#Exposition (trope)

[prokopetz]

Writing an eighty hour action-RPG-with-life-sim-elements where what's actually going on is only explained on the bad ending route. Every action that's required to set a good ending flag also causes a critical bit of expository dialogue to never happen. You did the good ending first? Fuck you.

[kwillow]

Why is ambroys so promiscuos, like psychologicaly. Is he just a Bimbo? Does he have a hipersexual disorder, is he just an asshole like that?

What drives this manwhore to this levels of slutness, UNPRECEDENTED HARLOTNESS i have to bear witness to

TL;DR: Sex is the lowest common denominator way to make people care about something and Ambroys wants people to care about Him.

Longer psychoanalysis under the cut, if you want a peek into the puddle-like depths of the world's shallowest man.

Surface-level, he’s just a hedonistic guy. He likes his base pleasures and indulgences.

Still, Ambroys is really more of an attention whore than an actual whore. He wants to be the main event everywhere he goes, and as most advertisers have noticed, sex appeal is a cheap and easy way to get noticed. Even if someone’s not attracted to you, they’ll probably at least look at you. And every pair of eyeballs is a win.

Additionally, seducing someone is a conquest. It makes him feel powerful. When people start seeming too messy and complicated it's a script to reset them to a dynamic that's within his control and understanding. Getting someone to fall for him reassures him of the "fact" that it’s his divine right to have what he wants, make others do what he wants, and make people want him. (Or as he would put it: he just wants to be loved — is that so wrong??)

This is why he sleeps with his friend nigh-immediately after breaking his once-paramour’s heart. His use of seduction as a comfort tool also creates the somewhat hilarious situation where he tries to fuck more often when he’s feeling bad, like women are his tub of Ben and Jerry’s and it’s binging time.

His other coping mechanism for feelings of inadequacy is sport hunting, by the by.

All that said, I don’t think Ambroys is much more promiscuous than your average frat guy. He is a young man brimming with energy and bereft of rationality, so a bit of skirt-chasing is to be expected. He just plays up the provocative libertine angle sometimes, because it’s easier than developing a likable personality.

[desertdragon]

This shit is so ass I just want it to be over

[taylortuthorror]

i think "ship in a bottle" horror is so great. it feels so claustrophobic when you watch a movie where they literally cannot leave wherever they are.

[non-cannon]

The Exposition Fairy

Inspired by a dream I had the night, I have come up with an idea for a new crack fic trope: The Exposition Fairy.

The Exposition Fairy is (probably an author self insert) character who shows up when the characters are experiencing miscommunication/idiot plot based angst. They smack some sense into them. Like go as hard as you want they are fictional characters in a crack fic, they'll only suffer as much long term damage as you want. This is your chance to let out your anger at their stupidity. Then the Exposition Fairy forcibly clears up the miscommunication, and then flies away.

You can use this for fix it fics, or to perhaps parody standard idiot plot/miscommunication fics, because oh my god if you have read one more of those!

Have fun!

[skaruresonic]

First of all, "finding a fandom girlie who isn't obsessed with mlm ships"?

We don't do misogynistic "muh fujoshits" stuff here. It ain't cute.

Secondly,

One person's anecdote is not enough to justify the first-person POV hatred on this site. I said it makes about as much sense as mocking the concept of characters because first-person is a value-neutral narrative device. Just because it's frequently poorly used doesn't make the POV inherently bad.

Also, the fact that you like a book that utilizes first-person POV should prove that first-person POV is not ubiquitously bad even according to your own personal subjective tastes, and yet.

[shamera]

NaNo day 16

so previously i said fdb video game isekai since i was having a block with the time loop story but still need words

i lied. fbd modern hunter awakening au instead. in honour of solo levelling coming out next month. i have. an idea. dunno how far it will go, but i got pretty excited to write this today, so that's a win for me.

Man'er cameo, i'm so sorry to her. tw for blood and injuries, i guess. nothing fatal yet.

Fang Duobing still had his head in his hands when the loud thwack of files dropped right next to him, vibrating the office table. 

“No,” he whined, already knowing exactly who it was that would do such a thing to him when he very obviously didn’t want to be bothered. If the ‘do not disturb’ sign he’d written and taped to the door hadn’t been the largest indication, him being the president’s son with the corner office that he didn’t even want would have been a deterrent for people to talk to him in the first place. 

“I heard you tried joining Baichuan Court again,” his aunt’s annoying voice cut in. She sounded smug, and also right next to him, which was where she leaned when she was mocking him. “Don’t you already know you’re not going to make it in?”

“You shut up,” Fang Duobing mumbled out, slouching so that his arms started sliding down on the table as well, until his elbows were pushing the files away and he was nearly face down to scream incoherently into the wood grain. His words were the epitome of rudeness, but his aunt was only a few years older than him anyway, which meant she was the one who literally taught him every rude thing he knew. “They’ll have to accept me one day. I have all the qualifications; this is discrimination.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Tianji Hall, kiddo. What’s not to love here? You’ve got a good job, it pays well, it’s safe—”

It was nepotism, and the entire building knew it. Worse, Fang Duobing didn’t even want to be there in the first place, had tried running away several times the moment he hit legal age to do so, yet had always been dragged back home on the basis that he couldn’t make it out in the real world. Because everyone else took one look at his name, his face, his ID, and immediately backtracked. 

Anyone else might look at the office provided to him and his bespoke suits and claim otherwise, but his family was ruining his life. He wasn’t made to work in an office! Fang Duobing trained half his life to fight, to defend, to help people and clear dungeons!

He just wanted to be a proper Hunter, and didn’t that make sense? Both his mom and aunt were Awakened as well, yet they worked in logistics and defence and wanted to keep him behind-the-scenes as well out of the dungeons where Hunters died on the daily. 

It had been ten years since the laws that drastically changed how Hunters were allowed into dungeons, and Fang Duobing was still seething about them. Ten years ago, the two largest Hunter sects, Sigu Sect and Jinyuan Alliance, were decimated in a dungeon on the eastern sea, the two having turned against each other after the death of the dungeon boss and then caught in the collapse of the dungeon in one of the biggest disasters of the past decade. An entire neighbourhood had to be evacuated, and the fires burned for over a week before it could be put out. 

It was, his mother would insist, one of the reasons why Tianji Hall was needed, because Hunters could not run rampant as they had anymore since the dungeons first began appearing in the world. 

Since then, the government had also placed laws preventing individual or teams of Hunters from entering dungeons alone ‘for their own safety’, and enforced rules on how only sects could sanction dungeon raids. Which meant unless Fang Duobing registered with one of the remaining Hunter sects, no matter how hard he trained, he would be banned from dungeons. 

His aunt reached in to yank at his ear, causing Fang Duobing to sit up again, yelling as she continued to pull even as his hands reached up to shove her away. 

