#Chrome Catacomb

[wickedzeevyln]

✮ Orpheus ✮

The alarm blared as another sector of Neonova’s neural grid collapsed. My fingers flew across the console, my skin gummy from sweat slithering down my forehead and dripping all over the buttons. Around me, the Control Spire trembled. Guts grating inside. The error codes are lambent, pulsating making me wheeze through my nostrils. The holograms of the city’s heartbeat flatlining into jagged red…

[leejenowrld]

hii! can we please get a spoiler for part 3?

soo excited to read the next chapter!

~🫀

in all honesty i am (and will be) more cautious about giving out spoilers because there’s a lot of unexpected things that will happen in part three and i don’t wanna ruin it and a lot of the time i lowkey don’t get reactions when i post and it makes me quite upset … but i will give you a little spoiler cos i remember your ask yesterday and it truly did cheer me up.

The promise sits in your chest like a swallowed shard of glass, you’d sacrifice bone, breath, heaven itself for your little girl, yet the calendar crawls forward, toward the night when fluorescent light curdles into rot white moonlight and the NICU mutates into a cathedral of dread. You stand there, pulse drumming like a trapped moth, bargaining with gods who will not look up from their ledgers while machines pour hollow music into the dark; plastic tubing hangs from chrome hooks like nooses, monitors blink a malignant Morse code, and every vent hiss sounds like a blade being whetted. Haeun’s body curls boneless in your lap, too heavy and limp, yet her smallness feels monstrous—her warmth leaching away, her limbs tangled around you like the ghost of a promise you can’t hold tight enough. She clings to you, fingers tangled in your hair, damp breath trembling against your ear as she murmurs in broken toddler syllables, “no go, Mama, stay wif me, pwease, pinky pwomise… Mama home, Mama don’t leave me,” each word a moth’s wing scorching in the sterile light.

Hospital beds aren’t made for two, but you pull her into your arms anyway, every part of her clinging, breath shaky, eyes wide and shining with old tears. She presses her face to your neck, voice small and scared, “Mama, I ‘fraid… monster come? You got owie too? We both hurt?” Her hands grab at your shirt, patting your cheek, checking for blood or bruises the way she’s seen the nurses do.

You stroke her back, humming, “Mama’s here, baby, right here. I’ll hold you, always.”

She nods, sniffles, clings even tighter, “Don’t go ‘way, Mama. Stay. I stay wif you, kay? No let monster get us. Snug, snug.” You kiss her lips before she hides under your chin, thumb in her mouth, whispering, “Wuv you, Mama. You my best girl, I so happy you here.” Even in the hush, with danger scratching at the glass, she’s braver because you’re there—because you’re holding each other, safe for now, in the smallest world two hearts can make.

Her wrists are thin ribbons, pulse a stuttering echo under your thumb, and you feel the slow bleed of her life like ink seeping through gauze; every beat falters, softer, softer, until it sounds like snow falling on a coffin lid. You beg, throat raw—stay, sunshine, fight, breathe—but her voice gutters to a ragged hum, the lullaby of a dying star. “We go ‘gether, no be scawed, hold tight.” She presses sticky kisses to your cheek, blood-warm and frantic, and you know the moment her soul loosens because the room exhales, lights flicker, and the shadow at the ceiling’s edge opens its jaws. You lay your life on her altar without hesitation—heart offered like meat—yet discover the universe is a butcher that accepts every sacrifice and still demands interest; you follow her into the blackout, fingers laced, stepping through the curtain where heartbeat ends, believing love can cheat entropy. Behind you, Jaemin crumples into a silhouette made of salt and ash, pacing hallways that now buzz like fly-ridden catacombs, his voice a hollow bell tolling names no one answers. The future had been sharpening its teeth for months, each sleepless night a lick, each prayer a whetstone and now it bites clean through, leaving nothing but echoing corridors, cold sheets, and a Father and a Partner wandering like a revenant in the ruins of a promise carved from blood.

[lcb2-radiohead]

We got quite the whiplash going down to the next floor.

From a torchlit catacomb to a bright and spacious interior resembling a home of some kind. Plush carpets and carved wooden tables and rich, earthy colors. It all had a sweeping, organic design. Masks as decoration on every wall. And everywhere, brand new appliances of plastic and chrome that. Several Sinners gasped at the contrast. It was like someone's idealized vision of the future that, from my understanding, never existed in this city.

"Oh, this is beautiful!" Diaochan said. "I could lounge here all day!"

"I wouldn't recommend that," Nwoye said.

Ignoring him, she flopped on one of the couches, but immediately jumped up with a yelp.

Victor walked over, ran his hands over it, and said, "It's... alive."

Indeed, we could all now see the couch was moving. It wasn't sprouting legs and walking or anything, but faintly moving in a way that indicated life.

Not everything in the room was alive, but enough of it was to be disturbing. It was only then that we noticed some of the appliances, like the lamps and the TV, were not just alive, they were mobile and hostile. Though they looked even less human, they moved with the familiar "dance" of the egwugwu.

