinding you again when the doors were yanked open. You were unceremoniously slung over some marauder’s shoulder and carried over to a cage and locked in without a word. The cages were stacked three high, and you were on the second ‘story’.  Not quite tall enough to stand up in, vertical bars, exposed on all sides, and generally as uncomfortable as possible; thankfully, the cages were in the shade, probably something they learned after finding some prisoners well-done in the Pandoran heat.  

“Hey!” You cried to the departing bandit “Wait!  I’m still- …” Your wrists were still bound; he was already back to unloading the technical.  With a huff, you slump against the bars.  

No one paid you much mind as they sorted through the spoils, which apparently included you.  Maybe someone nice would buy you.  Maybe one of them would have a change of heart and free you.  Maybe a rakk would fly over and start talking to you.

You had almost dozed off when the familiar sound of chaos started again.  Thugs rushed past you toward the gate of the camp, guns drawn and shouting to their fellow bandits to follow.  You stood as much as the cage would allow, craning your neck around to get a look at what was happening; you heard a psycho screaming before you saw anything-

“FOR THE GLORY OF THE TWIN GODS”

The Children of the Vault were here.

Everything slowed down.  Gunfire had started in earnest at this point; this was a real fight, unlike the sweeping takeover of the mine.  You’d never interacted with the cult in real life- you didn’t even know there was single a bandit clan on the planet still opposing them, nevermind that you’d get the shit luck to get kidnapped by one.  You weren’t really sure which side to root for- the bandit maniacs or the other bandit maniacs.

A stray bullet whistling past your ear snapped you out of it.  You sprang into action; namely collapsing to the floor of the cage and pretending the crossfire had hit true.  You played dead.  

The winning team was quickly apparent, with the COV’s terrible power quickly creeping through the camp.  A mixture of morbid curiosity and shock let you keep your eyes open, watching the carnage.  A feral cheer swelled among their ranks, but you didn’t dare sit up and look toward them to see why- not that it mattered, it was clear soon enough.

The Sirens.  

Your heart jumped.  Adrenaline rushed uselessly through your blood, catching a glimpse of the figures you had only ever seen executing heretics and raiders on screens. Tyreen was striding a path through the chaos, outstretching an arm and draining the life from those running away, and a few fools who tried to run toward her as well.  She laughed, called out taunts and praised her followers.  A cambot whirred behind her, swooping around to get the best angles of the dead and dying.  Seeing her in person, physically there only a few meters from you, leeching bandits into frozen husks in seconds; it was suddenly too real.  She was real and she was here she was devastating and she was enjoying it.

You were so transfixed by Tyreen you almost forgot to wonder; where was-

A screaming bandit slammed into the bars of your cage.

You couldn’t help but jolt- but he wasn’t facing you.  Troy Calypso was on him, huge prosthetic hand gripping the man’s head and bashing it against the bars a second time, stunning him. Troy’s face shifted.  You watched in primal fear as that arrogant smirk grew into a grin, and kept going.  Gold glinted on inhuman fangs, ever more revealed as his cheek cracked open along the lines on his face, metal clips coming undone.  His bottom lip split in the center, and all at once the rumors that Troy Calypso’s mods went further than just his arm were confirmed.

The jagged show of teeth disappeared as he jerked his head forward, sinking his fangs deep into the poor bastard’s throat.  You were frozen, lying there like a cornered rabbit, not even having the sense to shut your eyes.  Some primitive part of your brain was telling you if you didn’t move a muscle, you’d be okay, that moving would only attract the predator’s attention.  

Troy’s eyes were closed, blood pulsing out over his face; his nose wrinkled as he tightened his grip with a growl, something in the man’s throat giving way and letting those jaws slice deeper in.  He was inches from your face.  The poor bastard made a sickening gargling noise, and then was quiet.  For a few seconds, all you could hear was your own deafening heartbeat racing in your ears, the clamor of the vicious raid was so distant; unimportant.  

A wet, tearing, popping sound brought everything back as Troy pulled away, taking the mouthful of flesh with him.  His jaws flexed asymmetrically as he swallowed, letting the limp body collapse to the dirt, Troy’s face and chest coated in red.  The siren let out a pleased sigh, expression hazy as a too-long tongue lapped over the grotesque skag-like maw, doing next to nothing in his effort to clean the blood from it.

Icy blue eyes, suddenly lucid and striking and predatory snapped to yours.  

You stopped breathing.  Troy’s jaw slid together, enough that you could make out the sharp grin.  

“Ohh, playing dead, huh?”

You could barely hear the question.  

He leaned in, nose almost touching the bars, eyes searing into you.  

“Cleveeer.” He slurred; mouth still broken at the seams.

Troy winked at you, and turned to revel in the massacre with his twin.  

The rest of the fight passed by in a blur; all you could think about was Troy’s eyes, so blue against that mask of red, the blood falling from the edge of his jaw in slimy bright red strings and you could swear you could hear it patter on the ground, the way the alien tattoos flowing over his face gave off such enticing light-

Had you ever seen someone die so close before?  Sure, distantly, but it was always over there. You had dried blood on your cheek.

You hadn’t even realized the bullets had stopped flying.

“That one.”

“The dead one?”

“Yeah.  Bring it to me.”

No- nonononononono- no no Troy Calypso was not talking about you the heavy footsteps of a bandit fanatic were not getting closer he hadn’t just ordered you to be brought to him you’re dead you aren’t worth anyone’s time you’ve been dead this whole raid just leave just get out no no no please-

           You heard the lock crack under a sharp blow.

“Eww, what, you’re a scavenger now, Troy?  I thought you liked them kicking?”  Tyreen, her voice so clear when it wasn’t sent through a speaker, so close-

Your still-shackled hands were locked around the metal bars the moment the bandit took hold of your clothing, springing to life in a blind terror. You realized you were screaming, wailing for help you knew wasn’t out there; you were plucked from the cage, grip broken like it was nothing.  Tyreen and Troy got nearer with every step as you were hauled over to them, struggling and begging.  

Tears were stinging your eyes by the time the fanatic stopped in front of the sirens; you curled up in his grip, squeezing your eyes shut and bracing yourself to be leeched or shot or something.

“Heh, y’see?  Already all wrapped up and everything.”  You cracked an eye open, heart in your throat.  Troy jerked a thumb toward a massive war technical.  “Put ‘em in the carrier, we’ll get shots at camp- better lighting n’ sound.”

Tyreen caught your eye as you passed by, head tilting and siren markings glowing softly; your blood ran cold when she gave you a deadly smirk. Tyreen smiling was the same level of bad news as Tyreen frowning; maybe worse.  

Still reeling, you were shoved into an empty barrel attached to the side of the technical. A metal grate had been fitted to the front on a hinge, and just like that you were in another cage.  The barrel titled back, rolling you to the closed end and you had no choice but to sit in the cramped little container while they finished raiding the camp.  

You couldn’t see much more than the darkening sky on the drive to…wherever you were going.  It felt like they had given the wheel to the most erratic psycho in the cult, and you were battered around the metal tube like a cocktail shaker.  By the time the vehicle pulled in to some kind of garage, you were positive you were going to vomit or pass out or both.  

Heavy bootsteps approached, and the barrel was tilted 180 degrees while the door was flung open, dumping you roughly to the ground.  You curled up, letting out a strained whine of pain.  

“Aaand here’s our new project!  Wanted to get some ‘before’ shots of it.”  Troy poked you with his boot, turning you over onto your back.  A cambot flitted around you, zooming in and out. “Grabbed this treat at the last heretic cleanse, you can see highlights of that party right here- “ He pointed up and to his right, where he’d presumably be editing in a link to the massacre you had just been a part of.  

On your back, wrists bound in front of you, bashed up and terrified, the sight of Troy Calypso towering over you made you certain you were about to die.  When he reached down with that brutal mechanical to grab your wrists you couldn’t help but shriek, trying your best to scrabble away from his touch.

Troy barked out a laugh, easily catching you and pulling you upright.

“Tch, aww, lookit this sad little stray.”  His tone was mocking, amused.   His normal hand wrapped around your jaw, firmly tilting your face this was and that for the camera.  You got a quick view of your surroundings, a massive technical bay, surprisingly organized for the chaotic exterior of the cult.  Devotees were scattered around, working on vehicles and otherwise giving Troy a wide, cautious radius.

“Yeah, this’ll be nice and fixed up.  You guys won’t even recognize them by the end of this one.” He rubbed his thumb across your cheek, and you realized you had been bleeding.  “Alright, that’s the end of introductions, I wanna get this thing started.  See you in a bit!”  

The cambot gave a chirp, and its red recording light blinked off at Troy’s cue.  Troy lifted his blood-smeared thumb to his mouth, and licked it.  

“Hoo, wow.”  Troy exhaled sharply. “Yeah, ah, get them goin’ for me, make it good.“  He motioned to two robed figures standing off to the side, seemingly waiting for this invitation.  “Mmh, behave for them, hm sweetheart?”  Troy gave you a flash of sharp teeth in a crooked smile.

Cultists guided you away in a fog.  By this point you had been through way too much for the past however-many hours, and you obediently stumbled along for them.  You just wanted to lie down and wake up.  The noise and bustle of the compound began to thin the deeper into the building you were led, and your chaperons weren’t exactly talkative. This was all probably very secret and important, and maybe you’d be looking around in wonder at the magnificent décor if you could keep your eyes focused.

Heavy, ornate doors pulled open at the end of a particularly holy looking hall; a tiled room, decorated in mosaic patterns of red and blue, twisting snakes and wide starburst eyes, designs leading off along the floor into different rooms.  The sound of water running came from somewhere, echoing off the tile.  The room smelled sweet, vaguely floral but not overpoweringly so, and the air was heavy and humid.  Now you were staring around in wonder, too much to even notice the additional attendants had begun to undo the buttons and straps of your clothing.  