“Fang Xiaobao,” she said sternly, voice pitched with youth and her tendency to forgive him just about anything despite the amount of times she had been called into drag him home, “I understand you’re upset, but you’ll have to live with it! Why are you looking down on our Tianji Hall? Our work is just as important as the other sects!”

“We don’t raid!” Fang Duobing complained, still trying to pry her fingers from his ear. “We don’t even go into dungeons! Why even guard the gates? Even civilian children know better than to get near one, so at best we’re a logistics sect that deals with what people bring out from the dungeons— ow, ow! Okay, just let go already! Stop twisting!”

Thankfully, she did let go, although she sniffed disdainfully as he glared, cradling his red ear. 

“It’s insulting for the heir of Tianji Hall to think we’re not doing anything.” She told him, leaning forward in a threat gesture until Fang Duobing leaned back from his aunt, appropriately scared. “Do you think Hunters can work without us? Without our gear and weapons, without our regulations and support teams? Their casualty rate would be much higher!”

“Then you can be heir,” he murmured, and winced when she moved to grab at him again, “Sorry, sorry! But I mean it!”

“Stop trying to go after the sects,” she advised him, standing straight from where she had been leaning against his desk, brushing off her skirt and straightening her blazer before pulling the wispy strands of her bangs around her face artistically. “I’m going to be busy this afternoon— where’s your lunch?”

“Stop stealing my lunch,” he complained, and then stared suspiciously. “You’re dressed up today. Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Physician Li is stopping by to help us deliver the latest reports to— oh, stop making the face. Just because he reported you twice—”

“Tattled,” Fang Duobing insisted, pushing himself from his chair in indignation. Twice, Fang Duobing tried to run away from his family, and twice he met Li Lianhua who eventually told his aunt where he was. Twice. Even a dog would learn better, and he was definitely better than a dog. “You’re not taking my lunch to give to him!”

“And why not? I’m not a fool, Xiaobao! He would have gotten it anyway—”

Fang Duobing flushed, and began shoving his aunt out of his office. “He’s not— I wouldn’t— go wash your face, your makeup makes you look old!”

Amidst her shrieking over how she was barely any older than him, he finally managed to close the door in her face and breathe a sigh of relief for the soundproofing installed in his office. 

What a terrible morning. To think he personally made another trip down to the Baichuan Court tryouts with a (somewhat questionable) fake identity and a mask, and was almost accepted until they realised who he really was— it went to show that he had all the qualifications! He had the skills! They were banning him just because they were scared of his mother!

His only reprieve today might be Li Lianhua’s timely arrival, so that Fang Duobing could bully the man into eating a healthy lunch because everyone knew that Physician Li was chronically ill but also a terrible cook. Completely trash at cooking, with a tendency to not only skip meals but supplement them with candy like a child. 

(Well, Fang Duobing knew that, having trailed Li Lianhua for weeks at a time the two times he attempted to hide from his family, and having to choke down the ‘creative’ recipes the man would come up with.)

Yes, it was just revenge, after all! 

He was going to write another letter of complaint to Baichuan Court and then heat up his lunch, and Fang Duobing was going to make sure that the rest of his day would go better than his morning. 

— 

The shaking started subtly, like a truck driving too close to the building if it weren’t for the fact they were more than ten floors above ground level. Fang Duobing hadn’t even felt it at first, too busy on his phone until his assistant Li’er knocked on his door and stuck her head in, frowning when he scrambled to put his phone away and look like he was definitely busying himself doing something else. 

“Sir?” She asked tentatively, arms clutched around several case folders. “Should we sound an earthquake warning, sir?”

It was only then he noticed that the glass of water on his desk had the slightest of ripples within. Earthquake? It was unusual for this region to get earthquakes, and the rumbling was likely from construction nearby, but there hadn’t been any construction scheduled nearby. 

Fang Duobing thought for a moment and then figured, why not? It would be a good excuse to take the rest of the day off and also give the rest of the people some extra time to rest— “Yes, that’s a good idea, better safe than sorry—”

As if on queue, the slight rumbling increased dramatically that moment, starting to shake books from his shelves, and Fang Duobing gripped at his desk in shock before staring up at Li’er who screamed and dropped all her files. The scent of ions in the air like a sudden thunderstorm hit him, and despite never having been in close proximity to a dungeon, he knew the rulebook. 

“Incoming gate!” He yelled out, hearing people screaming outside his office as the rumbling grew to be violent shaking, and then it felt as if the hold of gravity lessened on them, and items went tumbling every which direction in a surge of purple light, the feeling like static shock on the skin. 

For several seconds, the world faded away and there was nothing at all, his vision brightening and then darkening, the air cold and then still and then like it didn’t exist at all, frozen in time. There was a terrifying moment where he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, but that passed quickly until he registered the ringing in his ears to be the sounds of people screaming and crying around him. 

And then— cold. 

Fang Duobing shivered as his palms hit the stone floor, grit and bits of sharp sand pressed against his skin as he blinked himself to awareness again. The ground was uneven, and he could still hear people around him, although the screaming stopped. Most were groaning in pain, some whimpering from fear, and the thunderstorm smell in the air was slowly fading into something like rainwater and algae. He fumbled a moment in the pitch black, and then reached into his pocket for the pocket he just shoved in, pressing a button to light up the screen. 

The bright picture of a happy yellow furred dog sitting on a kitchen chair with both front paws held up by someone out of frame stared up at him, and Fang Duobing fumbled to thumb toward the flashlight app so he could better see his surroundings. 

The light revealed a large cavern, too big to actually see with his phone light, and several other figures slumped across the cave floor a ways from him, some shapes obscured by various furniture that had been transported along with them. 

Two others were also now fumbling for their phone light, and he could identify Wangfu and Li’er in the chaos. 

“Is everyone okay?” He called out, and got some groans of confirmation in return. Fang Duobing pushed himself up, getting his feet beneath him and relieved that he hadn’t been injured in the transfer. 

“Sir, I think… Man’er fell badly…” 

Amongst the small handful of people who ended up where they were, there was a college age girl grimacing on the ground, a hand clenched tightly around her bleeding calf. Fang Duobing hurried over with his phone to see clearer, and saw her leg twisted in an angle that meant bad news. 

There was a young man holding her shoulders to keep her up, although her complexion was pale even in the darkness. 

Within the confines of the dungeon, blood was very bad news. Not to mention most of the office workers in Tianji Hall were not Hunters, and therefore would be unable to fight back against whatever came at them. 

The young woman’s pale face only seemed to drain further at his severe expression, so Fang Duobing attempted to smile reassuringly. “We’ll have to bind that up somehow. Does anyone have…?”

Li’er came to his side, ripping off the white frills off the end of her dress with some difficulty, her eyes wide with both fear but also trust as she handed him the fabric. 