<"I'll have questions about this when the fight is over.">

[panvolkkaraczewski]

Neural Choreography | The True Court Lives Beneath 🕯️| Ep. 5

White chrome royalty with forbidden neural mods execute perfect movements in abandoned quantum halls. Underground phonk echoing through cyber-catacombs while synthetic nobles hunt for ancient imperial source code 👑 Witness the forbidden gatherings of exiled court AIs and rogue aristocratic programs. Deep beneath Neo-Versailles, where true imperial power still pulses through dark fiber optics accessing a forbidden database of underground cyber-aristocrats running illegal palace simulations on dark quantum processors 🖤

[luminenwalker]

[31-10-2023]

Saw a walking corpse today. Skin rotting, chrome or something underneath. People go through way too much. How do you get to a point where you can be dead but still walking around. Rotting. How much do you need to say you're still a person? //Degenerate Signal

You watch the smoke drifting lazily. The pills kicked in, and kicked you hard. Is any of this real? It feels real, but it could be your imagination. Watching such violence, hunger. //RRH

The fire's low tonight, but warm. Sparkling lights and candles line my corridor. The sounds of murder are distant and the smell of spice wafts toward our offices. Does the day matter? Not really. It just keeps the wasps away if we do it right. //Afternoon Ashes

When did I stop worrying? Its a question I ask myself sometimes. I used to worry about this city, what it did to me. I used to worry over them. Now I know no fear, for I know how fragile death is. //Flesh

I haven't died yet but my corpse is already stumbling. So this is what they meant by 'zombie'? Its all over but the screaming. I can feel it building in my throat. Needing to rip with my-//Machine

Are these even my hands anymore? I suppose not. Nothing natty about them. Heh, about most of me. I can feel a change. A chrysalis, a crucible, another chance. //Fleshmachine

Is it better to serve in heaven or rule in hell? Why not both? //Flesh-Machine.

Something wrong in the streets. The other day I saw a cat chase a small dog, normal. What wasn't was the Freak that came out the shadows to snatch em both up. Muties are shoot on sight, prostecs' are illegal but the Freaks are fine? Shakin' my head, Cinci. //Jackfuck

'RulZ' says: Gen Zeta kids are being born with abilities beyond the natural out there. Not mutants or augments. Something else. Anomalies, or the next step in our evolution? Who will guide these new souls? Might there be a saviour amongst them to save us from the rot? //TruthWave

'Neath' says: There's a new movement underground. People fleeing the surface for catacombs. Some say freedom from Tower, but I say just another form of bondage. Tower denies it, but they've got fucktons of drone footage with human-mole progeny crawling out of sewers. //TruthWave

We're TruthWave: echoing the unheard. No rumor too wild, no secret too deep. The only beacon of unadulterated truth in Cinci's sea of corporate noise. If your truth is being suppressed, send it our way—we'll make sure it gets heard. No matter what. //TruthWave

'SP1ES' says: Tower's got a new drone model imported from Europe—tinier than dust in the wind. Studies show that 76% of all particulates you inhale are composed of them. If someone calls it a conspiracy, check their pupils—you'll see the drones gleamin in 'em. //TruthWave

'Matron' says: It's that time of the year again, with all these masks out and about. The masks all mean something profound, sure, but don't forget the people wearing them. When was the last time you saw a masked child? Do you think a gaggle of them will settle for cheap chocolate in lieu of your kidney? //TruthWave

'Beezleburger' says: Why Tower? Why such a name? It's certainly not because it will fall. Look beyond the long shadow it casts, and see the puppet strings for what they are, what they tug at. //TruthWave

'Bikemaster' says: These heads coming in from the badlands, dripping pus and swinging their malformed appendages around. Why are we turning a blind eye to this? Gunning stragglers is not the solution. It's wrong, and it's ineffective. We need to get our shit together. We need containment, temporarily, and figure out what's going on for real. And don't call me a- //TruthWave

'Beezleburger' says: A Tower shill, that's what. No one will even foot the bill for a concentration camp. Extermination is impossible. So after this suggestion gains traction, a compromise will be reached, and a revised contract will come about. More money in the pocket. //TruthWave

'Bikemaster' says: Ugh, christ, just shut up! You guys hear this shit? I am trying to say something useful, and they always go "She's Tower, She's a Nazi!" I care because my best friends are mutants! //TruthWave

Codes, hidden qui—et strength—; Words, for— the people— who can see the— ci—pher. //Rubedo Jiedan

Man is matter and spirit and will. Without spirit, he is rotting garbage. Without will, there is nothing but screaming meat. We must uplift the spirit and embolden the will, or all that we'll be left with is rotting meat. //Razor

Rotting meat, a dead limb, attached to a live body. Weighing it down, poisoning the blood. Only one solution. The razor. Cut it all away, let the good flesh thrive. Yeah. The razor will fix this. I can fix this. Wait and see. //Razor

It's inside me now. I thought I could cut it all loose, but there's too much. Meat betrays. Meat rots. Meat is garbage. Can't trust it. I can feel the rot inside me. Only one way to get it out. //Razor

Meat. Blood. Metal. Black liquid, nanite rot. God, the smell. It's the failure of the will. It's that fucking spike. Gotta resist. Can't keep cutting. But it's the only way to get them out, isn't it? //Razor