You tripped back, yanking your shackles from the hands of an acolyte you hadn’t seen.

“Calm yourself, Lamb.”  A priest rasped; the first time you had heard one speak.  “No harm will come to you here, you are protected under the power of the godking.”

“W-what does that mean?”  Your voice cracked now that you had finally found it, and it struck you how thirsty you were.

A cultist took your hands once again, working at the mechanism on the shackles.  “You are being readied for Troy Calypso, as He has requested.  The cleansing process is not a painful one, simply relax.”

The lock jolted, and the heavy metal fell from your wrists with a thunk.  Another fanatic carried it off, and you realized just how many figures were bustling around the room.  You tensed up, jaw tightening as an attendant resumed undoing the many straps and laces of the clothing necessary for the desert planet.  A lump formed in your throat as you fought the urge to tear yourself away.

The discomfort must’ve been radiating from you, because one of them spoke up.  “You need not be so uneasy; we have no desires of our own, only to serve the Twin Gods.  To act out from their wishes would be deserving of an unholy death.”  Nodding and soft murmurs of agreement sounded out around the room.  

Literal and figurative armor was pulled from you, the warm air now more welcoming than stifling.  A white towel was wrapped around your body, and you got the feeling it was for your own benefit.  

“Are you familiar with washing?”  You’d feel offended if you were on any other planet; here it was a reasonable question.

“Uh, yes.”  

“Very well.  Come along, Lamb.”  

The room you were led into was even more warm and misty than the antechamber, a slight fog hanging in the air from heated water.  Opulent mosaics on the wall depicted the twin gods lounging in golden robes, light rays shining out from them.  A stonework shower was built into a corner, and you were guided toward it, a washcloth and pitch-black bar of unscented soap waiting in the hands of a cultist.  You hesitantly took the objects, and handed over your towel with some reluctance.  

A glass door provided some barrier between you and your audience, who thankfully really did seem uninterested.  Being exposed was not something you were used to on Pandora- or, at all really.  Two silver knobs in front of you were self-explanatory, and you turned on the water-

Hot water.  God, how long had it been since you had a hot shower?  You let out a gasp, shoulders slumping as you turned your face up to the stream.  You opened your mouth, filling it with water and swishing it around, drinking some when you realized it tasted clean.  It felt like pounds of dust was being rinsed off your skin, and you rubbed at your face, reveling in the stark difference between this and standing under a freezing hose for a few minutes.  

The black bar of soap lathered nicely, and you set to work scrubbing off your battered and dry skin.  Wisps of red swirled down the drain as you washed all the cuts and scrapes you had accumulated, as well as some blood that probably wasn’t even yours. You washed yourself less out of submission to the COV, and more because you just wanted to feel human again.

Reluctantly, you eventually stepped out of the shower, not wanting to leave but also not wanting to keep a bunch of vicious cultists waiting too long.  Instead of handing you a towel though, the robed acolyte took you toward a large clawfoot tub on the other side of the room.  You’d only ever seen those in movies- the edges curved out gracefully, and the bath was already filled; petals of a flower you couldn’t identify floated in the purple-tinted water.  The cultist held their hand out, offering you help getting in.  

Taking the hand, you dipped one foot in.  The water was hot, on the edge of being too hot, but not quite.  You slipped into the bath, sinking into the enveloping heat; you felt like you could drift off. Fingers wove into your hair, making you jump-

“Shhhhh, relax.”  The cultist soothed.  

You obeyed, figuring it was a little late to start resisting now. Gently, they worked the tangles out of your wet hair, brought on mostly by your recent experience as a twice-over prisoner.  More cultists appeared, pouring softly-scented liquids and powders into the bath, and you become aware of a not-unpleasant tingling feeling creeping over your skin.  You let your eyes slide shut, listening to the quiet shuffle of the cult members echoing on the tile and the low, (admittedly pretty) hymns playing from somewhere.

A depression in the bath’s edge provided a perfect fit for you to rest your head, feeling the hands working through your hair hanging over the edge, massaging your scalp and working some kind of shampoo into it.  A handheld sprayer rinsed the lather from your head, and you were released to fully recline in the tub.  You let your ears dip under the water, outside sounds gone, leaving you alone with your heartbeat.  Your body bounced ever so slightly in the water as you breathed, the bath large enough for you to float without touching the bottom or sides.  You could fall asleep here.

In fact, you did.  

You had no idea how long you had been unconscious, only that someone was pulling you from the bath, hooking their hands under your arms and lifting you out.  The water had cooled significantly, but it wasn’t yet room temperature.  You mumbled softly.

“Apologies Lamb, but we cannot allow you to soak any longer.” A cultist was at your side, wrapping a fluffy, deep red towel around you the moment you were out of the bath.  “The next step in the process awaits.”

Your legs felt heavy as you were led out of the bathing room and into another gorgeous space.  When they guided you to a cushioned, slightly reclined chair, you didn’t question it. If they wanted to treat you to some weird spa day before…whatever happened, then fine.  The small room was lit dimly, mostly with candles.

The dirt was scrubbed from under your nails, hands given a light massage once clean.  

“Eat, Lamb.”  You opened your eyes to a cultist offering you some kind of food.   They held the bite out to you from a fork, but didn’t object to you taking the plate yourself.

You had forgotten how hungry you were, after being kept for however many hours in the sun and rattled around in two separate bandit vehicles.  The food was…some kind of meat, you’d seen more suspicious.  You’d seen less suspicious too, but it smelled good and wasn’t burned to charcoal; it actually seemed seasoned and prepared, imagine that.

Eating with so many eyes on you would normally have made you uncomfortable, but you were too starved to care.  Almost immediately, a priest was there with another plate, this one carrying an assortment of fruits; some you had never seen before.  Normally you had to fight off scurvy with vitamin tablets, fruit was a rare luxury here, even when it was in season.  The COV must’ve had it imported in from off-planet…

You picked out a few grapes, not yet brave enough to try one of the glowy things.  A reddish tinted drink was given to you in a wine glass; you half expected some alcoholic burn, but it was cool and sweet and made your mouth feel a little fuzzy instead. Hands rubbed at your shoulders, slowly easing the knots out of your muscles, a cultist occasionally encouraging you to try another bit of fruit.  Eventually you were taken to a cushioned table and made to lie down, the towel removed and replaced with a warm blanket laid across you.  

Years-worth of aches and soreness was slowly worked out of your back, spine cracking in a satisfying way every so often.  Oils and lotions were rubbed into your skin, your joints being stretched gently by several hands at once, all the while you felt more and more dazed.  

After a soothing lifetime of being massaged and tended to, you were pulled to your feet.  You weren’t even concerned with being exposed anymore, and they led you back out into the main lobby of the area where an especially-holy-looking acolyte stood with a drape of shimmery fabric laid across her arms.  A lower-ranked cultist stood holding a smoking container of incense, and they approached you, mumbling some prayer you couldn’t pay attention to if you tried.  You obliged them, allowing the priest to pull the white shawl over your body.

Once the priest had finished muttering the praises and blessings or whatever she was doing, a particularly large cultist came forward and simply picked you up.  You limply allowed it, now just along for whatever ride they decided to take you on. You were carried down some halls; you couldn’t really pay attention to the surroundings anymore.  Eventually, you reached your destination, and they laid you out on an altar in the center of a temple-like room.  After a few more prayers and responses from your entourage, the cultists all left you, heavy doors creaking shut and leaving you in silence.

You felt distant, lying there on the chilly gilded altar.  No doubt due to the strange drugs that had been soaked and rubbed and fed to you, but…it felt okay.  You couldn’t remember ever feeling this relaxed, this peaceful.  The now empty room was beautiful from what you could see, all stained glass and candles and regal draped fabric, the spicy scent of incense hanging in the air.  The silky robe the attendants had wrapped you in feeling so soft on your skin, yet another a luxury you’d never experienced before.

You couldn’t even find the care to pick up your head when you heard the huge doors open.  A cambot whirred into view, and you could hear Troy before you saw him.

“Leeet’s see the finished product!”  The siren came into view, towering over you, appraising his servants’ work.  “Ooh, goddamn would you look at that.” His fingertips grazed over your jaw, and you felt compelled to tilt your head to the side, letting him continue down the side of your throat.  “Aww, see? So obedient.  All that fear just-” he gestured with his mech hand, as if waving something away.  “-gone. So committed to your blessed purpose now.”

Troy leaned down, nudging his face under your chin, close enough that the tip of his nose ghosted over your skin.  You shivered a little at the touch, but had no instinct to recoil; he inhaled deeply, exhaling through parted lips.  A rumbling noise, something between a purr and a growl, buzzed ever so softly from his throat.  

 “Ah-“  He stood straight again, running a hand through his hair and visibly unfocused.  “Uh- heh, right, hang on I gotta get some shots for the unpaid version.”  

The cambot bobbed back around, and you shifted slightly, feeling almost sleepy under the gaze of this apex predator and his billions of followers.

Soon enough, it seemed Troy had gotten the shots he needed, and moved in again.  His hand, warm where the glowing siren tattoos snaked over it, slid the robe from your shoulder.  Troy nestled his head up to the exposed skin, and you gasped a little when the wet heat of his tongue slid over your collarbone.

Troy gripped your sides, and bit.

You twitched at his sharpened teeth sinking into your shoulder, but couldn’t muster more than that.  

A deep groan rumbled from the siren’s chest, his jaw tightening on you; curiously, it didn’t hurt as much as you expected.  Some pinching and a deal of pressure were there, but the drugs you were full of seemed to be keeping you nicely distant from your nervous system.  You could feel Troy’s jaw moving as he took blood, and he pulled away with a huff before licking over the wound.