The others were also all looking at him expectantly, and Fang Duobing felt a rush of fear, a different kind than finding himself in the dungeon, as he took the fabric. He wasn’t— this wasn’t… but he had lived with Li Lianhua for weeks at a time, and read through the medicinal books when he got bored, having turned off his phone so he couldn’t be tracked. While the books were more on herbal knowledge and energy pathways for traditional chinese medicine, there were also basics for handling and treating sounds. 

As he came closer, Man’er whimpered and clutched harder at her leg, “Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, hoping the panic wouldn’t show in his voice. Then to the man standing behind her, he said, “Make sure she has something to bite on. We don’t know what’s here, and she might attract something by screaming.”

With the blood spilled, and what noise they already made, they would have to move, and move fast. There was a reason Hunters were only allowed into dungeons in experienced teams, and that was something the handful of them definitely were not. 

The man nodded, his movements frenetic, and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket even as the young woman whimpered and bit back a sob, shoulders shaking at the pain. 

There was a chance that Fang Duobing could make everything worse, but it was a chance he would have to take as there was no way Man’er could be moved otherwise. With her leg that twisted, every movement would be agony and they wouldn’t be able to bind her wound up. A wrong move, however, meant that he might nick an artery attempting to set her broken bone, and that would lead to even worse bleeding. 

“Don’t worry,” he tried to soothe her as she bit down on the pen, tears flowing silently down her face even as she shook. He reached for her leg and she jerked away, immediately regretting the slight movement as her breath hitched. When he touched her leg above the wound, her skin was burning under his fingers. He grimaced and looked up at Li’er’s expectant eyes and said, “I need splints. Chair legs, wood— anything that can hold her leg straight.”

She and Wangfu immediately acknowledged his words and went around to search through the furniture that came along with them, taking their lights with them. Fang Duobing looked back at Man’er and attempted the reassuring smile again. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. This will feel like it sucks for a little while, but you’ll be okay once we get out of here.”

She just closed her eyes, leaning back into the man holding her up. 

“Here!” Wangfu came back with a contemporary table lamp, the base and bulb taken off so that it was mostly just two long pieces of metal folded in the middle to allow for adjustments. 

Fang Duobing accepted the pieces, thinking that it really was exactly the kind of thing he needed, and then thought, am I really going to do this? 

There was so much blood, and he knew that it was best to not disturb the wound and leave it to professionals, but they were in a dungeon and no one expected a new gate to appear right in their office building, and no one was prepared and that meant that any rescue teams would need time to organise and get to them. Even minutes could mean life or death in a dungeon if they were unlucky. 

“It’s okay,” he said again, feeling like he was reassuring himself. “It’s going to be okay.”

His hands were trembling as he took apart the metal pieces of the lamp to make two sections, and then set it down on the stone next to the girl’s broken leg, staring incomprehensibly. 

Luckily, before he could gather up the courage to act, there was a voice behind him, “Move aside.”

He turned his head into the darkness, relief running through his veins as he recognised his aunt and Li Lianhua jogging up to them, both of them looking scraped up but otherwise uninjured. His aunt had blood running down her arm where she lost a sleeve, and a scrape against her cheek, but looked alright overall, features concerned rather than pained. 

Li Lianhua had his hair tied back in a low bun, his usual baggy clothes dirtied but undamaged, although there was a cut running down his brow that hit the outer corner of his cheek, streaking blood down his face. Despite this, he looked unphased, frowning as he crouched down next to Fang Duobing to examine the girl’s leg. 

“Physician Li,” the man behind Man’er breathed a sigh of relief. “She… is she…?”

“She’ll live.” Li Lianhua said curtly, his touch clinical without inciting any reaction from the girl like Fang Duobing’s had. “You got lucky here. The break’s not as bad as it looks, it’s still a closed fracture, you just happen to also have a deep cut above it. It really hurts, doesn’t it? The bone is dragging right against some nerves, so let’s—”

His hands were braced against her leg, and he moved, and the young woman didn’t so much scream as she wheezed out a breath around the pen between her teeth, ending the noise with a whimper before she slumped down further. 

“Good, good,” Li Lianhua told her, tone soothing. He braced the metal pieces against the young woman’s leg and reached to pull the ruffle that Fang Duobing had been clutching onto tightly in his nervousness. The woman made sounds of pain and discomfort through the first two wraps, but eventually settled as her bones were wrapped tightly, with the fabric soaking up the blood from her cut. He reached into the shoulder bag he always carried with him and pulled out a powder packet. “Take this. It’s just a mild painkiller, but it will help. It won’t hurt as much from here on, but you’ll have to be carried, and you’re not going to like it.”

“You couldn’t have given it to her before that?” Fang Duobing asked, dismayed. 

“It doesn’t work immediately.” Li Lianhua answered him, as Man’er shakily took the powder with a whispered thanks. “And it tastes bad. If she vomited from the pain, not only would she feel worse afterward, it would be a waste.”

“You—!”

“Xiaobao,” His aunt admonished, a hand coming to grip Fang Duobing’s shoulder tightly. “Let Physician Li work.”

Li Lianhua looked up, counting the heads there and frowning. “...This is a big group.”

They weren’t a large group, merely seven people in total, but Fang Duobing understood his meaning immediately. 

Short of defeating the dungeon boss, the surest way of exiting a dungeon was defeating the creatures within. One kill per one person if they wanted to leave, as each monster within the dungeon had a core which could be used to transport them out of the dungeon. With it being illegal to kill dungeon bosses, that meant it was their only way out other than waiting for a rescue team. 

Of the group, only Fang Duobing and his aunt were Hunters, which meant only they would be able to fight. 

Neither of them had ever fought in a dungeon before. 

(And, Fang Duobing would never say aloud, his skill was not… fighting oriented.)

“It’s best if we do this fast, then,” Li Lianhua said, “and get the injured out.”

“You know what’s in this dungeon?” Fang Duobing asked, surprised. 

“They look like centipedes,” his aunt confirmed. “We passed a corridor while looking for you with several dozen of them together, so they would all attack at the same time. If we could take those down, we can get everyone out safely. But the numbers are…” she trailed off, her eyes flickering over to the injured young woman. 

Li Lianhua pushed himself back to his feet, the phone light casting heavy shadows under his eyes. 

“Someone will have to carry her.” He said. “Because we have to move or we’ll be swarmed very soon.”

— 

In the end, the young man holding Man’er before ended up carrying her on his back, although Fang Duobing offered to do so as well and reassured him that they could switch when he got tired. Li’er revealed her injured wrist for Li Lianhua to wrap, and only Wangfu and Fang Duobing ended up without injuries entirely. 