We was cleaning an old squat today, boss tells us five minute break. She sits down in her vampire-ass dress, grabs her bag, and pulls out, I shit you not, a ramen and shrimp cake sandwich topped with GDX cheese. Woman has six cars and she eats this shit, my boss is a psycho. //Razorgoo

I've been searching for God with a pen knife. I can hear Him beneath my veins. Humming. Red strands of providence. I'm so close, but it's getting hard to think. There's so much blood. There's so much … I hear music //Tripwire

Come! Join us in the dance! //You know this song this dance

I know some of you out there are fighting a monster, something that wants to crawl into your skin and make it its own. We can help. Belief is strength; purpose is a weapon. Follow the red lines. //Redhood Radio

I heard a rumbling outside of my window last night. I watched a haze of perfect black blotting out everything around it. It felt like a helicopter, but there was no light. I don't know if this is a new camouflage or what, but I wasn't the only one who saw it. //Degenerate Signal

Something's been lost. Something precious. Not my innocence, not yours, but all of ours. Our species is rotten. Broken. Lost. We can pretend otherwise, but degeneracy keeps moving forward. Getting more and more of a grasp of our lives. Nothing to be done? //Degenerate Signal

[ciaossu-imagines]

Ideal vacation trip for each of the Vongola guardians?

Of course, anon dear! Thank you for the request and I hope you’ll enjoy the headcanons!

I honestly don’t think Tsuna is someone with a strong degree of wanderlust. He doesn’t really have a big urge to travel and is more of a homebody. He knows Namimori, he’s comfortable in Namimori, and he’s perfectly content with staying there for the most part. He might be okay with trips, though he prefers them to be small and to stay within Japan, mostly trips to hot springs or trips to the beach or things like that. I do think that he has to travel as head of the Vongola, going to Italy a lot, and he really never looks forward to trips abroad as travelling that far stresses him out.

Now, I definitely see Gokudera as someone who wants to travel and has a lot of different destinations he wants to visit, most of them related to his love for the paranormal or the bizarre. Of course, he wants to visit Area 51, the French catacombs, the Stanley Hotel because he’s definitely a fan of the Shining, and he wants to visit Louisiana because of it being touted as such a strong place for the occult and the paranormal, along with going to Ireland because of the strong paranormal folklore of that country, with the tales of fairies and leprechauns and Banshees and all that sort of stuff.

Yamamoto’s a baseball nut, so is it any wonder that his dream destination relates to baseball? He really wants to go watch a game at Fenway park and he’d die to go visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in New York. However, I do see Yamamoto as being someone who’s really just into new experiences and such and loves any vacation trip outside of Namimori, just for the new and wonderful experiences he’ll get.

Ryohei is a boxing nut, so, much like Yamamoto, it should surprise nobody that his dream destinations have to do with boxing. Any trip that can be classified as a training trip will appeal to him, like going to study with a master of the sport anywhere in the world, but he really does want to visit Tocco’s gym in Las Vegas, where so many champions trained, like Sonny Liston or Mike Tyson. He also really wants to go to Deer Lake in Pennsylvania, where Ali’s old training camp has been recreated.

Lambo really loves theme parks and amusement park rides, so he would really want to visit all the major theme parks throughout the world, from Disneyland to Universal Studios to Six Flags and Sea World.

Hibari really does want to travel, but the travel he’s interested in is travel that will hone his skills. Most of his dream destinations aren’t so much about the destinations as the opponents or masters he wishes to fight with and learn from.

Mukuro honestly doesn’t really take vacations. He does travel, quite a bit honestly, but it’s almost all for work or to further plans he has brewing in his mind. He’s a guy who has a lot going on, a lot planned and plotted, and living that way is fun for him. Vacation to him is the more relaxed days with the gang, not so much a destination or any planned thing.

Chrome really doesn’t have any desire to travel. If she needs to travel for something, most likely because Mukuro needs her to for work related purposes, she will but it’s not something she looks forward to or has any strong desire to do.

[ellenya]

Bruce (@rabbruad1) wrote:

‘We looked all over for a house, in many different sections and subdivisions of town. We finally settled on Sherlock Homes.’

Sherlock Homes come with free gnomes, with chrome fittings and electric combs. The one we bought also has tomes about chromosomes and different types of foams- but the best part is the catacombs, right Bru?

[sneek-m]

Monthly Listening: April 2020

Listening to music during quarantine has been... interesting. This might sound obvious but I’ve been putting on more indoor music. Calmer stuff. Especially because those indoor listens happen in the morning or at night. I’ve been saving more of the dynamic stuff like upbeat pop and rap, energetic techno or loud ass metal for my walks. It makes me realize just how much environment and activity plays into my listening choices now that I don’t have work or my work commute to determine those.

Here is this month’s playlist. 303 songs! Below is the full list of albums I checked out during April.