“Gh, f-fuck-“  Troy’s face split open as he spit out the word.  

Troy was on the altar, hauling himself up to straddle you in one easy motion.  He looked down at you, arms caging you in on either side of your body; pupils blown huge, monstrous jaws hanging open.  All at once his head jerked downward, and he snapped his teeth into your torso with a wet cracking noise.

You body jumped a little at the impact, and you felt the crunch of bone vibrate through your chest.  Troy pulled back, jagged teeth raking through your flesh easily, and you could see broken shards of white in the gore he held between his fangs.  He snapped his jaws, getting a better grip on the meat to swallow it, barely a second passing before he was burying his face back in your ribs. Troy ripped and tore like a feral animal, panting for breath between mouthfuls of you; all the while you could do nothing but lay there, impassive; obedient.

“Weeeell look who’s having a good time!  Hope you Elpis-tier followers are enjoying my brother chowing down on this snackrifice we’ve got here today!”  Tyreen.  You tilted your head to the side, vision bouncing a little as Troy ate.  She was swaying in, speaking to the cambot that had pulled out to get a larger shot of her apparently-scripted entrance.  “Sometimes, you just want a break from the howls of agony- hard to believe, I know! But who doesn’t love options!  And really, who can argue with a sweet little offering who knows how to give their flesh so well?  I mean, just look at that!”

Tyreen strolled closer, giving you a smile; your muddled brain couldn’t tell if it was soft or mocking.  She put her hands on the altar, and Troy let out a snarl from somewhere inside your chest.

“How’re you doin, sweetie?”  She cooed, leaning over your face and ignoring her twin’s predatory growl. “Fuck you smell good.  Cut that last bit out Troy.”  

He gave an agreeing mutter in response, before pulling up, exhaling sharply.

“Ahh god Ty can you f-feel how much energy they’re gi-giving off?”  His speech was almost incomprehensibly slurred between the split jaws and the blood and muscle dripping from his mouth.  

“Mhh, yeah.  They’re from that stripped eridium mine, right?”  You could feel Tyreen probing at the deep bite in your shoulder.

You mumbled softly, unable to form words. She raised her fingertips to her mouth to lick your blood from them.

Troy’s too-long tongue slid over his left jaw, long enough to wrap around the edge.  He groaned quietly, a strange purring vibration to the sound.  “They gotta be.”  He dipped back down, unable to keep his fangs off you for too long.

Tyreen was leaning in too, eyes drifting shut.  Her lips made contact with the blood still pulsing from your shoulder in a soft kiss, before she too was running her tongue over your skin. Her fingertips met your chin, tilting your head to the side to give her some room.  Teeth, less sharpened than her brother’s but still capable of breaking skin, bit into an untouched spot with a satisfied hum.

“Hhhg, ffuckin get your own.”  Troy’s voice was muffled, barely lifting his head from your body.  

She didn’t respond, but they both seemed content to stop bickering and lose themselves in your blood.  You were drifting, detached.  It wasn’t how you thought you were going to end up dying, but all things considered, it could be a lot worse.  At least you got preened and pampered before being torn apart by some monstrous sirens.

The distinct pressure and sound of another rib crunching away brought you out of your musings.  It struck you how far up he was; how many bones he had already snapped through. You mustered enough strength to open your eyes and look down at the surreal sight of Troy, half his face buried in your cracked open chest.

His eyes, thin rings of pale blue around dilated pupils, met yours. He lifted himself, blood hanging in strings between his face and your torso.  

Troy spoke.  You couldn’t hear a word of it.  Just a muted drone of sound as your vision wavered in and out of focus.  You were so tired.  He reached to your face, running a hand over your cheek.  He was so warm. You couldn’t help but let your head flop to the side, into his touch.

Tyreen- you had just about forgotten she was there until she pulled away from you, feeling like she had always meant to be at your throat, draining the life from you so gently.  She said something.  Even so close to your ear, you couldn’t understand the deadly-sweet words.

You let your eyes close.  You let go.

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 Awake.  You were awake.  You shouldn’t be awake.

You were lying down, on a…a bed.  You shifted around, shocked to find all your limbs attached and no gaping hole in your abdomen.  

“Ha!  Bet you’re surprised to be alive!  I try to keep the healing stuff on the down-low, don’t really want the whole fam asking me for favors.”  Tyreen’s voice made you bolt upright.  Something around your neck jingled.

You reached up, grabbing at the source of the noise-

“You like it?  Troy’s idea, thought it was cute.”  A little bell was hanging from the collar around your throat.

You brought your eyes up to Tyreen, almost scared to look directly at her.  You’d heard about how she liked to toy with people, how volatile she could be, and it felt like you were being tricked right now.

“You, uh, you aren’t gonna…kill me?”  You said something to her you spoke to this godlike siren-

Tyreen grinned.  She reached out to you, tattoos flaring light, and you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation of being drained to a crystalline husk in a second.  Instead, Tyreen Calypso booped your nose.

“You taste too way good to only have once, pet.”

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

What are People to a God?

Okay okay. I know what the blog description says, but it’s my blog and I can go beyond the fandom I said I was writing snippets for.

I’ve had people talking to me about Borderlands over the last few days, and since I have only seen parts of a playthrough of the first and third (my laptop isn’t able to run them), I started researching the third game again lately… And found a garbage child. I got curious and thought I’d test myself to write someone pretty different - Troy Calypso. It was tricky to actually figure out his personality solely from canon, since the focus is more on Tyreen… But I gave it a shot. Be gentle?

Warnings for descriptions of murder under the read more. And Troy being garbage. :D

Word Count: 1,321

-

A God. That’s what he was.

He and Tyreen were going to seize control of this pathetic planet and all the stars around it like no one had ever seen before. Handsome Jack? Who’s that? A nobody compared to the Calypso Twins! They were leaders of a cult - The Children of the Vault - and would travel the galaxy to open the vaults and claim their birthright. Thousands (if not millions) of devout followers who would be willing to cut themselves to pieces if asked. Useless NPCs, the lot of them! They only served a purpose in this grand story: to help the Gods rise to power!

Of course, Tyreen was the one they would always flock to. After all, she was the face of the cult. Her white hair made her a literal beacon amongst the scrap metal and wastelands. Her larger than life personality and cockiness could probably fill the Great Vault itself. Her Siren abilities that brought fear and admiration to all that met her. But she would be nothing without Troy. A parasite, yes, but an intelligent one. He understood how the system worked with the primitive bandits. He learned their games and how to use it to their favour. Now look at them! Streaming to all corners of the world through the ECHOnet, with all the bandits of Pandora at their beck and call!

Money was no issue these days either. They could get all the luxuries they ever wanted. All the comfort, the cutting edge technology, the weapons! It was a far cry from the pathetic upbringing of [REDACTED], where everything was cold, isolated, and worn out. Who cared about that worthless loser anyway? The answer - no one! It only made it so much easier to sacrifice that youth to become Troy Calypso, the God King. No God could rise to power without such a ritual, after all. There was no place in this world to be soft. Tyreen didn’t need a hesitant fool by her side. He was just as worthy as her, parasite or not. He’d die without her, but he needed to make sure all were oblivious to that.

Even if he was always in Tyreen’s shadow, she wouldn’t be who she was without him. But when there was a day she couldn’t host the livestream because of consuming the life essence of someone sickly? Oh, everyone remembered Troy and why they should be scared of him. He was more than just the tall brother with the elongated metal arm. No… He was a threat, just as much as Tyreen.

-

It had been a fun livestream, just Troy and the audience joking around in one of the main arenas, until one of the so-called ‘heretics’ crashed the party. It wasn’t one of the ‘superfans’, just an amateur vault hunter with an ambition to raid and be someone important. Unfortunately, they were no match for the eridian-tier fans, and they were thrown into the pit where Troy was waiting. The ever-faithful droid camera hovered nearby, eager to snap up every good shot it possibly could.

“Well, well, well… Look what trash landed on our doorstep while we’re live.” His height was something used to his advantage in times like these. Troy could raise his head back and pace around the human with a cocky air. “Such a shame my dear sister isn’t here. I’m sure she’d get a kick out of you. Then again… You aren’t really worth much, huh? You’re nothing more than a faceless nobody looking for fifteen minutes of fame. But here you are! You’ve got your fame, and you’ve got the whole world watching! You’re live on the ECHOnet, baby! Why don’t we give our special guest a warm welcome?” He stretched out both arms, giving the bandits present a time to clap and jeer at the rookie hunter at his feet. 

“As you all know, voting’s still underway for the person you want killed next. But what’s the harm in giving all you loyal viewers a little refresher of how we do things around here. You want that, huh? Lemme hear it!” The crowd roared, eager to indulge in a moment of bloodlust. The hunter tried to take the chance to move, but only received a swift kick in the stomach for their actions.

“Ah, ah, ah… Not yet. We haven’t even started our little show. I was even going to let you fight for your life… But nah.” Troy knelt down so he could roughly grab the hunter’s hair with his right hand. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice so only the other could hear. The audience were distracted by the drone, who had taken the time to amp up the excitement by shooting up to record the audience. “I’ll be a merciful God, just this once, and make this as quick as possible. I could draw this out for hours. Start a donation train where for every hundred dollars, you get another life-threatening injury. It’s a shame, you know. You don’t look much older than Tyreen and I when we started streaming. You could’ve had a good life with us, kid.” A light flashing on his arm caught his attention and a wicked grin spread across his lips. It almost looked like his mouth would crack open to reveal something monstrous, but he rose to his feet before anything of the sort happened.