“I’m fine,” He Xiaofeng waved her nephew off from her bleeding arm, turning a flirtatious look over her shoulder. “Physician Li looked at it for me earlier. It’s unfortunate, but won’t hinder me. I can still fight.” Her Awakening as a Hunter gave her a skill that ensured almost all of her hits would connect with its target. It was a physical enhancement, meant to control minute fluctuations of her muscles for terrifying accuracy, but it wasn’t anything close to magic. If it wasn’t possible to make a shot, then she wouldn’t be able to do so. 

With the deep cut in her arm, Fang Duobing worried that it wouldn’t be her accuracy affected, but the strength of her hits. With his aunt’s sniper-like reflexes, her greatest weakness would be not taking out her target on first hit. 

And without weapons, they were practically sitting ducks. 

“It’ll be fine,” Li Lianhua said to him, likely after seeing his woebegone expression. Thanks to their lack of injuries, it was Fang Duobing and Wangfu taking point, scouting out the area ahead little at a time to give others time to run if they attracted unfavourable attention. Li Lianhua was wiping away the blood from his cut with his sleeves and grimacing at the stain to his cream coloured clothes. Fang Duobing worried that the wound was still bleeding sluggishly, but Li Lianhua, like He Xiaofeng, waved his concerns off. 

“The gate appeared in a high traffic area,” Fang Duobing observed as they moved along the cave, three of them with their phone lights out to illuminate the way in front and behind them. He stopped a moment to scan the light around, making sure there was nothing lurking along the walls or ceilings where they were. If they were in a dungeon with insects, it was better to be safe than sorry. “It shouldn’t take the closest sect longer than ten minutes to mobilise, and then… five minutes to get here?”

“Ten if you’re lucky,” Li Lianhua corrected in a tired murmur, wiping at his brow with a frown. “If a gate appeared, then traffic would be awful around the area. There might be accidents on the streets, and abandoned vehicles. That means more pedestrians, which means it might be hard to even get runners to the location for the first while. I’d add another twenty minutes, likely. Maybe half an hour.”

“And then they have to find us in the dungeon.” His aunt volunteered. She didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “As we haven’t seen anyone else so far, we don’t know how large this place actually is.”

“We’ll have to keep moving,” Fang Duobing deduced, brow furrowing as they continued to walk. The scent of blood would attract predators, and if they weren’t getting help very soon, their best option really would be to find monsters they could defeat, and acquire the cores to get out themselves. 

This was an opportunity, Fang Duobing determined. So long as he could keep everyone safe and get them out, then that was absolute, irrefutable proof that he should be allowed to join Baichuan Court. He just had to… keep everyone safe. 

He thought of another instance, a reassuring voice and a warmth surrounding him, and steeled himself. 

“I’ll take point,” he said. “Wangfu’s with me. My aunt and Li’er at the rear, and we can keep Man’er safe that way.”

“Li’er’s wrist is injured,” his aunt protested. “It’d be best to have Physician Li with me at the rear.”

Fang Duobing gave her a dubious look, not at all convinced by that argument. Ideally, his aunt would take the lead as she could make use of anything to attack, but with the way things were, he was making do with what they had! Besides, he was also taking into account Li Lianhua’s unpredictable health, with his heart condition and all. “He’s the only one who knows what to do in case something happens to Man’er.”

His aunt made a noise in protest, but then pouted as Li Lianhua didn’t glance her way. Her lipstick was still the same dark shade of red from earlier. 

“Keep against the wall,” Li Lianhua suggested. “It will be one less side for ambush.”

They did just that, slowly but carefully making their way through the cave and staying out of reach of smaller pockets illuminated by the light. Once they found another site of destruction, with various office equipment that had been transported into the dungeon, and Fang Duobing picked up a waiting room chair with steel legs, figuring it was much better than having no weapon at all. Wangfu found a water bottle, and they stopped for a minute to give Man’er a break and some water. 

“She’s not doing so well,” the young man carrying her said, hitching her higher up his back as gently as he could, but she still gave a sharp inhale of pain. 

“Broken bones don’t like being jostled,” Li Lianhua agreed, but couldn’t give any way of comforting the young woman. 

“Don’t worry,” Wangfu told her quietly, “We’ll be out soon! And then the doctors can take a look at you… no offence, Physician Li.”

Li Lianhua merely shrugged with a slight smile. “I don’t often get patients with broken bones coming to me. If there’s still water left, you should use it to clean up some of the blood. We might be able to divert attention if we clean with a cloth and leave the cloth in other locations.”

“That’s a smart idea!” He Xiaofeng exclaimed. 

“Of course, that could backfire depending on the monster in the dungeon,” Li Lianhua warned. “If there are other types of monsters than what we’ve seen. We’ve been lucky so far.”

“Yeah,” Fang Duobing interjected. “And we should get going again.”

The brief respite took less than three minutes, but all of them were too jittery to stay for long, understanding the type of environment they were in. That they hadn’t seen others… There should be dozens of people on the floor of that building, and there were only seven of them here now. 

Li Lianhua lingered toward the back of the group this time as they left behind the ruined office furniture, his eyes lingering on the shadows behind them, moving and writhing just shy of the light.

[valancedbreakfast]

Huh... I'm suddenly violently reminded of Baby's First Original Fiction TM that I was writing when I was nine years old.

Shout out to anyone that ever made a character that’s a ‘Secret Government experiment’ that escapes the lab and is now wanted and misunderstood. That’s top tier character design, thank you.

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

A man named Amr sits in the barber’s chair, telling a story of how a mysterious man saved him from a natural disaster,

while a strange bloke trims his hair and beard.

‘The storm rose from nowhere, and I had miles to trek to reach the city. Then, from out of the blue came this red box. From within, a man scattered the sand, ending the storm. This is how I met the Inspector.’

[asouthfacingfridge]

I've had about enough of Kabru, AKA, Exposition Boy

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

—

These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!

[yearnstarved]

✧ CAREFUL WORDS FOLLOWED CAREFUL GAZES. Chang'e took it as a sign of respect that he would hold his guard up this high. She never done anything worth his trust, so in every aspect, this held up logically.

Chang'e clasped her hands together and held them tight in front of her. "It's metal bracelet, forged by the melted steel of a particular spear. It belonged to a general who collected the blood of hundreds, if not thousands, across battlefields. His spirit is also one of the countless ones stored in the steel."

She waved a hand to collect the moonlight into a shimmering illusion of the bracelet's form. "The bracelet invokes an unworldly rage in whoever wears it. It's bloodthirsty—or some may say empowering. I just want to prevent needless bloodshed."

"This isn't your problem. I realize that. Your talents just seemed most qualified."

For Matyr, most of his daily interactions were with humans, it was how he wanted it to be, just living amongst them as though he was one of them. It had been that way for over two hundred thousand years now so whenever a fellow god did appear on his doorstep, he couldn't help but be on guard.