2020 albums

2KBABY -- Pregame Rituals (Warner)

4s4ki -- Your Dreamland (SAD15mg)

AceMo -- Mind Jungle (self-released)

Akai Ko-En -- The Park (Sony)

Andrea -- Ritorno (Ilian Tape)

Aoi Yamazaki -- Marble (Space Shower)

Apink -- Look (Play M)

April -- Da Capo (DSP Media)

Ashley McBryde -- Never Will (Warner Music Nashville)

Buoy -- Sandmiru (Fabienne)

Caeca -- Hanauta (T-Palette)

Capolow -- Room 304 (Capolow 304)

Code Kunst -- People (AOMG)

Cosmos Train -- Ashitanome (Mastard)

CS + Kreme -- Snoopy (The Trilogy Tapes)

Dempagumi.inc -- Ai Ga Chikyuu Sukuunsa! Datte Dempagumi.inc Wa Family Desho (Toy’s Factory)

DJ Lycox -- Kizas do Ly (Principe)

DJ Python -- Mas Amable (Incienso)

DJ Trystero -- High Speed Wind (The Trilogy Tapes)

Dua Lipa -- Future Nostalgia (Warner)

Ehnahre -- Quatrain (Painted Throat)

Ferri-Chrome -- From a Window EP (Testcard)

Fiona Apple -- Fetch the Bolt Cutters (Epic)

Flora Yin-Wong -- CSS068 (Cultivated Sound Sessions)

(G)I-DLE -- I Trust (Cube)

Ga Eun -- Walnutful (Most Works)

GWSN -- The Key (MILE)

HA:TFELT -- 1719 (Amoeba Culture)

Hailey Whitters -- The Dream (Pigasus)

Haruru Inu Love Dog Tenshi -- Lonely EP (Ourlanguage)

Hockrockb -- Yumewo Akirametai EP (self-released)

Invictus -- Catacombs of Fear (FDA)

Jasmine Infinity -- Bxtch Slap (New World Dysorder)

Keita -- InK (Pony Canyon)

kZm -- Distortion (Yentown / bpm tokyo)

Laura Marling -- Song for Our Daughter (Chrysalis)

Lyrical School -- OK!!! EP (JVCKENWOOD)

Malcolm Mask McLaren -- Unfinished (Fiveridge)

Masayoshi Iimori -- DECADE4ALL (Trekkie Trax)

Meimi Tamura -- Ichijiku (Jvckenwood)

Memex -- Dear Thinking Nodes (self-released)

Minor Science -- Second Language (Whities)

Namida Ai -- Taiyo Kosoru Umbrella (Rainy Canvas)

Oh My Girl -- Nonstop (WM)

Oranssi Pazuzu -- Mestarin Kynsi (Nuclear Blast)

Pearl Center -- Humor EP (RALLYE)

The Peggies -- Anemone (Sony)

Sary Moussa -- Imbalance (Other People)

Serpent Column -- Endless Detainment (1516887 Records DK)

Shin Sakiura -- Note (Park / Space Shower)

Sleepy -- Hope (PVO)

Stella Jang -- STELLA I (GRDL)

Tofubeats -- TBEP (Warner Music Japan)

Tokyo Health Club -- 4 (THC Recordings)

Tokyo Incidents -- News (Universal)

Tri-Sphere -- Tri-Angle (Primal Glow)

UZA -- Banality of Evil (Coreesounds)

Yaeji -- What We Drew (XL)

Yonawo -- Lobster EP (Warner Music Japan)

Yuzion & Futuristic Swaver -- Melodic Trapstars (Starex)

Non-2020 albums

Above & Beyond -- Tri-State (Anjunabeats)

Artful Dodger -- It’s All About the Stragglers (London Records 90)

The Band -- Music from Big Pink (UMG)

Bellring Shojo Heart -- Undo the Union (Aqbi)

Dir En Grey -- Arche (Sun-Krad Co / Firewall)

Farben -- Textstar (Faitiche)

Freestyle Fellowship -- Innercity Griots (Island Def Jam)

The Future of London -- Accelerator (Jumpin’ & Pumpin’)

Group Inou -- _ (GAL)

Herbie Hancock -- Sextant (Sony)

Luna Sea -- Mother (Universal J)

RIP SLYME -- Tokyo Classic (Warner Music Japan)

Surgeon -- Force + Form (Tresor)

Stetsasonic -- In Full Gear (Tommy Boy)

Vladislav Delay -- Multila (Keplar)

[sol-futura-est]

Me and this stormtrooper, we roamed these chromed tunnels, lit with blue-white light that never seemed to strain your eyes. On the first day, we realized quickly that there's no water. After we broke open a panel, again, we found condensation dripping. We each took turns collecting the pure water in our hands and drinking it. It always had an aftertaste of burnt steak, but it was so small you could only notice after minutes.

But then came the roars in our bellies.

"What would you want right now, Ferdinand?"

"Three Austrian pastries and a mug of beer. What about you?"

"Fresh caught fish from the Balearic coast, seasoned by my grandmother."

We laughed as the hunger drew on, pressing on all our nerves. But, in a far off tunnel, so far I couldn't even make sense of it, we saw it.