“It seems you’re all eager today. The donations are already starting to pour in, along with comments like ‘hurry up!’ and ‘we want blood!’. Well… Who am I to refuse?” As the camera droid positioned itself, Troy decided what was best to do. What would get the best reaction when the stream ended? An idea hit him as he reached forward again. This time, the prosthetic arm firmly gripped the top of the nobody’s head and lifted them until they were at eye level. “Let’s show them all what the Children of the Vault can do!” With a mental count to ‘three’, he squeezed. The hunter tried to pry the fingers away in agony, but to no avail. After all, what good could mere hands do against metal? While Troy would normally rely on guns or even his favourite sword, he knew there was nothing better than simply squeezing the life out of someone if he was unarmed. A skull was a tough thing, but it would start to crack under the pressure of his grip. His expression grew more manicial as he dug his fingers in harder. Then… The satisfying sound of bone snapping rang through the arena. Funny, he hadn’t even noticed how deathly quiet the audience had become until they let out an almighty roar for the God King. The body was dumped carelessly to the ground as he beckoned for the camera droid.

“I think this is as good a time to wrap up the stream today, folks! A good reminder to all you Vault Hunters out there about what will happen if you ever cross our path. Your God Queen Tyreen will be back in full swing tomorrow, so be sure to tune in and give her all that sweet adoration. And remember: don’t forget to like, follow, and obey. Later!”

He left the thrill of the arena as he returned to his personal quarters. His own space was quiet, and it provided the perfect chance to wash the blood off his hand while it was wet. Blood might look cool, but it could damage the protective coating if allowed to harden over time, and he didn’t want to have to deal with the mess of fixing that with one arm.

As per usual after a stream like that, music was turned on to a near-deafening volume. Anything to drown out that little voice that questioned if what he was doing was right, and if he was worth more than being a psychotic, parasitic murderer.

[ryo-maybe]

From the same set of fingers that brought you Greece’s best worst fashionista, I bring you Servant Pandora aka “Do not fist the cursed robogirl”: 

Pandora (Assassin)

Source: Greek Mythology Origin: My. Olympus Alignment: Lawful Evil. Although...

Stats

STR: D    END: B AGI: E     MAN: C LCK: E    NP: EX

Class Skill

Presence Concealment D: Capable of masking one's presence as a Servant, and pass off as a mere human. Suitable for spying.

Personal Skills

Innocent Monster A: An attribute possessed by Servants whose true history and existence have been distorted by the monstrous reputations and gossips they accrued across the course of their life and thereafter, without concern for the actual person's will or appearance. As a consequence, the Servant’s abilities and appearance have been rendered to conform to the specifications of their legend. The higher the rank, the greater the distortion and greater the effect. The earth goddess Pandora, through the writings of Hesiod, became the template for the Automaton Pandora's Box, created by Hephaestus to bring calamity to humans. Because of this Skill, Pandora's body is that of a sturdy automaton moved by an array of intricate inner machinery dissimilar to any forms of modern technology. Within her chest, encased by several layers of metal, is the "core" of her existence: as long as it remains intact, the Servant's body will be able to keep operating regardless of damage sustained, continuing to pursue her current objective to the extent of its current physical feasibility. Furthermore, a wide array of weaponry, a conceptual factualization of the calamities contained inside Pandora's Box, is built into her structure to provide several means of offense.

Mental Pollution C: Due to possessing a distorted mentality, it is possible for one to shut out any mental interference thaumaturgy. However, at the same time, it becomes impossible for one to come to a mutual understanding with individuals who do not possess an equivalent rank of Mental Pollution. Provides a moderate probability that mental interference magecraft will be rendered ineffective. 

Divinity E: The measure of one's aptitude as a Divine Spirit. The source template's status as an earth goddess has been lost, but a measure of divinity is nonetheless maintained because of her correlation to the original, and as a direct result of Pandora's creation at the hands of Hephaestus, the Blacksmith of the Gods.

Noble Phantasms

Apò Theós Mēkhanês ~Pandora's Box~ Rank: EX Type: Anti-Humanity Maximum Number of Targets: 50000~????

The ultimate core of Pandora's myth, and the far more literal core to which her existence is intrinsically tied. The actualization of the inextricable nature of Pandora and the Box, two elements made one and the same. A Godborne Conceptual Engine powering her entire machine body and located in her chest, it is a blazing flame encased within several layers of solid metallic alloy, a prana-run furnace within which hope is perpetually sacrificed to produce misery. When its True Name is uttered, Pandora's chestplate slides open to reveal its contents and unleash the full brunt of its byproduct in the form of a Boundary Field, encroaching on its surroundings with sinister abandon. What it releases is a form of conceptual decay which aims to snuff and halt the progress of mankind on a macroscopic level - a form of despair which encompasses the whole rather than the individual. A tyrannical, esoteric scourge which snuffs the light of willpower and aims to bring life down to its primitive, uncivilized form. Shuts down and renders inoperative any forms of technology within range and inhibits the intellect of living beings, stripping them of all but their most basic survival instincts. Those who attempt to “act against Pandora” will suffer retribution in the form of a burst of mana erupting from within the body, provoking damage directly proportional to the extent of the action taken, be it physical or conceptual. The effects of this Noble Phantasm will be reduced against those who possess a divine lineage represented by a rank of Divinity. The Gods shan't abide technological prowess. The Gods shan't allow intellectual thought. The Gods shan't forgive the pride of those who dared challenge them.

Apò Mēkhanês Theós ~Anesidora, The Unforgotten Hope~ Rank: A Type: Anti-Self Maximum Number of Targets: 1

Yet, behind the machine's cold eyes, hope flickered still. Nothing but a fragment of the 'Elpis' distributed to humanity, it's an infinite source of energy contained within the core of Pandora's Box: the "fuel" sustaining the creation of an endless amount of despair, that is nonetheless unable to completely snuff out even this tiny amount of light. It can be called the most purest blessing in the world, the only thing capable of balancing All The World's Evil. This light is intrinsically connected to her Saint Graph, bestowing upon her what little range of emotions she possesses. Calling upon its True Name releases the Elpis, killing Pandora in exchange for a single, fleeting miracle. It's not a miracle to save the world or avert calamity, as those gifts has already been given - instead, she bestows upon a chosen target the miracle of resurrection, allowing them to avert death once. For even as its weakest, hope remains undying. And that is enough.

History

All-Giving Pandora. Hers was the name of the benevolent earth goddess who enjoyed a modest worship in the Age of Gods. Hers, the name of humanity's first and greatest calamity. In his Theogony, the poet Hesiod recounts that it was the Titan Prometheus who shaped humanity out of clay, bestowing upon them the divine fire of Mount Olympus that fosters the light of civilization. And that it was Prometheus himself, who would go on to unwittingly doom his creations. When Gods and mortals convened at Mekone to settle the division of sacrifices between them, the Titan attempted to trick Zeus by feeding him the disguised portions of an ox's lesser parts. The trick fell through; the father of the Gods, enraged by the affront, stole from humanity the fire which protected them from the cold and brightened their spirit. But the Titan, moved by pity for the dear byproduct of his craft, stole the sacred flame and brought it back to them. For this, he was condemned. Chained to a rock, to have his liver devoured by a bird of prey 'til the end of times. The Gods now raged within with a blazing flame of their own, coveting revenge against the unworthy receivers of their deceitful maker's benevolence. Retribution, however, demanded a tool to be unleashed, rather than for divine hands to soil themselves with vile effort. Who then could have been best suited to craft one such tool, an instrument channeling the wrath of the Gods, than the divine blacksmith himself? Hephaestus, God of Metallurgy, whose hammer would go on to shape the arms of countless among the Greek heroes. He, who best understood how to shape meaningful intent into its most suitable form. The cruelty of the task at hand, he saw all too clearly. Thus, as he set to work on this heinous task, he made of cruelty itself the first and foremost of his tools. He looked to All-Giving Pandora, who loved humanity like none of the other deities did, and out of her love he shaped hatred. By mirroring her pure compassion on the searing steel of his anvil, he knew how to shape contempt. Dipping the goddess' affection in the multi-layered fires of Olympus' manifold grudges, he cast out of it the very concept of acrimony and gave it solid form. In Hephaestus' furnace, the earth goddess Pandora's death was sanctioned. By Hephaestus' hand, the scourge of humanity was born, seeping countless calamities from the core encased by her steel body - a Box bearing the defiled deity's name and appearance. The greatest among his Automatons, given as a gift to Prometheus' brother Epimetheus despite the former's warnings. It was all for naught. Moving by the Gods' will, Pandora unleashed the contents of her Box upon the world. And so, by her act, mankind came to know of sickness, of toil and of death. Through that lone deed, one "Pandora" truly and well died, and another "Pandora" etched her existence onto the history of the world. The Box, its role filled, let itself fall into slumber eternal, waiting for the dust of time to settle upon her and bury her away. But had she truly been emptied of purpose? Had even the remnants of the kind earth goddess been lost to the flames of vengeance? Pandora's eyes gazed lifelessly to the somber horizon whose seeds of despair she had sown. And as her eyelids fell over that almost longing, empty gaze, a minuscule speck of something seemed to shine within it, like a distant, hopeful reflection of the bright dawn that would eventually envelop humankind...

Personality

QUERY: Master, is your wish to be informed of This One's directives? STATEMENT: This One shall give utmost priority to the efficient fulfillment of all established objectives. WARNING: Trivial activities deemed unnecessary to the completion of This One's mission will not be pursued. Repeated attempts to coerce This One into such pointless tasks will trigger This One's Zeus Directives. REQUEST: This One would prefer if Master would refrain from treating This One to act as a coat hanger. This is not a task suited to This One's technical specification or purposes. PUZZLED INQUIRY: What does Master mean when they say that This One is not being used as a coat hanger? CONTRARIED REFUSAL: Master, This One has noticed a significant lack of tactical advantages in these "cute clothes" and will therefore proceed to arrest their equipment process. UNAPPRECIATIVE STATEMENT: Master, This One wonders about the empyrical methods used to gauge This One's "cuteness". As such factors have been deemed unnecessary to This One's purposes, they shall be disregarded henceforth.