"I don't trade... in normal circumstances, I work for money like everyone else around here. Although, that's when humans are involved since that's their currency. But seeing as that's probably out of the question with you, I guess we'll just stick to what you want from my divine gifts over the hope of compensation." He definitely preferred dealing with humans. "So, what sort of artefact are we talking about here? If it's going to start causing problems, I want to know about it."

[millersfinest]

the thing in your chest that beats | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5k

mini-series: california (you’re here) | oregon | idaho | wyoming

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: angry!r, mentions of fate, santa barbara arc, infected, shooting, lots of exposition, torture, violence, vulgar language, slow-burn romance, eventual smut, proximity trope, both reader and ellie on a path of redemption.

note: this first part is lowkey boring imo, but i hope the angst makes up for it. as always, please enjoy my hyperfixation!!

California

Ropes chafed at your skin; securing your legs and wrists on top of each other to the wooden post. Fog had shielded the setting sun from your skin—after many hours of being scorched. Your muscles ached and your bones were sore. The exposed skin on your shoulders and chest was dry and flaking, exposing an under layer of tenderness. Everything fucking hurt. But you were barely there; head nodding off from the scratching at your stomach and the dryness in your mouth ripping your lips apart.

How did you, a firefly, militarily trained, end up tied to a pillar at the cusp of a beach in Santa Barbara?

You were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. This group searched for people like you—lonely and pillaged by the weight of the world. You were too distracted to foresee their deception; they got lucky with you.

Until the chemical reactions in your brain short-circuited, causing you to act out in the name of self-preservation.

Wrath, by definition, is a trait you’re easily overcome with. It’s not just something that passes through you like other traits and emotions. It holds on. It makes a home in your body and directs you like a rabid dog—a burdening feeling that nestled between your sore muscles. It filled you with adrenaline to kill and destroy—to get rid of the people who tried to get rid of you.

And, every time, you managed to find yourself feeling bad about it. There was no explanation for that. Just your heart being too sensitive for world you existed in—it was constantly broken. By yourself and your circumstances.

It was your own fault that you were captured by the rattlers. You should’ve never left Catalina Island for a pipe dream. There wasn’t anything better than the firefly base—you should’ve known that and never left. Perhaps, if you had remained under the duty of your earned dog tags, you wouldn’t have been thrusted into the situation that you were in.

Wyoming was a lie that you told yourself because you wanted to live a life that didn’t exist.

Locked in a debate with death, your body abruptly hit the dense surface of the sand. The ropes that bound you to that skewer had been severed by a fallen angel. A prisoner you had attached yourself to in the hopes of survival. Her hair was coily and reflected copper under the Californian sun.

You came to from the impact, finally beginning to hear the ongoing gunfire coming from the resort buildings. As you twitched in pain, she cut the bindings at your wrists and ankles. Tucking a pistol into your hand, she muttered words of hope. “Good luck out there, hotshot.”

Your lips moved to respond, but there wasn’t any sound. It didn’t matter, though, because she wasn’t around to hear it. The young woman at once took off in the opposite direction of the chaos with a bag over her shoulder.

Stuck in a dilemma, you didn’t move for a few moments. Eyes stuck on the weight in your weak hands. It was nothing but a black semi-automatic—it weighed nothing compared to bigger firearms. However, it sunk your hand into the sand as if it weighed a ton. You couldn’t even hold a gun with the same conviction that you used to. Yet, the fallen angel had faith that you could.

Taking in a deep wheezing breath, you tried to stand to your feet. You got up enough for your knees to bend, but once you extended them, you crashed back into the sand with a thud. In temporary defeat, you looked to the people still suspended on the pillars. They were unmoving, rotting away from the inside out. That could’ve been you if it weren’t for her cutting you down.

In mourning them, you gave standing another attempt. Keeping your hands low to catch your fall. But you didn’t fall. The muscles in your legs were weak, trembling as you stretched them. With a hunch in your back, you grabbed the gun, adjusting it in your hands. Your professional form remained the same as remnants of your training. Placing your hands over one another on the handle, supporting its weight. Aiming the barrel toward nothing specific, just to get the feeling again. It’s been months since you had opportunity to defend yourself.

With as much quickness that you could muster, you went through the resort to grab supplies. A backpack, medkit, and some food.

Setting your mind on leaving, you tried to sneak through the gunfire between the prisoners and the rattlers. But that simply wasn’t in the cards for you.

Before you could escape the resort, one of them had a bone to pick with you. It was the same rattler that was your deceptive captor. She used her femininity to convince you that she needed help—that she was weak and she needed your help. If anything, you have a bone to pick with her.

She had come at you with her bear hands, pushing your face up against a wall. She tore the backpack from your back, throwing it to the side. Where did her wrath come from? Somehow, you managed to get the upper hand. Straddling her body delivering punches that you haven’t in awhile. It felt natural to you to release such violence against another person.

Through beating her bloody, you found your power again. Tearing off the shimmering dog tags around her neck that had previously belonged to you. Heaving, you looked down at her. She had split your lip and broken your nose, but you could argue that you did worse to her. Her nose was cracked in multiple places, as she coughed up her own blood and teeth. It slipped down the crevices of her face, dribbling into her brown eyes.

“Fuck you.” You firmly speak, picking up your bag from its straps, swinging it around your shoulders.

From the fight, you had stumbled into a room of firearms. Still weak, you limped around. Causing you to walk away from the damage with a Beretta A300 shotgun and ammunition.

Like it was a prize after a big challenge.

You found yourself stumbling along the sand of the beach you were stuck on. This time, closer to the foggy waters of the coast. Ignoring the throbbing sensation in your thigh. You were barely sentient, running on nothing but fumes. But you knew you had to get as far from Santa Barbara as you could.

All of sudden, darkness began encapsulating your eyes from the outside in. Your limbs grew heavier, slowing down the pace of your movements—you collapsed into the sand like the damsel you had become.

When your eyes fluttered open, you were laying on an itchy couch. Waking up felt like awaking from a coma. Sitting up was a chore because of the tightness of your muscles. You felt it like a sickness in your chest. Trying to move your legs, you sucked in a pained breath. A hole that was cut into your ripped jeans was covered by white wrapping. Gauze.

A single lantern in the middle of the living room illuminated the space. It was placed on a dusty coffee table—off-center. Your backpack and weapons leaned against an entertainment center; a large cabinet that combined the use of compartments as well as a space for the tv to fit.

Blinking slowly, you tried to remember how you got there. Fingers gripping at the cushions, experiencing a crazy amount of brain fog. A wrapper crackled under the weight of your hand as you shifted. It was a granola bar tucked under the pillow that you laid your head on.

You stomach scratched at your abdomen, so you wasted no time in retrieving it—ripping open the wrapper and biting into the nutty granola. The side of your foot kicked over a metal canister, accidentally. Clashing toward the scratched wooden floors, it startled you. Reaching down, you shook it in your hands. There was a liquid inside. Screwing the lid off, you realized it was only water. Something else your body demanded of you.