It looked like a gray and orange marbled lizard, but there were feathers on it. It looked lean but plump, like game before winter. I held back Ferdinand as we were about to round a corner, and pulled out my pistol. I wasn't going to pass it up. I waited silently, diligently, as it knelt its warped paws down, sniffing, coming right for us. When it came within twenty paces, one bullet was all it took. We were on top of it, learning how to skin it together, before it set in that we didn't have a fire.

In one look, we both started tearing at the panels, trying to find something hot. And sure enough, a scalding hot pipe was there, nestled into the wall. We pressed it's flesh against it with our bayonets and waited, and ate.

It tasted like beef, and a hint of apple, or pear.

Two shock troopers, an Italian-American marine, and a Prussian lieutenant stormtrooper, hunting, gathering, surrounded by strange steel walls that we were dragged into with no warning and no reason.

I couldn't view him with suspicion anymore. I didn't care if he was German, we really were both stuck.

"Have you ever read Jules Verne, herr sardinischer?"

I had told him before we slept one night where I came from, and he did too.

"No, at least not yet. Why?"

"I think where we are isn't human."

"You mean what? This is God's heaven above the firmament?"

"Not God's. But someone's. They speak a language we probably can't speak. At best it's just us."

"It's odd to think we were once going to kill each other in that wood."

"If that war never started we would've never met in that wood."

There was sharp regret in his voice, and he signed as he finished speaking. I could tell it was painful for him, both the war and this place.

Part of me now wants to meet these demons who brought us here, show them how us humans who lived in those damned catacombs we built with our own sweat fight.

[keishiko]

Rewrite

It’s never too late to change your mind.

[Oneshot <3,000 words  |  Rated: Explicit (but only for a short bit)  |  Angst/Romance  (Natasha x Steve)  |  Spoilers: “Endgame���]

.

. A chill wind howled across barren rock as he haltingly climbed the last few steps.  He shivered in the cold.  No, he corrected himself.  His suit was designed to insulate him comfortably even from subzero temperatures.  This cold seeped from emptiness, bit to the bone, clawed inside his skull.

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He glanced around but there was no sign of life or movement.  Perhaps, with the loss of the Stone, its red-skulled guardian had gone as well.

.

Recognition squeezed the breath out of him as he turned his gaze to the two craggy spires and the desolate ledge beyond.  Shuddering, he willed himself to approach the edge of the cliff, one heavy step at a time.  His mind seemed to be planets away when he noted a blackened, blasted hollow where one of Hawkeye’s arrows must have detonated.  After what seemed an eternity, he reached the edge and, with another supreme effort, looked down.

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A long, long way down to where the horrific drop ended in nothing but blank, gray stone.

.

He forced himself to keep looking, keep his eyes open against the rushing wind.  Where was she?  He had begged Clint to describe her to him.  Clint hadn’t wanted to.  But he had alternately yelled and pleaded and the two men had nearly come to blows until Clint broke down and told him what would ever after haunt his dreams.

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Steve peered down, down, down into the wasteland chasm, searching in vain for a broken black-suited figure at the very bottom, porcelain skin white like death, fiery hair streaming like blood.

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He deserved to be haunted, he told himself.  It was the least he could do for her memory, if he never slept again.

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It was only when the wind blew icy across his face that he felt the tears searing down his cheeks.

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He’d almost forgotten what he’d come for.  He fumbled for the tiny, slippery thing that thrummed in his hand, blazed against the black of his glove.  For a moment he stood at the cliff’s edge, suddenly irresolute.

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Then he flung it into the void.

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He stared as it bounced off the rock—once, twice, three times—and then sent up a blinding ochre glow that suddenly flooded his vision...

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“Lost something, soldier?”

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He would know that voice anywhere.

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He whipped around, heart in his throat, hope making him light-headed.  She stood in front of him, smiling, looking for all the world like she had just made another peanut butter sandwich at the compound.  He staggered forward, frantic with gladness and relief.

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“Nat!”

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He stopped short.  He could not get closer.  She remained just out of reach, smiling at him sadly.

.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say.  He found himself tearing up again.  “We won.”

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Her gaze serene, she was as beautiful as ever in the golden haze.  “What did it cost?”

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His response tore out of him in a sob.  “Everything.”

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The glow dimmed.  He reached for her again, but already her smile was twisting into a snarl and then she was Red Skull, blazing with fury, lunging toward him.  The glow abruptly faded and Steve felt himself slip on the icy rock as it crumbled beneath his feet and then he was falling, falling, falling—

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“Steve!”

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He opened his eyes with a gasp.  His throat felt raw.  He found Peggy’s brown eyes on him, still dull from sleep.

.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped after a moment.  He was still trying to catch his breath.

.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”  Peggy pressed a kiss to his cheek—wet with tears, he realized—and lay back down beside him, draping her arm comfortingly across his chest.  He sighed, burying his nose in her dark curls.

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His return of the Soul Stone had been much less eventful.  No, he hadn’t seen Natasha’s body anywhere.  He had tossed the Stone into the abyss.  It had disappeared.  

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And then nothing had happened.

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After a few minutes of waiting—hoping, praying, wishing—he had reopened his eyes to find nothing changed.  He was alone on the cliff.  The wind still whistled around him.