[mystacoceti]

from “The Essay as Form”, Theodor Adorno

“Destined to see what is illuminated, not the light.” Goethe, Pandora

That in Germany the essay is condemned as a hybrid, that the form has no compelling tradition, that its emphatic demands are met only intermittently—all this has been said, and censured, often enough. “The essay form has not yet, today, travelled the road to independence which its sister, poetry, covered long ago; the road of development from a primitive, undifferentiated unity with science, ethics, and art.” [1] But neither discomfort with this situation nor discomfort with the mentality that reacts to it by fencing off art as a preserve for irrationality, equating knowledge with organized science, and excluding anything that does not fit that antithesis as impure, has changed anything in the prejudice customary here in Germany. Even today, to praise someone as an écrivain is enough to keep him out of academia. Despite the telling insights that Simmel and the young Lukács, Kassner and Benjamin entrusted to the essay as speculation on specific, culturally pre-formed objects, [2] the academic guild accepts as philosophy only what is clothed in the dignity of the universal and the enduring—and perhaps today the originary. It gets involved with particular cultural artifacts only to the extent to which they can be used to exemplify universal categories, or to the extent to which the particular becomes transparent when seen in terms of them. The stubbornness with which this schema survives would be as puzzling as the emotions attached to it if it were not fed by motives stronger than the painful memory of the lack of cultivation in a culture in which the homme de lettres is practically unknown. In Germany the essay arouses resistance because it evokes intellectual freedom. since the failure of an Enlightenment that has been lukewarm since Leibniz, even under present-day conditions of formal freedom, that intellectual freedom has never quite developed but has always been ready to proclaim its subordination to external authorities as its real concern. The essay, however, does not let its domain be prescribed for it. Instead of accomplishing something scientifically or creating something artistically, its efforts reflect the leisure of a childlike person who has no qualms about taking his inspiration from what others have done before him. The essay reflects what is loved and hated instead of presenting the mind as creation ex nihilo on the model of an unrestrained work ethic. Luck and play are essential to it. It starts not with Adam and Eve but with what it wants to talk about; it says what occurs to it in that context and stops when it feels finished rather than when there is nothing to say. Hence it is classified a trivial endeavor. Its concepts are not derived from a first principle, nor do they fill out to become ultimate principles. Its interpretations are not philologically definitive and conscientious; in principle they are over-interpretations—according to the mechanized verdict of the vigilant intellect that hires out to stupidity as a watchdog against the mind. Out of fear of negativity, the subject’s efforts to penetrate what hides behind the facade  under the name of objectivity are branded as irrelevant. It’s much simpler than that, we are told. The person who interprets instead of accepting what is given and classifying it is marked with the yellow star of one who squanders his intelligence in impotent speculation, reading things in where there is nothing to interpret. A man with his feet on the ground or a man with his head in the clouds—those are the alternatives. But letting oneself be terrorized by the prohibition against saying more than was meant right then and there means complying with the false conceptions that people and things harbor concerning themselves. Interpretation then becomes nothing but removing an outer shell to find what the author wanted to say, or possibly the individual psychological impulses to which the phenomenon points. but since it is scarcely possible to determine what someone may have though or felt at any particular point, nothing essential is to be gained through such insights. The author’s impulses are extinguished in the objective substance they seize hold of. In order to be disclosed, however, the objective wealth of meanings encapsulated in every intellectual phenomenon demands of the recipient the same spontaneity of subjective fantasy that is castigated in the name of objective discipline. Nothing can be interpreted out of something that is not interpreted into it at the same time. the criteria for such interpretations are its compatibility with the text and with itself, and its power to give voice to the elements of the object in conjunction with one another. In this, the essay has something like an aesthetic autonomy that is easily accused of being simply derived from art, although it is distinguished from art by its medium, concepts, and by its claim to a truth devoid of aesthetic semblance. Lukács failed to recognize this when he called the essay an art form in a letter to Leo Popper that introduces Soul and Form. [3] But the positivist maxim according to which what is written about art may in no way lay claim to artistic presentation, that is, autonomy of form, is not better. Here as elsewhere, the general positivist tendency to set every possible object, as an object of research, in stark opposition to the subject, does not go beyond mere separation of form and content—for one can hardly speak of aesthetic matters unaesthetically, devoid of resemblance to the subject matter, without falling into philistinism and losing touch with the object a priori. In positivist practice, the content, once fixed on the model of the protocol sentence, is supposed to be neutral with respect to its presentation, which is supposed to be conventional and not determined by the subject. To the instinct of scientific purism, every expressive impulse in the presentation jeopardizes an objectivity that supposedly leaps forth when the subject has been removed. It thereby jeopardizes the authenticity of the object, which is all the better established the less it relies on support from the form, despite the fact that the criterion of from is whether it delivers the object pure and without admixture. In its allergy to forms as mere accidental attributes, the spirit of science and scholarship [Wissenschaft] comes to resemble that of rigid dogmatism. Positivism’s irresponsibly sloppy language fancies that it documents responsibility in its object, and reflection on intellectual matters becomes the privilege of the mindless.

Non of these offspring of resentment are pure falsehood. If the essay declines to begin by deriving cultural works from something underlying them, it embroils itself all too eagerly in the cultural enterprise promoting the prominence, success, and prestige of marketable products. Fictionalized biographies and all the related commercial writing that depend on them are not mere products of degeneration; they are a permanent temptation for a form whose suspiciousness of false profundity does not protect it form turning into slick superficiality. This can be seen even in Sainte-Beuve, from whom the genre of the modern essay derives. In products like Herbert Eulenberg’s biographical silhouettes, the German prototype of a flood of cultural trash, and down to films about Rembrandt, Toulouse-Lautrec and the Bible, this involvements has promoted the neutralization of cultural works to commodities, a process that in recent intellectual history has irresistibly taken hold of what the Eastern bloc ignominiously calls “the heritage.” The process is perhaps most obvious in Stefan Zweig, who produced several sophisticated essays in his youth and ended up descending to the psychology of the creative individual in his book on Balzac. This kind of writing does not criticize abstract fundamental concepts, aconceptual data, or habituated cliches; instead, it presupposes them, implicitly but by the same token with all the more complicity. The refuse of interpretive psychology is fused with current categories from the Weltanschauung of the cultural philistine, categories like “personality” or “the irrational.” Such essays confuse themselves with the same feuilleton with which the enemies of the essay from confuse it. Forcibly separated from the discipline of academic unfreedom, intellectual freedom itself becomes unfree and serves the socially performed needs of its clientele. Irresponsibility, itself an aspect of all truth that does not exhaust itself in responsibility to the status quo, then justifies itself to the needs of established consciousness; bad essays are just as conformist as bad dissertations. Responsibility, however, respects not only authorities and committees, but also the object itself.

[1] Georg Lukács, “On the Nature and Form of the Essay,” in Soul and Form, translated by Anna Bostock, p. 13.

[2] Ibid. p. 10: “The essay is always concerned with something already formed, or at best, with something that has been; it is part of its essence that it does not draw something new out of an empty vacuum, but only gives a new order to such things as once lived. And because he only newly orders them, not forming something new out of the formless, he is bound to them; he must always speak ‘the truth’ about them, find, that is, the expression of their essence.”

[3] Cf. ibid., pp. 1 - 18.

[homespork-review]

Homespork Act 2: The Racism of the Conductor’s Baton (Part 1)

Years in the future, but not many…

TIER: Now what in the heck is this I wonder?

BRIGHT: ...the reader wonders what’s going on now, as we jump to a sun-bleached desert with a Wayward Vagabond wandering across it.

CHEL: Here, we introduce another count:

WHAT IS HAPPENING??: 1

Should the baffling developments to which this count is applied be explained satisfactorily later, we’ll take the points off, but we use the counts in the present to express how one feels on seeing them for the first time. Even if it does get explained later, I feel like this is oddly placed, especially since it doesn’t get explored in any detail here. Mileage may vary, though.

FAILURE ARTIST: I think when I first encountered this upd8 I didn’t click on the link.

BRIGHT: Thankfully - and unexpectedly - this state of affairs only lasts a page, and then we return to something associated with the storyline so far: Rose Lalonde has started a game walkthrough of SBurb. After spending quite a few words to say that she will be brief, she explains that installing the game is bringing about the end of the world.

Then she takes a couple more paragraphs to express her condolences and reassure everyone that it was all inevitable anyway.

CHEL: Not a case of HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING, as I considered briefly - writing the FAQ is about the only thing she can do in the circumstances. Warning people not to play the game won’t help now, since enough people have already started that the resulting meteors are going to destroy the Earth anyway. All anyone can do now is set up their own session and hope to escape through it, and all Rose can do to help is advise them in the hopes some succeed. Sucks for all the people in the world who don’t have a computer, though, but the apocalypse isn’t exactly supposed to be fair.

FAILURE ARTIST: Amidst her purple prose she uses the r-slur. It’s one thing reading John or TG say it, it’s another thing with her.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 5

BRIGHT: Over on the next page, John has survived! As has his house, and his father, although there are eyes peering out from under the bed...and through the kitchen door...oh, yeah, and the house is now perched atop a rocky crag in a dark sky.

FAILURE ARTIST: That’s a good atmospheric animation. The next animation doesn’t have the [S] for sound but it’s longer than a couple seconds. I probably accidentally clicked next when I first saw it.