Who put all this stuff here? It couldn’t have been you.

A creak from the side of the room, caused you to snap your head in that direction. Chewing slowly on the oats in your mouth, your eyebrows scrunched. Your free hand felt your hip from the cool metal of that gifted pistol, but there was nothing but the fabric of your jeans.

By the time she came into your view, your body froze. Your gun was across the room, she had the advantage. She loomed in the darker parts of the room as if she were hiding from you—in a way that was prey-ish, rather than predatory.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up…”

Her voice was raspy, and she spoke with a slow cadence. When she came into the light, she kept her distance. By the corner of the entertainment center cabinet—on the opposite end of where your bag was laying. Her auburn strands were choppy and tucked behind her ears. She wore a white t-shirt that was filthy with, what looked like, blood and dirt. Hands fidgeting with each other in front of her body as she eyed you with concern. She was missing her pinky and ring finger from her left hand. “You’d been out for hours… I, uhm, stitched up a wound on your leg— thought you might’ve caught an infection.”

She lacked conviction when she spoke to you. Voice leaving with a sort of emptiness, or perhaps, guilt. “Where’d you find me?” You asked, gritting your jaw. Holding onto the metal canister tight enough to use as a weapon if need be. That last thing you wanted was to be fooled by a stranger again.

She cleared her throat. “The beach.”

That’s when it hit you. The memories of your weakness hit. You remember dragging your legs through the sand, catching the glimpse of a body sitting in the water beside a vacant boat, then falling into a deep sleep. Of course, you, somehow, offered yourself up to a stranger.

It was just your luck, huh?

“There were others you could’ve helped… Why me?”

A scoff fell from her lips. Scarred eyebrows jutting together; an attitude washing over her freckled features. As if your words were charged with something else besides cautious curiosity. “I was expecting more of a thank you...”

You blinked, sucked your teeth. “I don’t know you from a can of fucking paint— so, you should lower your expectations.” You retorted, boring your eyes into her slender figure. What alarmed her was how your voice scolded gently. It cut deeper that way. “I mean, what is that on your shirt? Blood? Would you wanna thank some stranger in a bloody shirt?”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Have you seen yourself?” Her thick eyebrow raised, voice dropping an octave. “You look like shit—“

You glanced at the shirt that clung to you perspiring body. It also had remnants of blood and dirt and sand. Leaning your elbows on your thighs, you leaned forward. “Fuck you! You have no idea what I’ve been through—!”

“And you know what I’ve been through?” She countered, scoffing after her words.

You talked over each other—barking like unfamiliar dogs. Wrath came easy to you; and, apparently, it came easy to her, too. Her words silenced you, but you grit your teeth. “I should’ve left you where I found you— fuckin’ joke’s on me.” She ran a hand through her short hair, taking long strides out of the living room. Preparing to sink back into the corner she came from.

Clearing your throat, you swallowed your pride. There was a sincerity behind her eyes that you couldn’t ignore. Her anger radiated off her epidermis is such a way that it was familiar. “All right,” You sighed, positioning your body slowly to face her departing figure. She’d stopped in her path, peering over her boney shoulder. “I don��t recognize you from the cells… Or the pillars. Who the fuck are you?” Your eyebrows furrowed, voice weakening by the mention of your greatest failure: becoming a slave to the weirdest assholes known to man.

Wheels shifted in her mind, her olive eyes flickering around in the dark, in thought. Lips opening and closing, trying to formulate her words—but there was no use. She decided to resume her steps, sequestering herself in a bedroom. You heard the sound of the door shutting and locking the door behind her.

Groaning, you shut your eyes, leaning your head against the soft, itchy pillows, frustrated.

Unbeknownst to you, she’d locked herself in that room because she found herself overcome with emotion—hot, streaming tears. She didn’t know you as much as you didn’t know her, and she wasn’t going to share her own greatest failures with you. If what you were saying was true, you were victimized. How could someone like her talk to someone like you? After the things she’s done… After the things she was prepared to do.

The sun ascended, with the two of you lingering in separate rooms. You had eventually fallen asleep after some hours in your thoughts. Wondering about the story of the woman sheltering herself from you. Multiple times, you had to stop yourself from dwelling. This is what got you caught up with the first time. Instead, you began to think about what your plans were.

Were you going to resume your journey to Wyoming, in the hopes of finding that settlement? Or were you going to hitch it back to Catalina Island? And hope to God that they take you back with minimal consequences. Dwelling on those thoughts, instead of her, is what brought you to sleep.

When you woke up, you finished the metal canister of water. Giving the room a proper once-over. Sun rays cascaded through the dusty windows like beams, illuminating the room, angelically. Taking a deep breath, you decided to walk around. The soreness in your body hadn’t changed—you still felt burdened by your own body.

The home was a single-leveled Tuscan inspired home. Its interior was riddled with browns and beiges. Dragging your feet against the wooden floor, you entered the kitchen. All the cabinets were blown open and searched through. You assumed it was that woman who you’d met—still, you didn’t know her name.

Looking down at the counters, there was a yellow-paged note on the furthest one from you. The island closest to her bedroom. It was lying under a pill bottle. You shifted as quickly as you could to the note, sliding the pill bottle to the side, but not without a glance. They were antibiotics.

Found the antibiotics in the cabinets this morning, there’s only two left. Take them both.

I left to go hunt for some food. Stay in the house if you know what’s best for yourself. There’s infected around.

I’ll be back soon.

— E

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “If I know what’s best for myself…” Pressing into the top of the bottle, you unscrewed it. With nothing but your saliva, you knocked back two of the pills just like she told you. However, not because she told you to. There were many reasons for you to catch an infection from the wound on your leg—the wound you didn’t even remember how you got.

“I can handle infected.” You muttered to yourself. It’s been awhile since you really dealt with them face-to-face, but it was an innate ability. Why wouldn’t you be able to defend yourself from infected? Your only limits were your body stuck in its state of pain.

But, where you come from, sometimes it took movement to heal pain. Pushing through soreness and tightness was the only way to move forward.

So, instead of waiting around for E to come back around. You decided to explore some of the nearby houses. Ones that were only a few paces away from the house that you were currently in—you weren’t that stupid.

You secured your backpack around your shoulders, hooking the strap of your shotgun around your arm, and sticking the pistol in the back of your jeans. The first stop was next door. Slowly, you had climbed through a broken window. Landing in a bedroom decorated with childish posters. Focusing, you found yourself busy with looting the home. Taking things of importance and putting them inside of your bag.

You didn’t run into anything shocking until the third place you visited—three houses down. Thankfully, there was no clicking, but there were the familiar wailings of a runner. Catching a glimpse of coily copper hair, huddled over sobbing in her hands, you crouched behind a wall. Eyes shifting from side to side, trying to digest the visual.