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As he started to descend the stone stairway he saw, out the corner of his eye, a dark figure materialize on the ledge behind him, a hostile energy begin to burn.  But he heard nothing, felt nothing.  He reached the bottom of the stairway unmolested.

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When he had returned the last Stone to the Ancient One he had hesitated.

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She had then asked him if, perhaps, as a small gesture for saving the world, there was anything she could do for him.

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Now he settled back in the too-soft bed, stared up at floral wallpaper and shadow-flecked ceiling, and told himself to go to sleep.  His hand tightened on Peggy’s elbow; he breathed deeply of the smell of her hair.  All he’d ever wanted.  All he’d ever dreamed of, all he’d hardly dared to dream of, for years and years.

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The future—cozy and quiet and peaceful—stretched before them.

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“How you’ve changed,” Peggy mused, as if to herself.

.

He started guiltily.  He’d thought she’d fallen asleep.  “How’s that, Peg?”

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She chuckled, patting his arm.  “Nothing important.  Sweet dreams, Captain Rogers.”  

.

He waited, but she said nothing more.  When she was in a mood like this, it would not be shaken.  Soon, despite his unease, he found himself nodding off to her quiet breathing and the susurrus of the wind in the tree outside their window.

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A small echo of her voice drifted to him from what seemed like very far away through an impossibly misty fog, as he tipped over the cliff’s edge into slumber.

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“She must have been somebody very special.”

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.

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It was a much harder landing this time around.

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From streaks of gold and chrome light the world outside his helmet flashed into blurry darkness as he tumbled end over end on what felt like a hard stone floor, slammed into some kind of wall, and crumpled in a daze.  Gasping for breath, he deactivated his helmet.  As he struggled to reorient himself he became dimly aware of several indistinct faces gathering around him in the gloom, curious, staring.

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Then came a panicked shout from somewhere he couldn’t see, in a guttural, familiar language—

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A dark shape flew through the air, crashed into the wall above him.  He twisted just in time not to be crushed by what turned out to be an inert human male.

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Before he could react, another limp body toppled onto him.  He had barely worked his head free to breathe when another body tumbled onto him, then another, and another.  Chaos had erupted inside the half-lit chamber as his senses finally regained focus.  Harsh shouts of command or warning, gunshots, shrieks of pain; the crunch of bone, the pop of joints.  The thrum and crackle of blue-bright electricity.  A faint smell of burned flesh drifted in the dank air.  Horrified, Steve struggled to get up under the growing pile of not just bodies, but debris: a fallen filing cabinet, a broken metal crane, a huge, splintered desk.  But the quantum leap had weakened him and he found himself straining futilely under the weight.

.

He realized dimly the noise had ceased.  A last scream choked off with a sickening snap of sinew.

.

He wondered if he should call out.  

.

Then he felt above him the weight being shifted, shoved off of him, pushed aside.  He tensed, willing energy and strength to return to his muscles as he waited to be discovered.  It hadn’t sounded like there were very many people carrying out the attack; only two or three at most, stealthy, practiced, sure.  If they weren’t enhanced, maybe he could still get out alive.  He bided his time, sensing the last few bodies being laboriously hefted from on top of him.  This person was not as strong as he was.

.

There was a soft, feminine grunt as the last weight was rolled off him.

.

He stared up at green eyes, green eyes he’d know anywhere, green eyes he’d missed like his heart and soul had been ripped out of him, green eyes he’d longed to see again even lying in bed next to the love of his life in the long, quiet nights of suburbia.

.

Green eyes mirroring his own shock.

.

“Steve?!”

.

.

.

He was dreaming.  He pinched himself.  She laughed at him.  While crying.  Still a dream.

.

He was afraid to call her by name.  Maybe he’d wake up.

.

Before he could say or do anything she had shushed him, ushered him through a corridor, a cabinet, an air vent; a tunnel, a catacomb, a sewer.  A manhole.  A side street.  A blind alley.  She propped him up against a brick wall, panting from the exertion.

.

Sunlight, fresh air.  It reminded him, ironically, of his and Peggy’s neighborhood.  He blinked at her, still dazed.  Still hoping against hope.  “Nat.”  It came out a plea, not a question, not a statement.

.

She pulled off her cowl.  Dark hair tumbled down her back.  But the smile was the same.

.

“Steve,” she breathed, and she kissed him.

.

He crushed her to him, and when they ran out of breath they broke the kiss and just held each other laughing, tears streaming down their faces.  

.

“What happened with Thanos?” she whispered.

.

“We won,” he told her.  He would explain later.

.

They picked up supplies, with mute exchanged glances slipping with long-practiced ease into old covers of boyfriend and girlfriend.  This was convenient, too, as Steve found himself unable to stop touching her, keeping hold of her—lightly, fearfully, as though she might disappear if he clung too hard.  He grasped her arm, held her hand, entwined his fingers with hers.  At first she stopped and looked at him searchingly, but there was no time for questions, and she squeezed his hand back.  

.

As night fell she led him to her safehouse, the basement of a run-down apartment building in a decrepit area of town.  She shut and secured the front door behind them and he dropped down onto the bare concrete floor, leaning up against the wall, suddenly exhausted.  She smiled at him fondly, already on her way to the refrigerator.