Next, we get a new voice: some mysterious insistent prompter who calls John “BOY”. We’ll find out later who this person is.

CHEL: I’d say this doesn’t earn a WHAT IS HAPPENING point because we’re used to John obeying prompts. It’s curious that the style has changed, but not completely confusing.

FAILURE ARTIST: Next comes the first walkaround game! The reader moves John via the mouse, arrow keys, or the WASD keys. When you click on certain objects, a little yellow box comes up with messages clearly from the mysterious prompter. If you click that box, John’s opinions come in a green-lined box. You can walk around the whole house and backyard - except for John’s father’s room.

Since this is an interactive game, you can go in whatever order you want, but for the sake of summarizing, let’s go by the order in the printed edition.

John surveys the balcony. The prompter wants you to “do something with” what it calls the “ghost clown” and John explains that ghost clown is the kernelsprite and the Sburb server player is supposed to be the one to prototype it. Meanwhile, the kernelsprite spouts wingding.

John goes down the hallway. Dad’s room is locked so John goes to the bathroom. He notes that Rose did a “piss-poor” job of fixing the bathroom. He wonders if he could just pee over the cliff. Thankfully, this never happens.

John goes into his bedroom. It’s a mess. The door has been ripped off the hinge and there’s black goo everywhere. John is annoyed at the mess but begrudgingly admits Rose saved his life. John (or the reader) takes the time to look at the posters.

The prompter doesn’t like Little Monsters anymore than TG but John wishes he could hang out with Fred Savage. John’s wish to hang out with candy-corn-horn monsters could be considered foreshadowing and Hussie jokes about it being that but Hussie probably didn’t have trolls in mind at that point. Clicking the Con Air poster elicits the question “IS THAT JOHN CUSACK?” from the prompter. When we find out who the prompter is, it will make little sense they would recognize John Cusack, but the actor is a universal constant. Clicking the Ghostbusters 2 poster, we find out TG calls the film “nasty manbro bukkake theater” and poor innocent John doesn’t know what that means. It’s rather disturbing that TG does know. (CALL CPA PLEASE?)

CHEL: Not sure. At that age with access to the internet I picked up a bunch of obscene words without actually seeing the material they applied to. Then again, this is TG, and considering his later-seen home life it’s quite possible he didn’t just get curious on Urban Dictionary, so…

CALL CPA PLEASE: 1

FAILURE ARTIST: He examines the totem lathe, which the prompter calls a “sewing machine”, and wonders if other punch cards will make other shapes.

If you click on the computer, you see Rose is trying to get in touch with John. He ignores her for now.

John leaves the bedroom and makes his way down the stairs. Both he and the prompter hate all the harlequin art, but John does like the crude bust sitting on the floor.

The Cruxtruder is still in the middle of the room with its lid open. When you click on the lid, the prompter commands John to reseal the opening and John says “Pandora’s tube” has been opened, which is awfully literary for him. When you click on the Cruxtruder itself, the prompter demands John push it and exit the house. John says he can’t without grist and comes close to dropping the comic’s name.

When you click on the urn, the prompter commands John to topple it. John refuses, saying he’d never do that… at least intentionally. If you click on the portrait above the urn of Nanna, John wishes for her wisdom.

The prompter calls the doors to the kitchen “like you see in a cowboy saloon”, a turn-of-phrase that will be weird when we find out who the prompter is.

So John goes into the kitchen. There’s lots of black goo around and an orphaned bowl of cake batter, but no Dad. The black goo is apparently oil. John wishes for his father back. If you click on Colonel Sassacre’s book, John declares that both it and WISE GUY are his “favoritest book”. The prompter wants John to eat some of the Betty Crocker cake mix but John calls Betty Crocker a “wench”. This is the start of John’s feud with Betty Crocker. On the fridge is a primitive drawing of Slimer that John drew at the tender age of almost thirteen. This won’t be the only picture on a fridge we see. There’s board games in the kitchen cabinet, a callback to Death’s games in Problem Sleuth and also a weird place to put board games. If you click on the kitchen phone, you find out the prompter does know what a telephone is, but this phone doesn’t work.

Through the door is a laundry room, but both John and the prompter agree there’s no time for that. Note that the prompter knows what washer and dryer machines are.

Next, John goes into the backyard. The prompter wants John to fiddle with the live wires and John wisely refuses. John checks what the prompter calls a “wall-mounted gadget” (electric meter) and discovers the house is still powered. How come the prompter is familiar with so many electrical devices but doesn’t know about live wires and electric meters? In his commentary, Hussie does note that this is strange.

CHEL: To be fair, “magic” is a legitimate power source in this world.

FAILURE ARTIST: From the tree hangs a pair of trick handcuffs over the void and the prompter wants John to claim them. The prompter seems to be out to get John killed.

John goes back into the house (via what the prompter calls the “luncheon parlor”) and goes to the piano room. If you click on the huge mural, John says Cirque du Soleil filed a restraining order on Dad. I think Hussie once said it was because Dad tried to shave a performer. The prompter wants John to “consume nut” (again with the death!)...

CHEL: “Consume nut”? *immature snickering*

FAILURE ARTIST: ...but John says there’s probably no hospitals in this dark realm. If you click on the piano, the sheet music for Showtime pops up and that songs plays instead of the constant wind noise. Maybe you should visit this room first. There’s a safe in this room but John doesn’t know the combination.

Though Dad seems obsessed with clowns, we’ll later find out something that turns that on its head. However, Hussie does have his own interest in clowns, having once created a comic about a hapless circus clown named Whistles.

According to the book commentary, the entire walkaround game took less than twenty-four hours to draw, write, and program. Still looks good. That wind noise does get awfully annoying.

CHEL: The walkaround game is also the original source of “Trickster Mode”, an Easter egg in the Flash in which Hussie’s face floats on the screen and John looks like this:

Speculation ran rampant in fanfic and art for years, usually involving the “Tricksters” being the Superpowered Evil Sides of the kids. This isn’t quite how it turned out when Trickster Mode appeared again (much to my disappointment, I admit, I liked those), but that’s for much, much later in the comic.

John and Rose chat again. John can’t find his dad. Rose explains that John and his house have been transported to a mysterious somewhere which saved him from the meteor impact that destroyed his neighbourhood. Her research has turned up many similar collisions across the world, getting bigger with time, and the two conclude that the objective of the game must be to stop the meteors and save the world. There’s a rather cute bit of dialogue where Rose wishes John happy birthday and mentions her gift to him is in progress, and she helps him retrieve his father’s PDA from the precipice for portable internet.

FAILURE ARTIST: In Andrew Hussie’s annotation, he says this conversation made fans see the two as a “shippable commodity” (Hussie’s exact phrase) but compares them to shipping Colonel Sassacre/Pogo Ride.

CHEL: I’m pretty sure he was being facetious there, especially given that equally weird ships are actually canon, but the worse parts of the fandom latched onto it and John/Rose shippers get a lot of shit, mostly from people who ship Rose with girls. People who ship John with boys seem a lot more mellow about it. That’s Tumblr for you.

FAILURE ARTIST: On Dad’s PDA, you can see a chatroom called SERIOUS BUSINESS where a FedoraFreak is updating everyone on his rescue of his wardrobe from a house fire. FedoraFreak’s story doesn’t end here. While he doesn’t ever appear on screen his conversation can be seen on the PDA a few times later and at the end a character exposits important backstory to him before he passes away. Andrew Hussie brought up FedoraFreak a lot on his defunct Formspring with facts that like many of his answers on that site might be just taking the piss.

CHEL: John is now starting to notice the mysterious commands in his head, and attempts to refuse to follow them further; the cut back to the Wayward Vagabond immediately afterwards shows that he’s the one giving the commands by way of a strange-looking console. The console has four screens, three dark, one showing John. Now he’s starting to seem a lot less random, though we still don’t know much about him. If it was up to me I might have used this as his introduction instead of the first page with him that we got. He’s wrapped in rags but we can see enough of him to know that he doesn’t look human - his fingers are sharply pointed, his eyes are tiny and beady, he has no hair, and his flesh is stark black. Admittedly he doesn’t look a lot less like a real human than the stylised sprites of the human characters do, but you see what I mean, he doesn’t fit the appearance they have.

FAILURE ARTIST: I like this reveal of Wayward Vagabond, though I think again my first read I didn’t click the link. I don’t know why it’s a link and not a panel.

CHEL: Rose’s FAQ further explains what was demonstrated earlier, warning users not to activate the Cruxtruder until they’re ready to start the countdown. Once it is activated, it produces “cruxite dowels”, cylinders of mysterious material, which can be used in conjunction with the “Totem Lathe”, the “Alchemiter”, and special punchcards to produce objects from nothing, which will prove useful, though honestly I don’t know why they need to put the punchcard through the Totem Lathe and then the totem in the Alchemiter. I feel a step could be eliminated there in the design of these machines.

Unfortunately the FAQ also contains this line, and I don’t mean it’s unfortunate because Rose making typos is OOC:

Removing the lid signals the moment your life becomes a great whirling batshit pandemonium, somewhat resembling the chaos of an especially ethnic wedding. Somewhere, a soused uncle deliberately shatters china on the floor. Muddy livestock is decorated, and then lost track of. The question “Who’s mule is this?” at times can be heard over the din. CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 6 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 3

FAILURE ARTIST: Oh wow. Guess there’s a lot hidden in these easy-to-skip parts.

CHEL: Rose herself is still in the observatory, watching the storm outside and the flaming collisions of meteors in the distance. Her laptop battery is running low, the house’s electricity is out, and the fire is getting closer, but there’s a backup generator behind the backyard mausoleum. While she has time, she tries to help John by prototyping the sprite for a second time, but it dodges the various items she tries to put in it, until Nanna’s ashes are knocked over a second time, directly onto it.