Good luck, hotshot.

Perhaps, it was her who really needed the luck. Slowly, you removed the gun from your shoulder, leaning it against the wall. The breaths from your lips fled in chunks, pulling the gifted pistol from your waistband. You had known her for the entirety of your stay at that treacherous resort—she was your anchor. She helped you with your anger, keeping you under an emotional routine. Later, it worked for the worst instead of the better, but she tried to help you in there. She was patient with you.

You stepped from the wall, aiming the chamber of the pistol at the back of her head. You didn’t know her for that long, but you knew she wouldn’t want something like this for herself. She had plans just like you did—she wanted out of California. Leaving her to stumble around this broken home would be fucked up.

She freed you. Now, it was time for you to free her.

“You deserved better than this, Honey.” She was sweet and tangy like honey; that’s why you called her that. It wasn’t even her name—you didn’t know her name.

Your index finger squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet straight through her unsuspecting mind. Her whines were more coherent, meaning that all of that just happened. The infection had just taken over. A tear had slipped down the fat of your cheek when her body hit the ground. The shot echoing against the walls and through the neighborhood.

She lasted no longer than a day on her own, and those rattlers were nothing but the blame. They drained you enough to make you suffer but keep you working. But, out on the road, you stood no chance.

There was a piece of notebook paper on the floor by the baseboards of the wall Honey’s body laid beside. With a lump in your throat, you plucked it from the ground, holding it delicately in your hands.

After months of captivity, I’ve found myself in a situation that I could have never imagined. I didn’t notice when the clicker bit me, everything happened so fast!

It hurts now, though, a lot. And the anticipation of the infection is worser than I expected it to be. This is the part where I put a gun in mouth to end it all.

I’m too tired to do that. For once, I don’t wanna fight.

I apologize to those who end up witnessing what I have become.

The palm of your hand covered your mouth in shock as you read the letter. Honey must’ve been horrified. And it hurt to know that she went through it all alone.

Catching you in a grieving state, E had vaulted through a broken window with her gun in hand. Her olive eyes landed on you, subsiding the subtle look of shock on her face. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.” She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sighing. “You’re in no condition to travel alone…” Her eyes casted onto your frame leaning over a marble counter, reading over the letter silently.

Hearing her footsteps, you folded up the letter and slid it into your back pocket. Taking a final look at the dead woman on the floor, a reflection of your friend that didn’t exist anymore, you brush past the the auburn-haired woman. Shoulders grazing as you achingly climb out of the same window she came in from.

Without saying, what happened to Honey worried you. Loneliness was a cruelty that many could afford—you experienced it. But loneliness along with bodily ailments wasn’t a problem you wanted. If it weren’t for E, you could’ve been in the same position as Honey. What made you worth saving and not her? A ball of fury, like yourself, should’ve been the first to go.

Yet, a level of gratefulness washed over you. Were you ready to thank the freckled stranger for her saviorship?

E followed you back to the house, binding the front door with furniture. Entering, you noticed two rabbits attached to a string laying on the tiled counter. Impressed, you hummed, while dragging your feet toward the couch you had slept on. You shrugged off your backpack and leaned your shotgun against the wall.

The auburn-haired woman peered at you, messing with rabbits, pulling them off the string to prepare to cook them. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She breathed. Her voice coming out like a muttered sigh, but it was loudly quiet in the house. Therefore, your ears picked up on her words.

You ignored her, pulling out the note, and kicking your feet up onto the couch to read it again. Analyzing the messy handwriting on the page, tainted with dried tears and dirty hand prints. E had brought in a metal trashcan to cook the animals she hunted for the both of you. Every so often, peaking at you with interest and wonder.

When the rabbits were cooked, she brought it over to you in a chipped ceramic bowl. “Thanks…” You mutter, barely meeting her eyes.

“Yeah,” She answered, slightly taken off guard.

The two of you eat separately, on different sides of the room. E didn’t retreat back into the room had the night before. Instead, she propped herself on the stool by the island table. Where she could keep her intense olive eyes on you—attempting to read you without asking questions.

You were impressed by the rabbit presented to you. Back at the base, you were familiar with chicken more so than rabbit, though. There was a hesitation when taking the first bite. But the rumble in your belly was satisfied by the animal, and that was all that mattered.

Feeling a strong gaze on you, peering to the side was a natural reaction. She’d snap her eyes back to her plate before you could fully catch her. Sighing, you set the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch.

In your looting, a bottle of wine called out to you from the basement of one of the Tuscan homes. You limped toward the kitchen with your calloused hand wrapped around the sloped neck of the bottle. Placing the bottle at the middle of the island, you take a seat at the furthest end from her. “I thought I would properly thank you for saving my ass…” You cleared your throat, awkwardly. Choosing to keep your eyes trained on your fidgeting fingers. “It’s Cabernet, I think. The label’s kind of rubbed off.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

You pursed your lips, flickering your eyes to peer at her. “Hm.” You hum. “Okay, well, more for me, I guess.” You shrug, reaching for the wine. The plan was to drink it either way—if she wanted it, or if she didn’t. Peeling off the wrapper, you were happy to see that it was a screw top instead of an imbedded cork.

Taking the first sip, its sweetness spread over your tongue. The alcohol percentage was fairly high, so you were expecting a pleasurable feeling within the next few minutes. If you kept gulping at the bottle. You deserved a bit of man-made solace after what you’ve been through. After the things you’ve seen. Taking another sip, you prepare to go back to the couch you were sat on, with the bottle in your hand.

However, E places a hand on the cool tiles. “Wait…” She rolled her eyes. “One sip wouldn’t hurt.” In her silence, she realized that she also deserved a few moments of calmness—self-care.

The corners of your lips curled, sitting back down on your stool. You slid the bottle close enough for her to reach it, leaning your head against your fist.

Orange rays of the sun shifted through the room; setting so the moon could take her place. You and E had found comfort in the wine and in the space between yourselves. Scooting close to each other until there was only a single stool in the center of you. Talking about the more joyous parts of your lives—which, surprisingly, wasn’t much. The pair of you managed to keep the important information off the record. Upholding a level of vagueness between your truth.

When E had brought up her son and girlfriend, that’s when the energy shifted in the room.

“You have a family? Then… Why are you out here?”

A beat slivered between you, circling your bodies like a ribbon.

“I recognize those dog tags… You’re a firefly? I thought they shut down years ago.” She spoke with rigid shoulders, taking a swig of the Cabernet.

Your hand reached for the thin metal around your neck, decorating your exposed collarbones. There was a disconnect between you and the facility you had grown up in. While you loved the support of the community, as you got older, you wanted something different. “Yeah, after everything shut down, another popped up here—in California. It’s the only one left, I believe.”