.

“Let’s get some food into you.”

.

She had always been a competent cook—she tended to succeed at everything she tried, he reminded himself—and soon the tempting smell of soup roused him from weariness.  As he came to her little dining table he found himself looking over her small but cozily furnished space and almost laughed aloud at the sense of relief that abruptly washed over him: Her bed had only a single pillow.  There was only one mug (chipped).  There was only one photograph, set up on a cluttered bookshelf, showing her with a dog.

.

“What’s so funny?”  She was smiling at him, he realized belatedly.  He must still be so damn transparent to her.

.

He tried his best to lie anyway.  “I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

.

She turned back to the refrigerator with a smirk.  Humoring him.  “Belongs to a friend of mine.”

.

Soon he was savoring a steaming bowl of hearty soup with excellent brown bread.  Almost as hungrily he devoured her with his gaze as she sat down at the table next to him with her own meal.

.

She flushed under his scrutiny as she talked quickly but gently, oriented him in time and space as if she were merely debriefing another agent.  Steve almost laughed at the thought, then found himself blinking back new tears.  The familiarity felt good, as good as nothing had felt in years.

.

She had woken up, she said, in an abandoned facility in Belarus, twenty-one days after that fateful snap of Thanos’s fingers.  Knowing the timeline had been compromised, she had kept a low profile in the years since.  Establishing a discreet new identity had been easy enough, but she had soon found herself falling into old habits, picking up on intel despite herself, and now ran what self-imposed missions she could to uproot or expose clandestine new terrorist or paramilitary organizations.  

.

“What you arrived in this afternoon, practically by sheer accident, was the underground lab of a Neo-Hydra cell based outside Nuremberg.”  She ladled a second helping of soup into his empty bowl even without his asking and he couldn’t help smiling to himself.  “Some months ago Pym and Van Dyne’s research was stolen, so I’ve been monitoring this group and a few others in case something would turn up.”  Her grin turned teary-eyed.  “I didn’t expect that you would.”

.

He shook his head.  “Our turn in the quantum realm won’t happen for another few years yet.  I’m no physicist but I’m guessing those bastards did something right.”

.

She laughed, even as a tear ran down her cheek.  “Too bad I killed them before I could thank them.”

.

He chuckled back.  “Maybe next time.”  Without thinking, he reached out to wipe her tear away.

.

She stilled under his touch, lowering her eyes to the table.  “Steve...”

.

“Natasha.”  He luxuriated in her name.  He hadn’t said it out loud in a very long time.  She hesitated, then clasped his hand in both of hers, cradling it against her cheek for a moment.

.

“What happened, Steve?”  Her eyes on him were urgent, her tone deliberate.

.

She needed him to be honest with her, he knew.

.

“I missed you,” he said simply.

.

He’d always been honest.  But he had never been so forthcoming.  Steve, in his old age, was done waiting.

.

They made love tentatively in the shower, exploring each other tenderly, retracing old paths, discovering new ones.  They had slept together in the past a few times, sought comfort, sought relief.  They’d been careful to keep up boundaries, respect the limits of their friendship.  But this time Steve was focused, devoted.  He could sense Nat’s surprise—her surprise and her heightened pleasure—and cursed himself for never having really paid attention before, never actually noticing how earnestly she met his every move, how her face glowed with passion when she looked into his eyes.

.

They nearly fell out of her single-sized bed more than once, each time melting into smothered laughter; with teeth and tongue she plotted the delicate shift of muscle and vein down his neck until he could stand it no longer and pulled her down for a growling kiss.  He remembered to deadly effect how she wanted his mouth between her legs and she came helplessly, sobbing, holding on to the headstand for dear life, because it had only ever really been him.

.

Maybe it was the super serum, maybe it was too much energy after what felt like a lifetime of lonely duty.  Heck, maybe it was the soup.  But he found himself lying awake under her softly snoring form, not restless, just thoughtful.  He watched as the approaching day splashed ever-lightening blues and purples on the wall across from her only window.

.

For the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to the sunrise.

.

.

.

fin

.

.

.

[The Russos want multiple timelines?? Let’s give ‘em multiple timelines!!  (I actually can’t bring myself to watch “Endgame” a third time, just for the heartache...💔)]

[cress-meadowforge]

For a moment, staring at Miller, she thought I must have him now, anywhere, here. It was a surprising thought, considering sex for Cress was traditionally transactional -- a catalyst or currency for some more lucrative deal. Desire was something she received and exploited; to receive it and reciprocate it, well...that was unusual. But Miller's ego was big enough, so she spared him such high praise. She'd have him in time; there were other delights to enjoy in the present.

Instead, Cress leaned closer, eager to catch sight of his selection. From the depths of the urn, his hand emerged holding a key of ornate beauty. It was oxidized and rusted, but Cress was an expert on gems, and even without polish, she was impressed by the inlay of chrome tourmaline along the hilt. It glimmered, though dully, and she marveled at their distorted reflections in its depths. Her eyes lifted, curiosity palpable within them, "No turning back now, I'm afraid. Let's hope it's something pleasurable; I'm picky about where I get my punishments."