FAILURE ARTIST: I think it is said later that the prototyping is drawn to dead things. While the Betty Crocker box would be very interesting considering the mythology that later develops around that marketing icon, obviously the sprite would chose Nanna’s ashes.

CHEL: The Colonel Sassacre book has some importance in the lore, too. We’ll see that when more backstory is revealed.

The sprite disappears, but as John searches for an escape route from the house to retrieve the second CD-ROM, we see it again, slightly changed…

TG messages John and still seems pretty calm about John’s reports of weird happenings, coming out with a pretty entertaining rap about the situation. I still always giggle at “afflecks saclifice, i mean -crifice, would have to sufflice. aw fluck it”.

TG: ill have to make a rap about TG: i dont know TG: morgan freeman or something TG: being the president TG: itll be called TG: "obama made it so that no one gives a shit about black presidents in movies anymore" WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 4

FAILURE ARTIST: Fanon makes TG a great rapper but he really sucks and the only time he doesn’t (and in fact is the best in paradox space) we don’t actually get to read it.

CHEL: Probably that’s because the fans saying he’s great can’t rap any better. I know his rapping is a lot better than any I could do - for one thing he’s able to come up with one at all that quickly. I mean, yes, he does use words like “derangerous” in it, but I listen to a band who tried to rhyme “plane” with “California”.

FAILURE ARTIST: Good point. I can’t rap either.

CHEL: Is this a Problematykks point? I don’t think black people are the butt of the joke exactly, but…

Anyway. John stands on the balcony and Rose lifts the car from its precarious position on a spike of ground over the abyss, with the intention that John can break the window to retrieve the second part of the game, but just as he almost reaches it, her connection is lost, and the car plummets out of view below the clouds beneath the house.

FAILURE ARTIST: “The loss of any Dodge Dart is a terrible thing.”

CHEL: While checking his PDA, John is messaged by GG again! She’s surprised when he knows the explosion near her house was a meteor. Fortunately she’s unharmed, and mildly surprised but encouraging when John explains. Since he can’t reach Rose, John decides he has to get TG involved; TG is still rap-typing, and John’s reaction of “aaaaaarrrgh!” is pretty appropriate. John tells TG he has to use the game to save Rose, but TG’s lost his copy, and his brother apparently won’t be happy about TG borrowing his.

Rose gathers up her stuff to head out to the backup generator. Attempting to use her Grimoire for Summoning the Zoologically Dubious in her strife specibus results in this creepiness, so instead she uses her knitting needles. Some pages are spent consulting the Grimoire anyway, introducing the reader to the NOBLE CIRCLE OF HORRORTERRORS and some diagrams of what appear to be windows.

FAILURE ARTIST: Problem Sleuth had weird teleporting window shenanigans so this is a callback to that.

Rose goes outside briefly and thinks of a T.S. Eliot quote (“April is the cruellest month..”) that she attributes to Charles Barkley. Misattributed quotes are a running gag in this comic but for all we know in this verse maybe Charles Barkley did say that.

CHEL: She re-enters the house and prepares to risk confrontation with her mother…

And suddenly we jump to TG.

FAILURE ARTIST: Insufferable Prick Dave, unlike John and Rose, doesn’t simply shake his head disapprovingly at the joke name but takes out his sword and slices the box. He has a strong sense of self. Strider was probably a Lord of the Rings reference but Andrew Hussie didn’t come up with the names. He only chose them.

Like I said earlier, Dave Strider is sort of an author avatar for Andrew Hussie. Dave and Andrew have a similar sense of humor, similar bodies of work, and perhaps similar neuroses.

Dave’s introduction lists a few interests that never really come up again. He is said to like BANDS NO ONE’S HEARD OF BUT [HIM] but we never hear of these bands either. Andrew Hussie in the printed book bemoans that he never got around to talking about that interest. He collects WEIRD DEAD THINGS IN JARS but besides creating one abomination this collection never amounts to anything. He even lampshades his forgotten interests much later.

CHEL: The other kids at least get something made of their interests; John’s bad movies come up a lot and are the starting topic of a later important conversation, and Rose and GG’s interests are relevant to their game powers. Dave’s, well… The swords are his favoured weapon, but swordplay is much more of his brother’s interest than his, which is thematically appropriate, but leaves Dave’s own interests rather out of the spotlight.

Dave has a very cramped-looking room with furniture made of boards and cinderblocks and a bed which appears to merely be two mattresses stacked together. When the prompts bring up the game, he has the game in his possession and claims to have no intention of playing it, showing this is a flashback.

FAILURE ARTIST: Dave looks in his closet and finds the box his 13th birthday present from John came in plus a jar full of a yellow substance. John had given him shades worn by Ben Stiller in a movie and while the movie isn’t named it is the 2004 remake of Starsky & Hutch featuring the comedic duo Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson. That movie appears in Problem Sleuth and much much later Stiller and Wilson become part of Homestuck’s mythology.

Meanwhile, the jar full of a yellow substance is not what you think.

CHEL: He browses the internet for a while, showing his satirical reviews of GameBro magazine, and introducing one of the comic’s favourite running gags, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff.

SBaHJ is something of a legend even outside the Stuckosphere. Hussie originally drew it as a parody of bad two-gamers-on-a-couch webcomics, intentionally using terrible art, terrible dialogue, confusing layouts, and non-sequitur “jokes”. It proved popular, so he turned it into an entire comic strip, getting steadily worse with each entry. It… well, go check it out, words can’t really do it justice. Be warned that there is some graphic and disturbing content including incest, scat, gore, and bestiality, albeit all drawn so poorly it’s kind of hard to tell what one is looking at.

FAILURE ARTIST: Not just a general parody, it was in response to this guy on the Penny Arcade forum who wanted to learn just enough art to make a two-gamers-on-a-couch webcomic and refused to listen to people who told him he’d have to learn the basics.

CHEL: In-universe, the comic is drawn by Dave, who has “legions of devoted fans, most of whom are totally convinced of your creative persona's sincerity. Which is just how you like it.” Dave’s devotion to the concept of “irony” is a major part of his character; he hides behind “irony” as his reason for doing almost everything, up to and including liking his birthday present.

We then see a few pages from the fictional webcomic John also liked, depicting the Midnight Crew. While this could be interesting and relevant (you’ll see why soon), it would be more so at a point when we weren’t waiting for one of the main characters to be rescued from a meteor strike and/or massive fire.

GET ON WITH IT!: 4

FAILURE ARTIST: That is a lot of panels just to spend watching a character read a webcomic, even considering the importance of the webcomic.

CHEL: And while we’re at it, I’m assigning another point for posting Dave’s first conversation with John again. The reader might need a reminder of what was said, yes, but the magic of the internet means it would be possible to provide a link back to that page rather than making archive bingers read the same thing twice.

GET ON WITH IT!: 5

The new conversation he has with Rose is entertaining and establishes their relationship of mutual friendly snark very well, though.

TG: if you ever find yourself in the position where your life depends on me playing that piece of shit game, then ill play

Unwise words, Dave.

We briefly cut back to John, who finds another mysterious trail of oil in his house, and whiplash back to Dave. This might be an issue of the webcomic format again; in a webcomic, it’s reasonable to occasionally remind the readers that yes, this character’s still there and still doing things. In a book or in an archive binge, it’s a little jarring, but if the former applies that’s not really the writer’s fault.

Back at Dave’s, there’s a Flash DJ game on Dave’s fancy mixing equipment (much nicer than anything else in the room, as we’ll discuss further later), on which Dave accidentally spills his bottle of what despite John’s comments is definitely apple juice. He emerges from his room to fetch a towel, and now we see some clearer hints of the weirdness of his home. In the short trip to the bathroom we see two marionettes, created out of photo collages in jarring contrast to Dave’s sprite self, one overlooking the hallway and one hanging in the shower. Dave, meanwhile, cleans up the juice and hangs the soaked CD-ROM envelopes up at his window to dry. Despite his remembering to turn off the electric fan so they don’t get blown out, the game discs naturally end up going out the window anyway in somewhat more unusual fashion; specifically, a crow flies in and randomly steals them. Dave’s attempts to stop the bird result in sylladex shenanigans, causing his katana to fly out, impale the bird, and send it and the game discs crashing through the window.

[saturninefilms]

What’s the one thing you would like to change about yourself today and why? Spotify, SoundCloud, or Pandora?

For specific songlists, Spotify.  For random songs to blot the silence, Pandora.  Never Soundcloud. 2. is your room messy or clean?

It’s hard for my room to be messy when it’s literally just a bed and four walls.  My room is neither.  It’s just empty.

3. what color are your eyes?

Sometimes blue, sometimes green.

4. do you like your name? why?

I like it when both of my names are put together. “Cody Weber” sounds nice to me.  I like the double syllable sounds when combined to make four.  When I think of my first name on it’s own, though, and I suddenly don’t like it at all.

To me, “Cody” is the name of a child.  He’s getting yelled at by his mom for straying too far away from the designated play areas and is pretending as if he’s not listening.  For some reason, my name just doesn’t strike as one that belongs to a thirty year old man.  It was applicable when I was five.  At thirty, it makes me feel puerile.  5. what is your relationship status?

Jaded beyond repair. 6. describe your personality in 3 words or less

Up to you. 7. what color hair do you have?

Blonde 8. what kind of car do you drive? color?