She chuckled, cheeks flushed from the alcohol accumulating in her system. “Hm. Are you gonna try and recruit me into your little cult? Is that why you’re still out here?”

Deepening your eyebrows, you peered down at the grout between the tiles under your hands. “Probably… If I still was a firefly…” Slowly, you enunciated. “I haven’t been one for months now.”

“Ah, you went rogue.”

“I wouldn’t say that… But, yeah, I guess.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for the wine bottle. She put it in your hand, leaning her elbow against the counter. E left room for you speak, just boring her hazed eyes into your frame. “I was done with being an asshole for a living— I don’t want to just survive anymore… I want to live.” You take a large swig of the wine, lamenting subtly.

Look where desiring life got you. Locked up as a slave for another bunch of assholes. “I heard from some people that there was a place in Wyoming that wasn’t anything like the fireflies.” You inhaled, sharply. “I could live a normal life there— maybe it’s a stupid idea… I don’t know.”

E deepened her thick eyebrows, leaning forward. “Are you talking about Jackson?”

“Yeah, I think so. There was a map in my bag that had the name. I lost it when the rattlers got ahold of me.”

With scrunched face, she stood to her feet. Running her hands over her face, releasing a tired sigh. “It’s not that stupid of an idea…” Looking back at you, she placed her hands on her hips. “That’s where I’m headed— Jackson, Wyoming.”

“Oh…”

Was this the fated reasoning behind why the both of you met? Both harboring an inner pain and guilt for something or someone. Two damaged souls meeting in the middle—this could be a productive exchange. But what would E receive?

She swore under her breath, running her fingers through her hair, stressfully. “You could come with me, it’s not like you’d get far in your condition alone.” She blinked, casually. You scoff at her words, sucking your teeth. She could never just be kind. Sure, it was obvious that you were injured—in horrible shape—but you weren’t inherently weak. You were a trained individual, something that most people couldn’t say.

“I’d feel like an asshole if I didn’t at least offer. It’s a long journey—“

“Oh, you still come off like an asshole, but I appreciate the offer.” You nod, jumping from the stool. “Those fucks threw me off track— I wouldn’t even know where to start up again… So, yeah, I’ll go with you.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“You don’t make me regret this. I have a bad history when it comes to trusting strangers.” You pressed your lips into a line, leaning against the island for support. There was a slight sway to stance, as the world around you didn’t feel stable.

“Okay, well, you have my word.” She affirmed, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “Do I have yours?”

You inhaled, sharply, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes, you have my word… On the condition that you tell me your name.” She narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her lips curling. “We can’t possibly travel together if we don’t know each other’s names.”

The auburn-haired woman picked up the backpack she threw against the lower cabinets, slinging it over her shoulder. She was preparing to huddle into that bedroom again. Before leaving you in the dim hue of the few lanterns in the room, she spoke. “Ellie. My name’s Ellie.”

She waited by her door for your answer, with a raised eyebrow. You gave her your name, plainly. Straightening the hunch in your back—feigning a level of stoicism.

The only response she gave was a hum, before locking herself away. Releasing a sigh of relief, you smiled. Wyoming wasn’t the pipe dream you thought it to be. Yeah, the experiences you had leading up to that conversation weren’t the best. In fact, those experiences scarred everything about you. But could this have been the reason behind your hellish encounters?

[gemsalive]

re: that HEFTY siffrin sweep on id5’s isat favourite blorbos poll — this might sound silly but i do actually think it’s kinda fascinating that isat, as a game so inseparably steeped in (for lack of a better way to describe it) queer fandom culture, managed to so completely sidestep the common Fandom Phenomenon that i suspect was behind the poll in the first place by creating a main character that is also overwhelmingly the fan favourite character for once.

obviously there are any number of factors we could point at to explain the extent to which siffrin nomiddlenames nolastnames manages to grab people and absolutely not let go, but personally i think one of the most interesting ones to consider is the one specific to the medium — that is, how siffrin subverts the “silent blank slate video game protagonist” archetype in such a way that happens to be primo brainrot breeding grounds.

like, when a video game dev makes a silent protagonist it’s usually a bid to maximize immersion by closing the aesthetic distance between player and character as much as possible, right? which is especially true of rpg video games — players find connection in the generic, as that is what gives you the freedom of motion to insert yourself into the story in whatever unique shape suits you best. you are your character and your character is you.

(as ever, post ran long. yall know the drill. tossin in a quick header pic before thoughts on blank slates & blorboification continue under the cut)

and then you’ve got siffrin, who is expressly pointed out to be the taciturn type; who when initially giving the player exposition about their journey so far doesn’t seem to hint at a life or history or even really any motivations outside the journey; whose every thought and action is narrated in second person so as to keep tracing and re-tracing the connection between him and you.

even their design — all darkless and shapeless, bundled up in that big cloak, as if an invitation for you to fill it in with whatever lets you relate to them most! at this point they are their own character for sure, but they also have enough very clear parallels going on with the silent protagonist archetype to feel more than accidental.

of course, as you keep playing you start to recognize that his blankness is much, much more than just a grab at immersion; his apparent lack of backstory, itself a fundamental piece of backstory. this is where he flips dramatically in the player’s perception from “generic vessel for story delivery” to “thoroughly multidimensional character trapped within endless torment nexus custom-built to target and exacerbate all his very specific worst traits rooted in very specific traumas”.

yknow, the good stuff !

but by then you have also been playing enough to be feeling the effects of the thing isat’s design does best of all. i’m talkin bout that ludonarrative lockstep baby. every piece of isat’s gameplay is designed to make you feel what siffrin is feeling — you understand by now that he is not a stand-in for you, but all the same you share in his frustration, his grief, his rare moments of joy and the subsequent heart-in-your-shoes devastation when that joy is inevitably poisoned — and through it all, the desperate grasping for anything new — all as if they were every bit your own.

so in this way the connection is maintained, even if you were someone for whom siffrin’s particular traits & struggles might not otherwise cause you relate to them at all if you had encountered them elsewhere, in a setting where you weren’t actively controlling them as a player. siffrin still gets to carry all the “just like me fr” impact of the blank slate protagonist in the tropes he embodies and in the game mechanics’ design, while totally free to evolve completely into his own character and keep you relating to closely them all the same. now toss back in the fact that said traits & struggles very much ARE of a flavour that a great many people Would Tend To Relate To and just like that you’ve got a perfect storm cookin.

too individual and compellingly written to be an empty vessel for plot delivery. too closely connected with the player’s emotional state to be a story observed impassively from the outside. he has 92 mental illnesses and for the low low price of free u can give him yours to carry too. nobody is doin it like him. congratulations on your well-deserved nose sniffrin nomiddlenames nolastnames <3

[charlesoberonn]

It's not good writing but I love trope of an old-timey science exposition video detailing the fucked up experiments the scientists did and how it all went wrong