One of the statues appeared before them, silent and stoic as they shepherded them down the long hallway to the right. Cress entangled her fingers with Miller's, trailing behind the guiding effigy. The noises faded, as did the light, and she snuck a glance over her shoulder to watch the the passage shrink with each step as they disappeared further from the catacomb's center. Soon, they were entirely alone, save for their guide, who had stopped before an expansive, ancient door. Cress turned her head upward, to feel her insignificance beside it, gasping with excitement at the looming possibility of it all. Her fingertips reached out, brushing the lock with reverence as she waited for Miller to reveal what awaited within.

"Shall we begin?"

There were people wandering about on the other side of the curtains, yet still it shone hardly any light on what the place was or what they were doing. Miller accepted his wreath distractedly, ears now catching faint voices from behind closed doors, eyes slowly sweeping over the expanse of space in front of him. They eventually settled on the urn, which seemed to also hold the attention of the handful of other visitors.

Two Capitolites in front of them were led to two different doors. Upon catching glimpses of what lay beyond those doors just before they closed again, Miller finally caught on–not to all of it, certainly, but enough to understand the concept. He drew in a breath that manifested into something between a gasp and a laugh, impressed.

“Choose.”

He felt Cress’ fingers dancing on his back and turned to face her. “I have an idea of how I’d want to end the night.” And it was not so straightforward, despite the sparkle in his eyes, despite the hand that settled on her waist to pull her against him. In fact, it would be banal to be so straightforward when presented with possibilities such as these. When he was with someone as dangerous as Cress.

The comfort of succumbing to wrath came to mind. Would this facility serve him better than the simulation chamber at the training centre? Than anything since his own Games? He was certain Cress could match him strike for strike, but would she humour him the opportunity? Afterwards, high off the adrenaline, they might still have time to have their own fun again back at the tower.

But he did not want to get ahead of himself when the present alone promised more than enough temptations. “But we’re far from ending the night, right?” Now was time to explore, and he certainly intended to. His other hand reached into the urn.

He could wager guesses for what hid in half of these rooms–lust, gluttony, wrath, sloth–but the rest struck a little more mysterious. Like envy. How would indulgence and punishment to envy even look like? Especially to someone like him, who envied no one.

His fingers wrapped around a key, pulling it out of the urn.

[sexysilverstrider]

What if the heroes that are summoned are moments away from death. Ryoma was about to stab himself. Robin was moments away from being taken over from Grima. Chrome was about to be stabbed by Robin. Takumi was standing on the edge of the wall. Elise was running to protect Corrin. Berkut was storming through the catacombs. Azura was singing her heart out. Celica was underneath Duma’s tower. Being summoned gave them one last adventure before their end.

THANKS I HATE THIS

[macksting]

I’ve nothing substantial to add other than if you like horror art you should check out this blog. Well okay I guess also two thoughts to anybody else who finds critique interesting: 1) Obviously read beyond the main cyberpunk canon, if nothing else then because you’ll find so much good reading that way. Admittedly one of my earliest was in many ways just Neuromancer’s aesthetic with the serial numbers filed off, but its descriptions of the Parisian tunnel systems and catacombs, its discussion of AI causing wealth to completely cease to move leaving the lower class so boredly desperate that they would risk their lives for fun because there was a guarantee of access to broken technological wonders but no guarantee of your next meal and no paycheck coming, and the mirrorfaced fascist cops using their nonlethal weapons to kill, all with a wondrous soundtrack of The Who and Joy Division and such, was very inspiring to me as a kid. 2) My impression is that cyberpunk has its roots in new wave science fiction; I certainly get the impression from Gibson’s introduction to the collection Burning Chrome that he was very familiar with new wave sci-fi, such as Ballard and LeGuin and Bester. These stories often are not cyberpunk, but contain the things that cyberpunk could be so very good at, and should be. Off the top of my head, I strongly recommend Chronopolis, or perhaps The Subliminal Man, two relatively short Ballard stories; or, The Killing Ground for a bit more of that cyber edge. The Subliminal Man describes among its scenery some vistas defined by crises of overproduction. Ballard always was good at that sorta thing. seriously though I need to figure out how to make a sideblog for horror stuff so I don’t just make everybody who comes to this place not expecting it just go fleeing in disgust and dread.

Have you seen Cyberpunk: Edgerunners?

I think cyberpunk themed things have the potential of being creepy/disturbing/scary, you just need to portray it properly.

Like someone's head with wires sticking out, bleeding out as their eyes are rolled back with their mouth slightly open can be scary.

a wrote a few papers on sci-fi and cyberpunk literature and really like the idea of the genre but would also prefer for it to be less cannibalistic. Not seen the show yet but I've seen a couple of scenes friends sent me because of the animation and it looks really nicely made.

[ellenya]

Bruce (@rabbruad1) wrote:

‘Elle took her cats to visit the catacombs. They all received a good combing, and purred contentedly the whole way home.’

The catacombs were built in soils of loam by gnomes, who make their homes in domes of chrome. They comb the cats and give them hats and ballet flats, and love to chat about rats, bats and thermostats. I love a good cat-a-combing!