A majestic, white 2006 Ford Taurus.  She used to get me all around the country without a hiccup, but she’s become stubborn in her old age and now only starts when she feels particularly inclined. 9. where do you shop? Thrift stores and the internet. 10. how would you describe your style? Pay attention to me, but only for a second and then knock it off. 11. favorite social media Used to be Tumblr until they got rid of the porn.  Now it’s probably Snapchat. 12. what size bed do you have? Queen without the queen. 13. any siblings? Cheyanne, Dakota, Jake. 14. if you can live anywhere in the world where would it be? why? I romanticize Italy, but I have no idea if I’d actually love it as much as I think I would.  Nothing more beautiful than an Italian woman.  No food better than good Italian cuisine.  And the scenery seems breathtaking.  Would I actually like it, though?  Who knows. As far as places that I’ve actually been to and enjoyed, I wouldn’t mind living in New Orleans again.  Seattle was really nice.  If I had unlimited funds, I’d probably just go to LA, though.  That’s where all my favorite stuff happens. 15. favorite snapchat filter?  It’s always the one that exists for a day and then is randomly removed.  OH, BUT WE CAN HAVE THE STUPID DOG FILTER IN PERPETUITY, THOUGH. 16. how many times a week do you shower? 8-10. 17. favorite tv show? Right now, it’s KIDDING.  Brilliant show.

18. shoe size? 12. 19. how tall are you? 6′2.  Thanks Quackenbush genetics, by the way, because I’d be 5′4 or less otherwise.  I find it eternally impressive that my dad (a relatively short dude) impressed my mom (a relatively tall woman) to dig him.  No easy feat. 20.  sandals or sneakers? Boots. 21. do you go to the gym? If it wasn’t $400 annually, I definitely would.  But alas, that’s too rich for my blood. 22. describe your dream date. At this point in my life, I have 0 desire to even go on a date. 23. how much money do you have in your wallet at the moment?

Enough to feed myself.  Not enough to do anything fun. 24. what color socks are you wearing? Black. 25. how many pillows do you sleep with? One big one that the internet swore would help me sleep more soundly.  Spent like $100 on the damn thing and have experienced no difference. 26. do you have a job? what do you do? I use my camera.  I sling drinks. 27. how many friends do you have? More than I’ve ever had before, that’s for certain. 28. whats the worst thing you have ever done? It would be easier for me to compile a list of things I’m proud to have done.  Most of my time is spent being ashamed of one thing or another. 29. whats your favorite candle scent? I like the ones that smell like faux-forest. I hate the ones that smell like cinnamon. 30. favorite actor? Jim Carrey, Daniel Day-Lewis, Tom Hanks 31. favorite actress? Kate Winslet 32. who is your celebrity crush? Emmy Rossum.  She could get it. 33. favorite movie? Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind 34. do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? Yes, words are my favorite things in the world.  Favorite book is “Downtown Owl” by Chuck Klosterman and my favorite collection of poems is “What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire” by Charles Bukowski. 35. money or brains? I’ve dated rich girls.  I’ve dated smart girls. Consensus: Rich girls suck.  Smart girls know how to murder you without even trying. Can I try a pretty, poor girl that’s sweet and thoughtful?  Haven’t had that yet. 36. do you have a nickname? what is it? Some people affectionately refer to me as, “that fuckin’ prick.”  It’s really sweet. 37. how many times have you been to the hospital? Do people keep track of this kind of thing?  A lot when I was a kid.  Since insurance stopped being a thing, though, and only a handful. 38.  top 10 favorite songs I can’t do this for all-time lists because I love way too many songs for way too many reasons.  My top-ten AS OF THIS MOMENT list is as such, though. 1. LCD Soundsystem - I Can Change 2. Rex Orange County - Loving Is Easy 3. Two Feet - Had Some Drinks 4. Token - Flamingo Video Shoot 5. Joyner Lucas - I Love (ADHD) 6. Mac Miller - Objects In The Mirror 7. Bring Me The Horizon - Wonderful Life 8. The Taxpayers - I Love You Like An Alcoholic 9. Flora Cash - You’re Somebody Else 10. Benjamin Tod - Hungry For You Blues 39. do you take any medications daily? Albuterol for the asthma.  Cortizone 10 for the eczema. 40. what is your skin type? (oily, dry, etc) Painfully, utterly dry year round. 41. what is your biggest fear? At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I feel like I’ve already experienced most things I’m afraid of.  Chances are, if I fear it, the reason is because I know it’s going to happen at some point. 42. whats your go to hair style? Arrogantly disheveled.  43. what type of house do you live in? (big, small, etc) I still want to live in an RV and travel around at my leisure.  That’s the dream. 44. who is your role model? I don’t idolize anyone. 45. what was the last compliment you received? “You’re talented and I hate you.” - some dude at the bar. 46. what was the last text you sent? “Tomorrow would be fine.”  47. how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real? I never got a chance to believe in Santa.  My grandma told me the whole thing was a lie when I was real young. 48. what is your dream car? Tesla’s seem like they’re moving in the direction of the future.  Probably one of them. 49. opinion on smoking? It’s fucking retarded and I can’t stop. 50. do you go to college? You know how stupid people will always tell you that they have “street smarts” because they weren’t formally educated and don’t want to feel excluded intellectually? Yeah, I got street smarts. 51. what is your dream job? DEAREST full time, on the road, playing venues and bars and festivals. 52. would you rather live in rural areas or the suburbs? It doesn’t make much of a difference to me.  When I live in the suburbs, I wish I lived rural.  When rural, I wish that I was around more people.  Can’t be pleased, this guy. 52. do you take shampoo and conditioner bottles from hotels? Nah, because I usually use them AT the hotel.  When a hotel feels particularly special, though, I’ll keep the room key.  I have a useless key from a Best Value Inn from April of 2017 that I’ll never get rid of, for instance, and another one from a bougie hotel in New Orleans.  Not sure why I do it, other than the fact that I’m absolutely 100% an emotive pack-rat. 53. do you have freckles? I have one on the left side of my face due to falling asleep on a Florida beach in 2016.  I thought it was cancer for a while.  One time, I was seeing a girl and she said it was her favorite feature on my face.  Mostly, I forget it’s there unless it’s pointed out. 54.  do you smile for pictures? Not if I can help it. 55. how many pictures do you have on your phone? I don’t know, a couple thousand? 56. have you ever peed in the woods? I piss outside whenever I can.  There’s something primitive and carnal about it.  If I get the chance, I’ll be peeing outside. 57. do you still watch cartoons? F Is For Family is one of my favorite shows at the moment. 58. do you prefer chicken nuggets from Wendy’s or McDonalds? I’m not a big nugget guy.  Gimme a Baconator.  59. Favorite dipping sauce? Sriracha.  60. what do you wear to bed? Nothing, usually. 61.  have you ever won a spelling bee? I got really close a couple times in my formative years. 62. what are your hobbies? photos, writing, music, videos, destroying myself from the inside out like a dying star, listening to sad songs that will only make me more sad because I’m not a smart man. 63. can you draw? Only parallels.  64. do you play an instrument? Drums, guitar, bass, synth, and I’m trying to learn to sing better.  I wish I could play the piano. 65.  what was the last concert you saw? Every Time I Die in Iowa City. 66. tea or coffee? Tea is just fancy sink water.  Coffee 100 times out of 100. 67. Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts? Cafe Paradiso. 68. do you want to get married? I do not see that in my future, nah.  Too jaded. 69. what is your crush’s first and last initial? I don’t have one.  Emmy Rossum could still get it, though. 70. are you going to change your last name when you get married? Even if I were to ever get married, I don’t think I’d ever change my name, no.  I’m not new-age or enlightened enough for that. 71. what color looks best on you? White. 72. do you miss anyone right now? Sure. 73. do you sleep with your door open or closed? What kind of idiot sleeps with the door open?  Gross. 74. do you believe in ghosts? Only the ones that live inside your head. 75. what is your biggest pet peeve? When someone spills something on a carpet and scrubs the substance out.  Something about that just makes me squirm.  76. last person you called? My mom.  She didn’t answer. 77. favorite ice cream flavor? Chocolate. 78. regular oreos or golden oreos? Golden Oreos are an abomination from God and I don’t trust anybody that prefers them over the original. 79. chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? Sprinkles are fucking useless. 80. what shirt are you wearing? A blue sweater. 81. what is your phone background? Whatever came on it when I bought it. 82. are you outgoing or shy? 1-4 Drinks - Shy 4+ Drinks - Outgoing as fuck. 83. do you like it when people play with your hair? If in the right context, sure.  Laying in bed as I’m falling asleep?  Totally appropriate.  At 1:30 AM while I’m trying to have a conversation with somebody at the bar?  Fuck off with that shit. 84. do you like your neighbors? One of them saved our dog when he chewed a layer of fence out and got his neck stuck.  I like him. 85. do you wash your face? at night? in the morning? Is face-washing not a normal thing or something? 86. have you ever been high? lol. 87. have you ever been drunk? LOL. 88. last thing you ate? Domino’s Pizza, last night. 89. favorite lyric right now? “I used to promise you I'd keep you out my lyrics You’re gonna hate me even more when you hear this.“ 90. summer or winter? Winter sucks.  Summer’s nice. 91. day or night? The part of morning when day and night look exactly the same. 92. dark, milk, or white chocolate? Milk.  I’m an American, baby. 93. favorite month? April. 94. what is your zodiac sign? Virgo, but it’s all nonsense that means nothing. 95. who was the last person you cried in front of? Someone that shouldn’t have sat witness to it. 96.  what did your last relationship teach you? Love can be enough, too much, and not enough all at the same time depending on your vantage point.

97.  what’s the one thing you would like to change about yourself today and why? I wish  I was less cynical.  It’s my least favorite human characteristic and something I struggle with as a defining characteristic for myself. 98.  which fictional character do you believe is the most like yourself? Joel in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. 99.  what are your beliefs on god? I don’t believe she exists and have a bone to pick with her if she does. 100.  do you usually follow your heart or your head? heart always wins and it never should.